“Not so long ago, there lived a crow in the ancient city of Mahabalipuram.” – Folklore

I took a sip of coffee as I looked at the eternal stretch of the sea, trying to get a clear gaze of the horizon, the spotless morning sun. As the sun ascended, a few more sips, before emptiness followed. It was time to fill the mug again. As my gaze descended to the kettle, the waves sounded clearer. Human senses and perception, happen one at at time. I moved my fingers over the eyebrows and the eye lids, trying to remember something, some kind of vague nostalgia. I preferred the sound of breeze over the waves. Like a whisper, it fizzled out

Sand never gets crushed like the autumn leaves. The pain is there, silent though. It embraces the sun and the waves in equanimity. Soon I found my imprints on the sand. Sand between the toes, washed with each wave and again. Felt like the sip of coffee I had earlier. A sip you want, then another. Before I could venture more, heard someone - “Sir, don’t go further. It is deep there.” As I turned back, “Life guard, Sir.” - he continued. He seemed to have got his appearance from the toil of generations, sweating under the scorching sun.

Sometimes he will go deep in the sea with the fishermen. In the middle of the sea, he will long for the shore. He feared going deep into the sea. He would tell his friends - “I guard the shores”. And they will mockingly call him “the sea guard”.

“The big tree on the river bank embraced the floods to reach the sea. The roots failed to embrace the sand.” – The Sun

The fish never liked the shores. Waves promised to keep her safe. Until one day when she got attracted by the sand. As waves receded, the reflection in her eyes shifted from the water to the sand. The fish lied there, silently longing for the waves to return.

“The crow appears the same as it sounds. No pretensions.” – The Sea

The sea guard shared the sea with the crow. They shared the gifts of the sea that arrived on the waves. Birth after birth, they swapped their bodies. Their fate remained unchanged, scarred and scathed as ever. He waited for his turn, once the crow was done feasting. He checked if it was still fresh. Their eyes met, pleased as much as displeased. Till the next birth.

Searching for the lost nostalgia, I started counting the crabs coming out of the sand. I washed my feet again.

ⓒ Rajesh Srivastava