The sea gives back all it takes, you had told me once, as we stood on a large boulder, looking out into the twilight sea. It was our favourite spot, our boulder – a slate grey, oval piece of the ancient rocks, smoothed to perfection by centuries of weathering.
I was sixteen and naïve. As my nimble fingers intertwined with your broad, strong ones, I believed you. Amidst the moss-slickened rocks and boulders flanking the sea, hadn’t I spotted an array of articles that were once swallowed by the sea, only to be returned a few days later? Slippers, ribbons, cracked sunshades, bottles, soggy books, and numerous such things that bore testimony to the generosity of the sea.
The high winds tossed up a briny spray on my face tousling up my brown curls, as the first whiff of love invaded my being, filling my entire heart with thoughts of you. Pretty much like the waves that fanned out all over the sandy shores and mud flats, leaving no corner untouched.
We walked barefoot on the wet sand for miles – shells, seaweeds and tiny orange crabs nipping at our ankles. You were eighteen — always confident, self-assured, and so in charge of our situation. I did not know how to swim. And as always, you were aware of that. Like how you knew about all those unspoken words that transpired between us. Of my love for you, which waxed and waned like the phases of the moon. You gripped my wrist every time I ran off heedlessly into the waters, pulling me towards your chest with one rough tug. Did I ever confess how I reeled under the effect of your casual embrace and delicious annoyance?
Then I grew up some more. And so did you. The first black hairy curve hovering above your lips was a huge distraction for me. I so longed to touch it, feel its stubbly surface, but I desisted. I was happy just being with you. Of feeling your warm breath on my nape. Or observing your Adam’s apple move tantalisingly as you hummed your favourite song. But how could I tell you that you were tone deaf and a hopeless vocalist?! You glanced bashfully at me for approval. My heart exploded as I hugged you, mouthing incoherent words of praise.
Our quaint little village often looked like a misfit in this fast, frenetic world. We were a fishermen’s community frozen in a time capsule, where any signs of change or progress were feared and shunned. Every boy and girl had a fixed age and manner in which to marry, to bear children, earn a living, and work for the well-being of the community. No aberration was tolerated. Hence, beneath our shared moments of tenderness, lurked a mortal fear for the nebulous path ahead.
The lone frangipani tree in our porch bore cream-and-pink flowers almost throughout the year. I literally grew up with the tree, and considered it my confidante. Not surprisingly, we both blossomed around the same time. She bore her first flowers in the stillness of a moonless night, while I writhed in the ecstasy of forbidden love, lying on my cot near her. Since that day, the frangipani, for me, became an abiding metaphor for your love. And, of my longing for you.
The days passed and I turned twenty-two. We mostly met at the seaside, walking hand in hand on the long, desolate stretch of sand. In those hallowed moments, nothing else mattered – neither your family, nor mine, and certainly not the community or its austerity. We exchanged no high-flying rhetoric or sacred vows to cement our love – we just knew it, and felt it in our hearts. The only witness to our pristine romance was the sea. The infinite expanse of grey, teal and emerald, staring at us with its enigma and unpredictability, drew us towards it. While the rocks and boulders remained transfixed at their place for centuries, the eternally changing rhythm of the high and low tides, and the constantly shifting kaleidoscope of the sky on the water, was fascinating.. And it was this play of contrasts that made the sea so irresistible to us.
For a few days in between, I found you getting impatient and snappish, as if searching for something special. And then you found it – a slate-grey, oval chunk of boulder sitting at the edge of the shore, waiting for us, as it were. You looked as excited as a child winning his first trophy! With a sharp red pebble, you carved out a big heart and filled it with both our names, with an arrow piercing through them. The scraping and carving made your eyes water and turned your nose red. And when it was finally done, you proudly stepped back to admire it. Against the molten gold of the setting sun, two red chiselled names shone bright within a blazing heart. Time came to a standstill as we stamped our love on stone for posterity. And when you cupped my face in your hands, I melted in your arms, as your lips hungrily sought mine.
When you disclosed you were migrating to the city, I failed to comprehend it at first. You had probably realised our alliance had no future, and decided to shift gears while there was still time. I was in a quandary – should I ask you to stay back? And try and convince our families? But you probably wanted to break free and pursue a more meaningful future. One that held the promise of freedom, comfort and affluence. You promised to keep in touch and begged me to wait for a year before I took any decision. The words seemed to float into my ears from some distant universe. They all sounded so alien, so cruel, but I nodded in approval. When had I ever doubted you? Or questioned your decisions?
