“At the Sea”
- ritumukherjee10
- Jun 23
- 6 min read
You are staring at the thick loud waters in Puri. You have always loved the beach for its sandy expanse and familiarity. Somewhat of your childhood is wrapped in the waters and each time you touch it, you meet yourself. You have often wondered how the morning smells like your skin after a fitful night, wafting moist warmth to the air around you. Today it had a thin film of salt and sweat. You adore the noise of the sea. But today you feel as though you are a thick block of ice waiting to thaw. You hear your mother calling out,
“Manu, don’t go too far.”
You can hear worry seeping through the cracks of her voice. Your husband had refused to let you come alone when you told him you needed to get away for a few days. He saw through you like you were a leaf, devoid of chlorophyll, somewhat transparent, somewhat opaque, the intimacy at once unnerving and very comforting. He knew you were not in a state to travel alone. He knew more but he was kind and you knew he would wait. So, you brought your mother along, because she was comfortable with your silence, no explanations needed. You wave at your mother. She waves back.
“Be careful,” she says. You nod. When had it come to this? You were in your 30s, married as happily as possible, yet you felt nothing when this had come to pass. Your days were well-planned, meticulous, repetitive, tedious and draining. When you had first seen A in one of those dreary corporate workshops, you were bored. Your eyes would roll over the words on a page, they would make no sense. Your eyes fell on him because he had an irritating smirk on his face, something that had angered you at first. You began to study his face for want of something else. His eyes were slightly askew, they swerved up, giving his face a ferocity that was set off balance with the fullness of his lips. He was dark, with a lustre to his face and thick, brooding eyebrows. When your eyes met during a break and he had flashed a knowing smile, your body, dipping in desire, fell apart in cups of tea. You had been good for so long, this was your Promethean fire, your chance to steal your latent dreams that you had birthed with your eyes tightly shut.
Everything was sharper, more pronounced, vivid, kaleidoscopic, loud, and keen when you were with him, in those stale hotel rooms, ridden with the smell of cigarettes and dank perfume. It was never your own. Even your skin would smell different as if you were a different person as if you were a stranger reflected in the mirrors in those small rooms. Once home you would cover yourself in body wash and watch your trysts wash away in the shower water. There was more to wash every time, your hands ached more, your eyes burned with the froth of the soap water, and your face flushed in longing for an inarticulate desire. You had entered the arrangement with an idea that it would be freeing, a way to subvert your humble life. But very soon you grew attached and watched helplessly as he would leave you with his share of the cash and hurry to meet other, more interesting women. You grew used to it after a while, stopped needing more, with each meeting scraping off more and more of your skin.
It was a particularly rain-filled morning. He was lying indolently on his bed, you on the floor, laptop open, a teacup on one side, listening to the music of rain falling on the tin-shed of the next house. You were in his flat. It was available after his divorce and you were glad not to be going to those hotels. You felt seen there, as if the staff could taste your humiliation. You could feel him turn in bed. You knew he wanted to wake up, but his body refused to.
What are you writing, he asked.
You looked at him and said, you. That seemed to please him.
Is it any good?
That remains to be seen.
Can I read it?
No.
You were thoroughly repulsed at the idea of him touching the only privacy you had left. You had taken to writing because it helped you to make sense of the mess you had made. You would not be able to act human otherwise, you felt. But you were thankful for that day at his flat. It was as if A had robbed you of every last drop of feeling that day. You were supposedly his friend now. Whatever that was. He was in a particularly happy mood that day which had made you wary. He had made you chicken curry and rice and you had ice cream for dessert. You talked work, commented on how he had cleaned the house. He pointed at the almirah and the dressing table and said that he would have to return them to his ex-wife. You nodded. You were waiting for the real thing, you knew him well enough to know that there was something else, always.
He came to it soon enough. He sat beside you, held your hand and smiled. You spat out, “What is it?”
“You know, I have been dating so many women since my divorce. Sex is good sometimes, but they are not as intimate as you. Why do you think that is? Do they not know? Do you think I should tell them what I need?”
You looked at him and thought about the words you were hearing. You turned them slowly in your head and wonder if it was possible to feel nothing at his words. He glanced at you and said, “You know that you are the best”. He leaned in and you allowed yourself to be kissed. But your lips wouldn’t move. He got up with a questioning glance and said, “Do you want to join me in the shower?” You got up as well. You were so weary that you felt anxiety trickle down your back at the thought of going to the door and coming all the way back to your house. But you did. You were inordinately relieved.
But you felt nothing, ate nothing, said nothing, and people were beginning to notice. It wouldn’t do. So, you decided that you needed to go to the sea to thaw. You had this idea that if you screamed long enough and loud enough, the chill of your heart would reach your mind, you would reconcile with it and the sea would drown your screams. But now that you are here, nothing comes out of your mouth.
You look at the sands and pick some in your hands. They glisten, somewhat dry, mostly wet and you wonder how your heart and self-esteem was like the sand, weightless, shattered to a million tiny pieces, easily blown away by the gentlest wind. No amount of crazy glue could put it back together. You hear the sea roar. The skies are clouded, it is a rainy November. The twelfth of the month. The waters reflect the dark sky, the malice of your own heart and they look deliciously enticing. You walk towards it. The waves thrash and hit your body; you can feel the salt saturate your senses. Just a little more and then you could lay yourself in the cool embrace of the lulling waters. You keep walking. You’re sure you can smell a storm brewing somewhere. You stop wading in and smile, so the senses are still working. You touch your lips and marvel at the feat. You are smiling. You start wading deeper. You are weary and the sea beckons like a mother’s womb.
“Manu! That’s enough. Come back right now.” You hear your mother scream, panic lacing her voice now. You want to wave back but feel too weary. Your eyes are weary and you want to close them.
“Hey, please. You promised me dearest.” You hear Ankita’s voice breathing down softly. You feel it swim down your throat. She was your best friend who had taken her own life and left you with a request to live life fully, live what she would be missing out. The sea is holding your waist now, a soothing embrace. But now you feel your toes grab on to the sand, the fingers clinging on to the wet sea floor, like the sand clinging on to each other. You see a huge wave come for you and instead of letting go, you stand sideways and jump lightly, years of training kicking in, and you do this again and again, laughing aloud in glee, your eyes finally letting the dam break. You weep softly, caressing the water. You hear Ankita breathe, “Thank you, my love. If you let go, where will I be?” You walk back to your mother. She stares you down like you are a child again. You laugh and say,
“Ma, I’m hungry. Do you want those sweets or would you rather have a singara?
Her smile is enough for you. For that moment. The rest you decide can come later.
Kitaab.org, as Editor’s Pick of the Week, August 27, 2022
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