Sands of nostalgia

My favourite visit, at almost all times of the year, is to a good beach. Come summer, there is hardly any place more relaxing than a beach. In other seasons, a walk along the beach drives the blues away. I owe my love for the beach to my father, who often took me there in my childhood days. He taught me that beaches are a shared public property and we should protect and maintain them while enjoying their immense benefits.

Of all the beaches I have seen during my postings in coastal towns, the one in Chennai has been the dearest to my heart. As one walks down the Marina Beach, even as the sun descends over the horizon, the sea shimmers and glows. The imposing buildings and the memorials of past leaders silhouetted against a lavender sky add to the charm of the beautifully lit boulevard. 

“That is the statue of labour,” a father is seen educating his toddler, pointing to the prominent statue depicting the triumph of labour, little knowing that the boy’s attention is on a balloon vendor. The jostling throng on the sands of the beach is reminiscent of a big fair.

The boulevard is narrowed by glittering automobiles parked one after another, and the traffic weaves through as on a slalom course. Suddenly a car comes to a dead halt as a fisherman runs across the road with the day’s catch, unmindful of the traffic. The irate chauffeur restarts the vehicle only after yelling at the erring pedestrian to his heart’s content.

Some of the concrete seats on the platform appear to be reserved for a few regulars. Mostly they are superannuated officials discussing almost every subject under the sun. Though differing on various issues, they agree on one point: the good old days are gone.

There is a brisk sale of eatables at the temporary stalls on the sands of the beach, from snacks fresh from the oven to ice creams and kulfi. Stray dogs, feeding on leftover foods and biscuits offered by some kindly visitors, are seen moving freely. The place gets littered with trash in no time.

As I settled down on the sands one evening, pat came the vendors of murukku and sundal, followed by a lady with a wand in her hand who offered to read my palm. I politely declined their offers, closed my eyes and sat in a yoga posture.

When I opened my eyes after a few minutes of meditation, I was filled with joy at the sight of the blue sea dotted with catamarans and the azure sky with colourful patches of cloud that seemed to mingle at the distant horizon. The sea breeze that wafted gently was soothing.

As I turned to leave, my father’s words echoed in my mind: we must protect the environment, for it is a precious gift of nature.