Interlude

The call seems like it’s never going to end. I look ruefully at my hand, which is holding a wooden stick coated with syrup, most of which is running down my wrist in sticky rivulets and pooling in the sand. A sad waste of a delicious-looking popsicle.

“...and I know it’s after work hours, but this is pretty critical. The client needs the report by tomorrow, so if you could get on it, that’d be great. If you have any questions let me know. Alright, thanks.” She finally hangs up. I shove my phone into my pocket and try to salvage what’s left of the popsicle. All I get for my troubles are a few dregs of flavour and an uncomfortably tacky arm. Sighing, I toss the stick away carelessly, and use the end of my shirt to wipe my wrist dry.

The humid summer air weighs heavily on me. I feel my shirt sticking to my back with sweat and wish I could crawl out of my skin and melt into the sea in front of me. A particularly vigorous wave licks my toes, before drawing away back into the sea. A ship’s horn sounds twice. Another wave crashes thunderously onto the shore; and as it recedes, the sounds of the city behind me seem to get louder. It’s the incessant deafening buzz of a lively city; the revving engines and angry honks on a jam-packed road; the clear carrying cries of vendors selling their wares; and above them all, the plaintive calls of gulls making their way back to their nests. Along the horizon, the Mumbai skyline glitters; tall, lit up buildings like silhouetted titans against the evening sky. 

The water reminds me of home. A tiny village on the banks of a river. It’s so familiar, and yet so strange; back home, the river carried only a few fishing boats, here, I see enormous ships and splendid yachts drifting across the massive expanse of water. There are no washerwomen along this unending coast; only strangers milling about. Some with families, their children running around; some holding hands and ambling, sharing coy looks; and yet others, laughing and merry-making in convivial groups.

This endless curve of coastline is called, as I learnt when I came here, the Queen’s Necklace — reminiscent of a queen’s sparkling pearls, illuminated as it is by the citylights. Four months later, much of its lustre has faded.

City of Dreams, they call it, luring us like moths to its glitter and glamour. Like countless others, I came here looking for more — more work, more money, more life. Be careful what you wish for, they say. This city gave me so much more than I wanted — and left me wanting for things I never thought I’d lack.

Companionship. Family. Love.

My phone chimes thrice in quick succession, interrupting my observations. Reminder, reminder, a message from my brother — a reminder to call a distant cousin — I put my phone away again. 

All I asked for was one hour, one measly hour, to myself. One hour of tranquillity, sitting on the beach, perhaps treating myself to a popsicle. But life wouldn’t let me. 

A wet trail makes its way down my face; not sweat, I realize, but a tear. Another follows, and then another, until I’m crying so hard that my shoulders shake with the force of it. I’m not even sure what I’m crying for; only that it is a much needed catharsis for my roiling emotions. I sit there sniffling, head in my hands, for what seems like an eternity. 

Eventually I become aware of a presence hovering beside me. I refuse to look up, hoping it will eventually pass. It doesn’t. Finally, I raise my head to snap at this intruder — and see no one. That is, till I lower my head a little. 

A boy stands there, grime-faced. He’s wearing what looks like an unwashed shirt that hangs off his skinny shoulders, and shorts that have clearly seen better days and owners. He reminds me of the urchins I see on street corners, or those who tap on your window and try to sell you balloons “for your child”. He’s staring at me, with the naked curiosity of a child who has never seen an adult cry before. 

Before I can open my mouth to shoo him away, he extends a bony hand towards me. It’s a popsicle. He jerks it upwards, encouraging me to take it, no doubt trying to relieve me of a few rupees. Something about having to pay for another popsicle when I couldn’t even enjoy the first, rankles me. I attempt to wave him off. 

He persists, and comes closer. In no mood to be kind to some stray urchin, I raise my hand threateningly. He flinches — and I immediately feel so much worse about myself. For a few moments, there is a wary silence in which he stares at me. 

Then he tentatively extends his arm towards me. “I don’t have any money,” I say curtly, hoping to discourage him. It seems to have no effect; he continues holding the popsicle out, motioning towards my mouth. When I realize what he means, I can’t quite believe it. “For me?” I ask. He nods. Slowly I take the popsicle from his fingers. I take a cautious lick, and the flavour of ripe mango coats my tastebuds. I can’t help but smile. Encouraged, the urchin smiles back. The next moment, he plops himself down on the sand next to me. What a strange breed these street urchins are, I think. I’ve never spoken to one, and here one is, bold as brass, offering a crying stranger a popsicle and some company. I turn back to my contemplation of the sea. The low tide is coming in. The water is beginning to still.

As I raise the popsicle to my mouth, I wonder: what would it be like, if right now, at this very moment, I walked into the sea? The water is calm; I can imagine there would be no resistance as I waded further into it. I can almost feel the cold clinging to my body, the heaviness of my drenched clothes weighing me down. In my mouth, the sweetness of the mango turns to salt. I imagine water filling my lungs till I can no longer breathe. Cool darkness enveloping me, swallowing me whole. 

No more deadlines, no more drudgery. Only peace. 

A sudden splash interrupts my reverie. Someone’s thrown something - a stone? - into the water. I whip my head around, and find the urchin guiltily hiding his hand behind his back. I turn back to the water. Out of the corner of my eye, I see him pulling his arm back for another throw. 

Another splash — water rises into the air, before falling after the sinking stone. Another stone goes flying towards the water, briefly skimming the surface before sinking. I realize what he’s trying to do. 

