Embracing the swell of the sea and the inviting expanse of
the beach.
When I first came to
live in Delhi from Bombay (as it was then), more than three decades ago, I
quickly realised that Delhizens had a sneering contempt for those who lived one
on top of each other, stacked like a pack of cards, in high-rise apartments.
Never mind, that most of them lived squashed cheek-by-jowl with their own
neighbours and were constantly at war with them. But, yes, Delhi beat Bombay
hands down when it came to green spaces, parks, historical monuments and lovely
trees.
“Didn’t you feel cramped and claustrophobic
with all those buildings towering above your head all the time?” I was asked.
Sure I did. But when that happened, all you had to do in Bombay was go up to
the terrace of your building which, if you were lucky, faced the sea. If not,
you could easily trundle down to the beach or places like Marine Drive, sit
there and stare out at a pulsating, sun-spangled blue-grey horizon so vast it
boggled the mind. Before Bombay, we had lived in Madras (as it was then), again
just a hop-skip-and-jump away from the beach. Here, of course, the greatest
excitement was when the occasional cyclone whirled into the city like a dervish
and the sea churned and thumped its fists angrily on the shore. Of course, we
battened down, but the thrill lay in scouring the beach afterwards for the little
treasures the sea had flung out during its tantrum.
There would be intricately veined sea fans in
red, cream and black, and, even stubs of coral scattered around. Once we found
the remains of a seahorse which, over 50 years later, I still have. And there
were shells. Gleaming cowries were the most prized. A hammerhead shark was
washed up once (or hauled in by fishermen, perhaps).
The mind went into an overdrive buzzing with
intrigue: where did that seahorse come from? What happened to that poor
hammerhead? Did it hunt its prey by sneaking up on it and then hammering it
left, right and senseless? Why the hell was it designed the way it was, while
its cousins were such sleek, sinuous looking creatures? What made the beautiful
chocolate-and-gold cowries look so glossy and lacquered? Had those beautiful
sea fans and corals been torn from the sea bed — where had they lived their
lives? It was an achievement to find a bivalve with both halves of the thin
shell intact: surely these were sea-butterflies!
In Bombay we were fortunate to have the use
of beach shacks at Marve, where we vanished for weekends. The beaches,
stretching right from the INS Hamla naval training centre to a creek beyond
which lay Versova (I think), were vast, and, in those days, mostly deserted.
There were huge gleaming tidal pools to wade through, razor-sharp rocks, rusted
by exposure, to carefully negotiate. They could draw blood with the slightest
touch.
You could find your spot, sit down and stare
out at the sea, and let your imagination go for a wild kite ride! The creamers
would race up in their kamikaze way and then shatter like broken glass on the
rocks, the sea charging and churning into the rocky channels as if manically
possessed, gurgling in a way that gave you the willies. If you went into the
sea (on calm days, of course) you could feel the immense lazy power of the
waves as they gently toyed with you, lifting you and putting you down, and,
occasionally, the tug of invisible currents, urging you to come along with
them.
Walks on the beach could never be boring: you
plodded usually with your head down, scouring the sand and watching the crabs
skedaddle sideways and then just wriggle under and disappear. In summer, the
sand could roast your soles, so you splashed along the lacy tide line, eyeing
what each wavelet left on the beach as an offering: a gleaming leaf, a twist of
blue fishing net nylon, a glistening white shell. You avoided the purple and
green stains left by what you were told were the Portuguese Men Of War –
jellyfish which could sting viciously – and which washed up especially during
the monsoon. Getting into the water at this time was out of the question, but
it was a time of wild exultation to be wandering on the beach. The creamers
thumped down on the sand, making you feel like you were inside some massive
woofer and the wind buffeted you in the back like a commuter on the local. You
bent your back and plodded manfully on, looking as if you were so deep in
philosophical thought that it would make Rodin rise and hyperventilate, when
actually all you really wanted to do was to throw your arms up and shout with
exultation. But there was something else going on here, too, because the first
place I wanted to visit after returning from a major surgery in England (so
cold and damp) was the beach.
The
dog, perhaps, showed us what it was really all about. Off the leash, she raced
out on the beach, full pelt, ears flapping, heady with freedom. She would run
till she could run no more. And then, back home, she would spend the next two
days asleep, her paws twitching as she dreamt, no doubt, of the great wide open
spaces we would probably be heading towards, the coming weekend.
Ranjit Lal is an author,
environmentalist and bird watcher.
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