Pre-dawn, I went to the beach and walked for about an hour. It was raining and there were fierce gusts of wind blowing the wet sand about. Giving me company that early in the day were a bunch of crabs whose brilliantly red shells I noticed only when dawn became day. I found a spot at the far edge of the beach where the land suddenly rises and the waves crash into the three coconut trees that seem to have been helicopter dropped into place.
This is the Chennai I love. For a city that spares its people very little space, this patch of sea-land is breathtakingly intimate in its expanse.
I find myself transported back in time to when I was 10. Almost the same spot. Almost the same time. Looking out to the sea waiting for the first pink to appear on the horizon. Waiting for the hue to turn purplish-blue, then a mild orange and finally a gloriously blinding white. I remember my sister standing beside me, looking just as expectant. The faint smell of last evening’s Jasmine petals in her hair. Both of us saw a young boy run out onto the beach, hesitate for a moment and then throwing himself with arms wide open into a wave. He swam out and then got pushed back in. He repeated this thirteen times, each attempt briefly preceded by a sort of chicken dance. The sister chuckled.
The fourteenth time, he didn’t come back. In my head and heart I knew what had happened, but I waited in hope for about five minutes before my trembling knees gave way. The beach felt soft.
Every once in a while for the past twenty odd years, I’ve gone back to that place, stood for a while and involuntarily let my knees feel the soft beach.
Today was no different. Today too, like all those years ago, my sister’s voice told me, “Let it go.”
