ISSUE 49

On the shore of the Marina beach, the housing unit blocks squatted unabashedly like an ageing patriarch, overfed, irrelevant and whose looming presence everybody tried to ignore. In one of its many pigeon-hole apartments, Raghu lived with his mother. He climbed down the narrow stairs, two steps at a time and ran towards the beach. He was still in his school uniform. There was no time to change today. Fridays were the busiest when Raghu, with his impish eyes and eager smile, could sell up to thousand-rupees worth of sundal and murukku to the beachgoers. Once he reached the beach, he trudged, feet sinking into the soft sand, kilos of sundal on his shoulder and the box of murukuu hanging down his arms, all weighing down his thin, ten-year-old frame.

‘Crispy murruku, tangy thengai, mangai, pattani sundal. All freshly made, hot off the stove,’ he hollered. ‘Saar, won’t you get some for your family, saar? Fresh and hot and healthy, too, saar.’ Thus, he began his evening ritual.

He heard a man’s animated laugh and peered into the crowd to spot him. Clearly, a tourist, for it took more than the sea to excite the locals.  When Raghu approached the man, he looked at Raghu with amusement and Raghu knew he had a chance.

‘Saar, want some, saar?’

‘How much?’ the man asked.

‘Thirty rupees for one paper cone of sundal,’ Raghu said, setting down the heavy vessel on the sand with a wince. Pity was a powerful tool that guilt-tripped people to buy – Raghu had learnt this first lesson of his trade very early, the second lesson being that the visiting crowd succumbed to it faster.

‘In my town, I can get a kilo can for that price,’ the tourist said, expecting his wife and children to appreciate his sarcasm. They did not hear a word he said. They were too enamoured by the sea. The man grinned and turned to Raghu, who had four paper cones ready in his extended arms. The third marketing lesson, it was hard to say no to innocent enthusiasm. While the tourist family moved on after the purchase, Raghu counted the notes and shoved them deep into his pocket.

At a distance, he saw Arasi akka’s familiar bulk limping towards women, entreating them to buy lengths of fragrant jasmine flower strings from her. Raghu ran towards her, taking care not to spill the contents of the boxes he was carrying, a day’s worth of his mother’s labour. He expertly snaked through the crowded beach.

‘Arasi ka,’ he panted on reaching Arasi akka. ‘Amma said she will return the money she owes you tomorrow,’ Raghu said between taking in gulps of air.

Arasi akka flashed a smile as white and perfectly strung as the jasmine she was selling.

‘What is the hurry? I know your mother will not cheat me. Anyway, how is she today?’ Arasi akka asked.

‘She is getting better. The doctor advised her not to exert herself too much because it could get her blood pressure up again. He said it could turn dangerous.’

‘If only your…’ Arasi akka trailed along with her unspoken words and sighed.

She said, ‘Now, you take good care of your mother, ok. And any help, just ask me.’

She spied a couple walking hand in hand and dragged her arthritic feet towards them, bellowing, ‘Won’t you get jasmine for your lovely wife, saar?’

Raghu had been a toddler when on a dark morning, his father had gone into the sea and never returned. The memory of his father faded with time, smearing itself out of existence. All he could remember now was a moustachioed face tickling his cheeks, a broad shoulder straddling him, and swarthy skin that smelled of fish all the time. His father’s body was never recovered from the sea.

Raghu’s mother often lamented that the sea had decided to keep her favourite son to herself. Those words aroused a conflicting fear of the sea in Raghu, a fear laced by temptation at her allure, and alarm at her eagerness. Unlike the boys of his age, he did not enjoy swimming. Arasi akka, who had tried teaching him to swim, noticed how he struggled even in the shallow waters. ‘The sea won’t take two from the same family, Raghu. She has already taken her due from yours,’ she had said.

