A beach postcard

A morning in Mumbai

The silence of the city raises it's head every Sunday morning; in its quietened streets and languid homes. A section of those who can't be stapled to their beds, or newspapers, descend on its long coastline. There is refreshing sight of boys and even girls playing soccer and India's national obsession- cricket; children with their beach sets making shapes from sand, people ambling bare feet with every passing wave cleaning their feet, and of course a majority in their soiled running shoes. The beach offers the canvas where toddlers to octogenarians find solace.

As I walked from home towards the beach, the sound of waves forming and breaking greeted my ears. Reaching there, I found the high tide had progressed the waters deeper than usual, into the shore. The encroachment by the high tide had rendered useful play areas on the coastline, submerged. Some groups of cricket enthusiasts left disappointedly; soccer groups persisted. The urchins dived into the waves and played without care.

I slipped out of my shoes and while my kids played, I experienced the soft sand beneath my feet. Taking few steps along the beach, I kept looking at a tranquil sea and the distant horizon. The waves disconnected me from the din of my  existence. Notwithstanding the usurped play area, increasing number of people had jumped happily at the waves. During low tide, they just played and went home.

Not far from where I stood, I saw a pot bellied man in his 50s advancing into the sea. He walked lethargically. When the water level reached half way upto his knee, he just sat down. He did not care too much about his full sleeved shirt and trousers getting wet, or sand getting into them. He perhaps cared less about his clothes getting dirty; they already were. After sometime, lying on his back he seemed enjoying the waves splashing against him, nudging his heavy torso with its gentle force. I caught an occasional smile. Between my gaze at the kids, and my enchanted mind, whenever I searched this man, I found him seated or lying down, watered by the waves. It appeared that he had come alone. With every passing wave, I found his troubles eroding away.

Later, my fleeting eyes picked an old lady seated on splashing waves. Her family sat in the shade of coconut trees, with no intention to step into the muddy waves. A young child joined her, but kept safe distance from her adventurism. It was like she wanted to reach out to the child within her, than behind her. She welcomed an advancing wave by bowing her head forward; her unkempt long gray hair and face rejoiced at the blow of water. As she kept bowing her head forward, I wondered if she went back in time to numerous such instances, and locked herself away from her frailties and failures. Her undivided intimacy with the waves perhaps served her soul some therapy.

As I packed the beach set and prepared to leave, my eyes went back to the full sleeved man and the old lady, both looking into the sea, both refusing to leave the water...intimate in their own unique peace.

I held my sons, and looked back at the footprints behind me, the sea and took a long deep breath...of my existence and of gratitude.