I transfer the almost-finished popsicle into my other hand and feel around for a stone that fits my purpose. My hand alights on a flattish stone. I pick it up, standing as I do so. Seeing me looming over him, the urchin stiffens; he looks ready to bolt any moment. I draw my arm back, recalling years of childhood spent in my riverside village, and fling the stone. It skips once, twice, thrice — and then drops out of sight. I turn to the kid. He looks on in wonder, and turns his shining face up at me. I nod my head in encouragement. He immediately turns on his knees, scrambling around for another stone. He holds a few up for my approval. I pick three out. The kid watches me like a hawk as I adjust my stance. Another practiced fling, and this time the stone skips twice. Immediately, the kid attempts to emulate me with an artless swing that sends the stone into a wide arc, straight into the water. 

I can’t help but laugh at his indignant expression. “Not like that,” I say, picking up another stone to demonstrate. “Here — pull your arm back — like this —” He mimics my gesture. “And now,” I instruct, as he watches raptly, “ — move your arm — add a little spin — like — this!” My stone bounces twice on the water, and on its heels, another stone bounces once and sinks. I turn to look at the kid, who is staring at the water with unadulterated amazement. He looks up at me and breaks into a wide, gap-toothed grin. “Go practice,” I tell him, and watch indulgently as he combs the sands for more stones with which to exhibit his newfound skill. In my pocket, my phone starts to ring. I ignore it, choosing instead to finish the popsicle. The waves are coming back, breaking the sea’s stillness. 

By the time the phone stops ringing, I’ve licked the wooden stick clean. I chuck it into the water. With the taste of mango lingering on my tongue, I lay down on the cool sands. A slight breeze has begun to blow, cooling the air. 

I feel at peace; surrounded by the sound of crashing waves, the splash of unskipping stones, and the soft whoop that accompanies a successful attempt. The sand isn’t silent either — in it, I hear the faint skittering of bugs sifting through the grains. Above me, the sky’s evening blue is slowly dulling. I heave a deep sigh. If only I could stay here, like this, forever. Against my will, I raise my arm to glance at my watch. 

6:45 pm. With the greatest of reluctance, I push myself upright, leaving the kid throwing rocks with a look of concentration on his face. The sand crunches beneath my shoes and sticks to the soles. It’s going to be tough, getting a taxi at this hour. I should have returned home an hour ago.

But what do I have to return to? A sparsely-furnished room? An evening of looking at spreadsheets? Losing myself in a movie or mindlessly scrolling through social media, desperately trying to distract myself from the everyday drudgery of my life, before passing out on a lumpy mattress?

My preoccupation is broken by a clear voice carrying across the beach. I spot the ice-cream seller pushing his trolley along, calling for his last sales for the day. 

I look over my shoulder, where my unexpected companion is now standing in the water. A sudden swell of affection overcomes me. I change course, making my way towards the ice-cream seller. 

He offers me one of his last popsicles — a multicoloured affair of mango, strawberry, and cream. An uncommonly indulgent treat for an uncommonly indulgent kid. A little parting gift, of sorts. As I reach for my wallet, my phone rings. Life is calling me, and I have no choice but to answer.

“Hello?”

“Hey, so I messaged you a while back, but I don’t think you read the message.”

“No, I... I guess I didn’t see it.”

“No worries, no worries... I did call you as well.”

“Yes, I was going to call you back as soon as I reached home. I’m...” I grope for an excuse. “I’m stuck in traffic.” As if on cue, a horn blares from the busy road. 

“Haha, I know what you mean. Mumbai traffic really is terrible, huh? Anyway, I just wanted to let you know that I’ve sent you the list of tasks with their deadlines. About half of them need to be completed before the meeting tomorrow. About the meeting...” I drift off into inattention until a brisk voice snaps me out of it. 

“Is that clear?” I mumble my assent. “Great, keep me updated, and remember the priority tasks. I’ll call you if there’s anything new.” She hangs up. I sigh, putting my phone back, and notice that the popsicle has begun to melt.

My phone chimes again. The screen is full of notifications; life demands me back. The time stands out almost accusingly: 7:00 pm. 

My gaze is drawn to the sea again. The way the waves unfurl over the sands, before being pulled back inexorably. Moments later, they rush towards the shore again, frothing and tumbling, stretching as far as they can on the beach, before being pulled back once more. Over and over they advance and recede, leaving no trace but for a fleeting dampness on the sands. 

It seems so very familiar. I stare, transfixed, longing. A thin trickle of syrup runs down my thumb. I look into the ice-cream seller’s freezer. Two more popsicles are nestled in the ice.

I really, really should be getting back.

The kid’s face lightens up as he sees me approach, a popsicle in each hand. The sky is a brilliant vermillion; streaks of grey-blue clouds running across it. The gulls’ cries have begun to grow fainter. The last of the joggers are getting ready to leave. Slowly, the evening inhabitants of this beach come into view. This is the time of the couples, who dare not show their love in the light of day; but here, under the darkening sky, lost among the crying gulls and the crashing waves, on soft, damp sands, their secrets are safe. The noise of the busy road, the shouts of shopkeepers and cries of the travelling vendors... they all seem to fade into the background.

In the dying light, the waves are like molten gold. 

I sit down next to the kid, offering a popsicle to him. He grabs it greedily and starts attacking it with childish fervour. Mid-bite, he looks up at me and smiles a strawberry-and-mango-stained smile. I ruffle his fair, feeling unreasonably fond.

My phone rings. Life calling, I think. 

I cut it off mid-ring and put it back into my pocket. We turn our gazes towards the sunset, popsicles in hand. 

Life can wait.