Now, the beach began to swell with the evening crowd. Raghu looked around for customers and spotted a family of three getting out of a taxi and he walked towards them. He noticed another sundal seller approaching the same family from the opposite direction, the man’s long strides out doing Raghu’s run. Raghu upped his speed. When they both converged within earshot, Raghu called out to his competitor, ‘Anna, anna, first bhoni, na. Please, please, let me take it.’ Raghu had no qualms about lying. The sundal seller glared at him. ‘Anna, anna,’ Though, Raghu was beseeching, his legs shovelled sand and did not stop running towards his possible customers. With a final sprint, Raghu reached them first, gasping but triumphant.

‘Sundal, saar. Get a paper cone for your kid, saar. She will love it. Melts in your mouth, saar. Trust me, saar, not a lie.’ He rattled without stopping. The woman, overdressed for an evening at the beach, looked at him with raised eyebrows. The man, who was carrying a little girl, looked flustered and was leaking sweat in his hooded UCLA T-shirt.

‘Saar, saar, healthy snack, saar,’ Raghu said again. The man ignored Raghu and tried to set the little girl down. The little girl bawled and held onto her dad.

‘Go away, boy. I don’t want any.’ The man gritted his teeth as he adjusted his daughter’s weight on his hips, the little girl’s shimmery pink frock not helping with his grip. But Raghu was used to being shooed away and did not show any signs of backing up.

‘Saar, this is the tasty sundal that Marina beach is famous for, saar. Carrot, coconut, all freshly grated. Do get one paper cone, saar. First bhoni, saar. Please, please, don’t say no, saar,’ Raghu appealed.

The wife, who was ahead of her husband, turned to him with a querying look. Meanwhile, the little girl seated on her father’s hips entertained herself by tugging clumps of her father’s hair and laughed every time he flinched in pain.

The man talked to his wife in English, ‘No, no. It is not hygienic, Meera. Don’t get it. God knows what water he used to make those sundals.’

‘I know English, saar. Only good mineral water, saar. All very clean,’ Raghu replied in his government-school English. An enthusiastic seller always knew what the customer wanted.

Only when the man turned to glower at Raghu, did he realise that the lessons of his trade were falling apart. The man set down the reluctant little girl and towered over Raghu, his arms akimbo, and said ‘Whom are you kidding, da?’ A spittle landed on Raghu’s forehead. He did not rub it off, lest he offended the man.

‘Saar, hundred per cent true, saar.’ Raghu replied, a slight quiver in his voice giving away his nervousness.

‘See, this boy doesn’t even know the difference between mineral and packaged water and you want to get eats from him.’ The man chided his wife. But she ignored him and ran behind the little girl, who was squealing at the sight of the waves. The man now turned to Raghu, to recover from him the respect he thought he was owed.

‘Dei, don’t think I am a tourist. I was born and brought up in Chennai. I moved to America only two years ago. What all dirty tricks you are trying to pull with me,’ the man said, lingering at America as he spoke. ‘That woman might fall for it, not me,’ the man bobbed his head at his wife, confident that she could not hear him.

‘But, saar, I only…’ Raghu started but was cut off by the man.

‘You are still in your school uniform. You probably cut your classes and were loitering on the beach all day long, looking to steal something from the distracted crowd. I know your ilk, ok? Now, scram.’ The man’s scowl stayed on his red face even as he started to walk towards his wife and the little girl.

Raghu stood shocked, rooted to the spot, looking down at his school uniform for answers. He wondered why his uniform irritated the man so much. He noticed a missing button on the shirt, which his mother had promised to mend two days before, but kept forgetting. His teacher had secured the gap clumsily with a safety pin today in school. He felt a sting in his eyes. He had been ignored, scolded, and even teased before. But no one had called him a thief. He felt his throat constricting, a cry wanting to be let out. When he looked up, he saw the tall sundal seller, the one Raghu had overtaken to secure a customer, laughing at him from a distance. He bit his tongue and pleaded for his tears not to spill. He turned to walk in the opposite direction.

