Tere Mere Beach Mein

Did I tell you that I have a huge fascination for sea beaches? No, it’s not about snorkeling, deep sea diving or any water sports. I just love the idea of sitting on the sand, watching the kids play, the changing hues of the sky, the birds, collecting shells, or just occasionally dipping my feet into the lukewarm water.




I was however disappointed with the concept of a beach here. A trip to the Pondicherry beach (pronounced as Puducherry beach), and I screamed, much to the embarrassment of my wife- Arre par beach kahaan hai? Isme toh pao rakhne ka bhi provision nahi diya hai in logon ne(That was when we landed in Pondicherry). Seems that a beach is not always a sea beach here, characterized by the smell of rotting fish, the grumbling of the waves, the lighthouse, and the frequent nariyal paani's and sundal waala's. I found another beach by accident, and she had screamed out- Wow, this is so very like the Marina beach in Chennai. Yet let me tell you, that none of the beaches I have seen here even remotely come close to the beach culture I am so used to.




I haven’t seen all the beaches in India. Certainly not the Goa beach. But then, visits to various beaches in Maharashtra, Vizag, Chennai, and Pondicherry has been enough to get me notice the stark difference of beach culture. For one, there are no buxom aunties lifting their sarees up their knees and occasionally dipping their feet in water, all decked up with gajra and kajra. You wouldn’t notice the newlywed bongs on their honeymoon, characterized so very by the wife, suddenly out of the scrutiny of the in-laws is seen to wear the oversized jeans or trousers of the husband. I hated the Bong-infested Pondy beach so very characterized by the kichir kichir (animated conversation) about Maacher Jhol (Fish curry) and intellectual crap. Here in Paradise Beach (another variant of the Pondysphere). The crowd was totally different here. There were semi-naked men and women basking in the sun, crouched on the sand with bare minimal clothing. Lovers openly kissed and coochie-cooed, and you wouldn’t find a daroga-type man carrying a large danda on his rounds whenever he spotted two heads in unison, thanks to the combined French culture.


Another thing to notice was the total lack in business on the beaches. There are no nariyal paani wallas, no gajra sellers, no coca-cola or sutta sellers, no conch shell decoratives sellers, no pony-man you could take your kids on a ride for, albeit after much bargaining about the prices while I wondered if this was a proper donkey or a breed of khachhar (don't ask me the difference between an ass, a mule, and a donkey. I just do not know). People brought their own food and drinks (though not in cello jugs) and their own means of recreation (which ranged from baseballs to boyfriends). There were no sculptors making figurines in the sand. The way they make figures of Ma Durga and Gandhiji and Tendulkar still amazes me. There are no state handicraft shops where you could buy little mementoes and souvenirs. But then again, this was India.




Walking down the beach, we found American names scribbled on the sand. To give an Indian touch of our own, we scribbled our own Indian versions- Indian names, Bharat Mata Ki Jai. Pure fun you see.




The utter lack of floral and faunal diversity is also something that caught my eyes. There were no holes made in the sand where crabs and spiders sped in and out. No snails, no hermit crabs, no mollusks, no plankton, no stench of dead and decaying fish. In all enthusiasm, I made the mistake of putting my feet in water. The water was cold. Beyond a point, we just stopped exploring around and all we did was take a short walk and get back to the boat.


This reminded me of my childhood days when a trip to the beach, whenever possible would get us all so excited. The ladies of the family would make sandwiches, and we would be running around everywhere, making castles out of sand and collecting conch shells. My dad being panicky about water would never willingly let us step into the water. But it was no fun till you got yourselves drenched. I remember how I would bargain with dad that I’d only take 6 steps in the water and would only let it wet my heels. Yet when dad wasn’t looking, I’d silently venture in, only to have a sudden gush of wave take the sand off my feet and me hurling back. It was such fun getting the waves all on you, tasting the salt, the sand gritting your teeth, playing in the water for hours not caring about catching a cold the next day. And I always wondered how my grand parents or parents never really put much effort into stepping in water, all they would do is sit in a circle and chat amidst cups of tea. I wanted to run around, explore every bit of the beach, collect all the shells that I could, climb up the lighthouse, get myself all drenched, and never come back.

However, now whenever I visit the beach, I can feel my years catching up on me. Or perhaps I just need to be in the company of a bunch of jungle kids to be running around once again.