You took the sea route to reach the nearest railway station. As the fishing boat carrying you bobbed and bounced on the foam-crested waves and faded from sight, I went and sat near our rock. Two names engraved inside a giant heart – the very sight seemed to scoff at me. Something broke within me that day – was it the noiseless splintering of my heart? Or the cracking of that pious citadel of illusions we call trust?
You asked me to bide for a year – I waited for two. There was no word from you. I started wondering if our shared moments were merely a figment of my imagination. The whiff of the frangipani at night was now a torture to my senses. Nothing in life made sense any more. I needed to get a hold on myself, if only for the sake of my mother. She was thrilled when I agreed to get married. As they all dived into my wedding preparations with vengeance, I retreated to the farthest corner of my invisible shell, broken and battered. When we consummated our marriage, I felt the warmth of your breath on my neck and face, and the tenderness of your lips on mine.
Life fell into a predictable routine. I tried my best to be a good spouse – responsible, respectful and affectionate. Luckily for me, neither of us harboured any lofty expectations or unreal dreams in our timetabled existence. We eventually graduated to being a family of three, with my daughter soon becoming my raison d’etre. I dreaded the nights – the eloquent silence spoke to me while the darkness tossed up bright clear images of you, of us.
We moved away from our village to a faraway bustling city, apparently in search of a better livelihood. But truth is, this was the only avenue of escape from the ghosts of my past. The grey, carbon-filled air of the city happily invaded my nostrils, blowing away memories of the sulphury smell of sea water. The cacophony of both man and machine drowned the echoes of the rolling waves. The anonymity of the city helped me bury my past under the layers of my present hustle.
I visited our village twice a year to meet my mother. And to take a stroll along the seaside…sit near our beloved rock…and mourn the passing of love. During every visit I made a very casual, matter-of-fact enquiry about you to our common friends. Each time I was greeted with the same ominous negative. No one knew anything about you. And with every resounding ‘no’, my heart was fractured some more, till all that remained of it was a carmine landscape zigzagged with woebegone veins and oxygen-starved arteries. I succumbed to the finality of the situation. You no longer formed a topic of enquiry during any of my subsequent visits to the village. Nor did I venture anywhere near the sea.
Today, more than two decades later, I’ve returned to the sea, looking out into its infinite depths, my eyes straining, in vain, to catch a glimpse of you. A rare telephone call from the village conveyed the news. You were gone! Dead…drowned! You had apparently migrated to foreign shores with a well-paying job. And this unexpected visit was scheduled mainly to sell off your paternal house and land. You had become quite a recluse. But the only thing that seemed to kindle a spark in you was the sea. You religiously went for walks, both at dawn and at dusk. And one fateful morning you did not return.
The sea was particularly choppy that morning with tempestuous winds fanning out in all directions. A passer-by had casually warned you against venturing out anywhere beyond the boulders. But when did you ever pay heed to others? A couple of fishing boats at a distance had spotted you being dragged away by the surging waves – limbs flailing, and a mop of salt-and-pepper struggling valiantly to stay above the waters. But by the time they managed to hem in close, you had sunk into its unfathomable depths, never to be seen again.
The sea is known to be generous. It always returns whatever it swallows. So why did it make
an exception this time? I search for answers across the sea and the sand. I find none. The
assortment of debris still remains, snuggled among the fissures. Things that no one needs
any more. But then, you were always so admirable, so endearing…everyone wanted a piece
of you. Suddenly, I find the sea looking very old, grey and tired. The moment it took you in,
it lost all its magic. Now what remains is the stale compounded smell of aquatic algae
and weeds assailing my senses. My spirit tree – the frangipani in our porch that marked my first flush of love – had also wilted a few years ago.
I’m not sure if I feel any sense of real grief. It’s been so long and so hard – loving you, losing you, getting over that loss, and now this fresh cycle of events playing out with an uncanny similarity with the past. I know I shall never return to these parts now. With you resting in a watery womb, my last sinew of kinship with the sea has snapped.
I start walking back across the wet sand. There’s something that catches my eye. It’s our favourite rock. I walk over and lovingly caress its stony surface – the only player in our love story which has weathered all storms and stood the test of time. The large engraved heart is obscure now – the arrow piercing through our names, even more blurry. And yet, for me, this carving remains the most enduring truth of my life – Jason loves Freddie – two innocent young boys caught amidst an eternal, abiding seaside romance, with the rock standing as a relic – loyal, undemanding, sacred. I cast a long, loving look at it and head back to the village, wrapping up decades of yearning, and junking it to a moth-eaten niche within my heart.