Bunglaow by the Sea

The sea is rumbling at a distance, with the tides and the sand enjoying a touch and go relationship. I sometimes imagine what life must be like for them. The sea might whisper out "I am there", as they touch, and then an "I am not there" during its sinuous relapse back.

I am there. I am not there.

A chalky, muffled laugh maybe as they continue their respective missions to touch and un-touch each other. In the time that the sea decides to look away, the sand gets restless. Therefore the patterns of little snails creeping out of the sand for a peek, the sometimes solitary footsteps that seem to lead away into a tomorrow unknown.

And then the waves come in, and wash all of them away. Let's start afresh, it seems to say, for don't all endings portend new beginnings?

All this go on at the back of my mind, as I sit on one of the wicker chairs that line the sunlight veranda, facing the blue wall. As if concurring with my thoughts, the dog comes and rests its damp nose on my lap.

You'd do that too, all the time. When you were bored, sick, eating, reading, breathing, being. Amma's lap. The only piece of cushioning you found in the entire house.

This is how I spend my days now. Thinking about the pitter patter of little feet that once ran all over this house. The memories, the yearning. The clichéd empty nest.

That's how I live now. In the bungalow by the sea.