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Grinning down at me was a heavily wrinkled and grey-haired woman, draped in a turquoise sari. “You must be Mona Lisa”, I said. Slung around her tiny frame were bags upon bags filled to overflowing with t-shirts, notepads and more, all adorned with Da Vinci’s masterpiece—the Mona Lisa. A mug and a pack of shirts with the Italian noblewoman’s face on it toppled into my lap as she crouched in the sand beside me. She set to neatly arrange her Mona-Esque wares, ready for my choosing. Upon arriving in Agonda a week earlier, Sidhur, my driver, warned me of many things—most, if not all, precautions I’d heard before. Agonda was my final stop before heading home after a month exploring India. Sidhur’s last piece of advice, however, had me puzzled. “Beware of Mona Lisa”, he said, as he pulled up outside my hostel. Over a honk and gust of fumes, I sputtered out a stream of questions. Sidhur and his tuk-tuk, however, were already disappearing down the road. As I was left alone to wonder in the darkening street, the elusive “Mona Lisa” couldn’t help but trickle into my emerging impression of Agona—a lush green oasis and welcome reprieve from the dusty, crowded cities I had come from—home to the formidable Mona Lisa. “It’s nice to meet you”, I said, “to finally put a face to the legend”. Mona continued to grin down at me; her English was apparently poor. She waved to the wares around me, encouraging me towards a purchase. “Lovely, very nice—but I have no money”, I explained—a lie. Mona grinned back, an experienced saleswoman, perhaps the most ambitious I’d met, wagering a living selling merchandise derived from a worldly attraction that existed continents away. Diving into one of her bags, she brought out bangles and bracelets—all themed in the legendary painting’s muted tones, an insult in comparison to the colours that screamed from every surface of this country. “No, really, I’m fine—I don’t wan-” “-you need these”, Mona sang, clearly enjoying the challenge. I took the bangles from her, gave them a quick obligatory once-over and slid them back into her bag. “You need a hat, very hot today”. It was hot, the first day I’d seen the sun since arriving. Having picked the monsoon season’s tail-end to visit, I’d known I’d be gambling with the weather. The town was deserted entirely, clearly built upon the trade of tourism. I wondered why Mona stayed, not retreating like the others to sunnier climates, busier beaches. Mona, undeterred by my protests, dumped a pack of sarongs into my lap and proceeded to shove a hat on my head. She smiled. “It suits you very much”. I doubted that very much; however, my main concern was the number of Mona-themed notepads she was trying to force into my backpack. How Mona Lisa had acquired her wares, nobody seemed to know. I’d asked around the night of my arrival, at Fatima’s, the only shop open in town. Over a bowl of steaming dahl, Marvi, the shop owner, shared Mona’s origin story. A waylaid shipment meant for Italian shores found a home with an opportunistic saleswoman—providing a shaky livelihood and cementing her as a local legend. Mona, now seemingly confident I’d browsed everything she had to offer, sat up from the sand. “One thousand three hundred rupees”, she said. “Mona”, I reasoned, “I really don't nee—” “One thousand two hundred rupees, but this is the best price”, she countered. “Mona, listen, I’m not trying to bargain here”. “One thousand two hundred rupees and you get an extra hat”. “Zero rupees. I’m not taking any of this”. I pulled the notepads from my bag. “Okay”, Mona said. “One thousand one hundred rupees”. “Mona Lisa”, I begged, “please listen”. Fists filled with pens; Mona looked up from her bag ready to continue the haggle. Sinking back into the sand, I groaned, defeated. Surveying the mountain of merchandise surrounding me, Mona sat perched upon her bags, still grinning. Beyond her smile, I saw the line of boarded-up shacks and empty cafes. The beach was deserted. “Okay", I sighed, "one thousand rupees”. Mona Lisa smiled.