At the Beach

Been living in isolation for over months now. But it doesn't feel odd. It's peaceful in a way because there's no urgency to go out and meet people. There's no obligation to buy stuff. There's no valid reason to be anywhere but home. This isolation has given a validation to my chosen way of life. 

Do you remember Celine, from Before Sunset. When she talks to Jesse about living in a communist country. This is vaguely what she would've meant. Her mind opened up and creative juices started flowing. Nothing of that sort has happened with me, of course. My mind is still in some self induced coma, there's a stasis I have chosen to hang in. But I am assuredly unafraid as I don't have to be around people anymore. People aren't so bad, tbh. But I am not just built for it. My bad.

When I imagine the future of life this way, is there anything I would particularly miss? Probably not. May be, I would want to get away a little bit, once in a while. I fret and panic a lot, I live with a lot of anxiety. So a break, in a few months is something I really would appreciate. Not that it changes anything, but. 

Long time ago, I remember being at the beach. It was Puri. Near the crematorium. But it's business as usual, even with such proximity to death. The eateries by the sea were doing good business. There are some stalls that sell sea food of all kind dipped in thick batter and deep fried till they turned orange. I somehow never gathered enough courage to eat at such a place. Then there are some hawkers selling samosas and sweets. A fast food stall that's shaped like a circle and is famous for its rolls. I would've gone there, but kept walking instead. 

We sort of reached the end of the market. Beyond that the beach looked virgin, the sea wilder. We stopped because there was no where left to go. There was a shack that sold tea in those white little paper cups. No matter how little tea the seller poured in, there was always a fear of it tipping over. In the strong breeze, our hands shook as we took small sips. It was milky and sweet enough; thick with some cream added after straining. We saw eggs and asked the seller, a boy of mid teens, if he could make anything. He was just manning the shop, he said, and his father was running some errands. 

So we waited. The sun began setting and fell deep into the sea. A yellow bulb came alight upon the stall. Not many were around, we were pretty far from the hoopla of the beach. It got cooler, our sweat dried against our skins and we got a chill. Sitting on the sand, I made a trip or four to play with the waves. The foam looked dreamy on my toes. Everytime I would be screamed at and asked to retreat. In between one of my trips to the waves, the boy's father showed up.

He made us bread omlettes and served them on paper plates, garnished with ground hot black pepper. The man was quite a pro and cooked fast on an iron frying pan. The stove fire was the only light we could see for a distance as even the bulb went out. 

I could feel the salt in the air seep into my skin and the chill penetrate my nostrils as the waves touched my toes again, and again and again.