He knew a place far removed from the crowd, a spot behind a mound of rocks on the beach. Usually, the beachgoers did not spill that far. He hastened towards it, wanting a few minutes to gather himself. He passed by Arasi akka’s ample behind, relieved that she did not turn around and notice his red eyes.

Once he reached his safe spot, he sank into the sand, drew his knees to his chest and let the tears flow freely. Without a muffle, he heaved and cried, shaking and shivering – he had long mastered the art of muted crying, after years of practice in his pigeonhole apartment. He opened his eyes, many moments later, only when he heard the familiar squeal of a little girl. He wiped his sodden cheeks and peeped from behind the rocks. He saw the man, the same man who had taken out his frustration on him earlier, walking in this direction along with his wife and his little girl. For a minute, Raghu was worried they would spot him in his hiding place. There would be no worse embarrassment than feeling hurt in front of the people who wanted to hurt him. However, the couple were too occupied with the waves and the sea, and the stubborn little girl who was running amok, that they did not notice Raghu. The little girl was chasing the waves, running away from them, leaving her chubby footprints on the perfectly smooth sand that the water had ironed out for her.

‘Let’s take a photo,’ the man said, whipping out his phone. After picking up and restraining the wriggling girl in her arms, the wife huddled with him. Soon enough, instant happiness appeared on their faces as they posed for the photo. Except for the child. She held on to her dissatisfaction at being stopped from jumping into the foamy waves. She wanted to be let down, let go.

After several clicks, their smiles dropped and they looked down at the phone.

‘I closed my eyes in this one,’ the wife complained. ‘And this makes your bulging tummy look bigger,’ she jabbed at the screen as if this was the phone’s fault.

Behind the safety of the rocks, Raghu cupped his mouth and sniggered.

‘We can take another one,’ the husband said, clearly not wanting to do it.

‘Can’t you do one thing right?’ the wife snapped back at her husband, noticing his lack of enthusiasm for the whole exercise.

Now, Raghu sidled up to the sides of the rock to overhear the fight. It gave him a tingling pleasure to see this American-return tormentor trying to mollify his wife.

It was then that Raghu noticed the little girl wading closer and closer into the waters. Her laughter reached new decibels as the waves teased her, touching her toes and then retreating, returning to tickle her ankle and apologetically going back again, now reaching for her knees with renewed confidence. The rising water made the girl shriek with joy, a perilous joy that somehow went unnoticed by the fighting parents.

‘Stupid people,’ Raghu mumbled under his breath but decided not to warn them. After all, hadn’t the man called him a thief and mocked him? Had he not tried to show off before his wife? Had he not made him feel little and worthless? A bit of a scare would do the father some good, Raghu thought. He continued to spy on the quarrelling couple who were absorbed in their petty problems and the forgotten child who was enticed by the sea as much as he was.

As seconds went by and the water rose, panic gripped Raghu. He slid behind the rocks, and scrunched his eyes, wishing that the arrogant man would notice the little girl soon, hoping to hear the man shouting at his daughter, running towards her, scooping her out of the water, wishing to hear the irritating bawl of the stubborn little girl, wanting to be set down. But all he heard was the argumentative voices of the man and his wife, and no squeals. He shot up and looked at the sea and saw a pink blotch of shimmery colour bobbing up and down in the water.

The world around him fell silent to his senses. He did not hear anything but the sea’s silken call inviting him to swim her tides, daring him to come to her. Raghu did not see anything, except the pink splotch, dancing, drowning. A strange howl emanated from his belly, shocking the American-returned man into realising what had happened. But he was too stunned to act, even with his wife hysterically hitting him, swearing at him to save their daughter.

Raghu did not hear or see anything but the trap the sea had laid for him and into which he went willingly.

Later, after the little girl had left for America, after many days of searching for Raghu’s body in the temperamental waters, Arasi akka would recall to his mother how she saw Raghu, last, rushing towards the water, as if he had finally decided to face his fear and swim in the seas