Sea Shells

The sea has always felt to me like a symbol of longing without end. Maybe that's why I keep going back. Among the waves rushing to kiss the shore, I find my place on a rock, alone but not lonely. I fix my eyes on the horizon until it softens and settles into me. The mind opens up—wide and bare—like the ocean itself. Somewhere underneath, in the grainy dark, lie seashells crushed by the heels of youthful abandon. The tiny burrows of sand crabs are sealed. Lost things, quiet things, forgotten things.

I often wonder why you still let the waves tug at you like this, though you know better now. Lifeguard whistles slice through the air, warning wanderers who drift too far. The crowd shifts and flows, drawn to the smell of roasting corn, the glow of ice cream carts, the makeshift stalls selling shell trinkets.

It was just then that something stirred in my head—a dull hornet’s buzz behind my left temple. I winced and shut my eyes. And heard Sudhi beside me.

“What happened, Meera?”

“My head... it's pounding. Let’s go.”

“Good! The kids look like they’re going to be in the water forever. Come. A tea will help.”

We walked, my steps heavy, feet sinking into sand. Somewhere between the chatter and the smell of the sea, I stopped.

There it was—a conch, half-buried in the sand, like a forgotten secret. No one noticed. I brushed the sand off and held it to my ear. Did I hear the sea whisper back?

A breeze, dry and mocking, laughed past me.

“Meera, that headache gone?”

Sudhi stood with two steaming cups and a scolding look. I didn’t answer. The conch—what a beauty. My granddaughter would love it. She’d hold it up like a treasure from a mermaid’s chest.

Across the shore, the men were still in the water, their torsos flashing in the dying light. My granddaughter sat with her mother, shaping a house out of damp sand.

“A room for everyone, okay?” she said solemnly.

“For Grandpa, Grandma, Dad, Mom, Achachan, Kunjachachan, Munna, Santha Grandma, Ammachamma, Mama… and Iyo.”

She never calls me Grandma. I’m “Iyo”—named after a cartoon character she loves. And I don’t mind. Her tiny voice could mend anything inside me. She wants everyone to be included. Everyone loved, sheltered. Her earth is still that generous.

A ball, hit too hard by some teenage boy, came flying and smashed her palace.

She stared. No sound came out. The sea swallowed her cry.

Her mother quietly pointed to the sky, where a kite rose and dipped in the wind. They walked toward the bell of the ice cream cart.

At the stall nearby stood a girl—hair oiled and loose, hands full of shell necklaces. She looked just a little older than my granddaughter.

“Why do you want that?” Sudhi asked sharply. “Don’t buy anything.”

I couldn’t meet the girl’s eyes. I only shrugged helplessly. Guilt, slow and bitter, rose like a tide.

Months ago, outside Bakel Fort, there had been a boy with a baby on his shoulder. His head was oddly large for his frame. I had money in my pocket to buy my granddaughter a toy. But I gave it to him instead. He smiled—his eyes bright and wide—and the image has stayed with me ever since.

Later, I sat on the fort’s top, the sea far and fierce below. Everyone else wandered off to take photos. The sea boiled—just imagination, perhaps. Yet I said, “Sudhi, look. The sea is full of blood.”

“Where?”

The children rushed over. Sudhi's expression shifted.

“Is Mom crazy?” they laughed.

“No,” I murmured. “The sea is red. Can’t you smell it?”

My father chuckled. “Still stuck in the time of Hyder Ali?”

Everyone laughed louder. But I kept staring. Couldn’t unsee it.

“Here, the sea is blue,” Sudhi said firmly.

“What else would it be?” he added, almost irritated. “You imagine too much. No wonder your head hurts.”

“Will the bookstore be open today?” I asked in the car later.

“For what now?”

“I want to get Enmakaje by Ambikasuthan Mangad. It’s about the Endosulfan tragedy.”

“Why read something that’ll just make you feel worse? It’s Sunday. No bookstore will be open.”

“We’ll look online, Amma,” my son said gently, smoothing things over.

On the road, we passed posters with Daya Bai’s face.

“Thank God we didn’t live in Kasaragod,” I whispered, running my fingers through my granddaughter’s hair. “Our lives would’ve been different.”

Sudhi hit the brakes. The car jerked. A motorcyclist swerved away. I clutched my granddaughter close. Dust and noise and motion everywhere.

She was holding the conch to her ear.

“It’s empty!” she declared. “There’s nothing in it. They tricked me!”

Everyone laughed.

I didn’t. I looked at her, at her small, damp fingers curled around the shell. I reached over, touched her face.

“To hear it,” I said, “you’ll have to grow a little older.”

A breeze moved between us, quiet and salty. Outside the window, stars blinked on, shy and scattered among trees that ran past like ghosts.

We both watched.

And somewhere behind us, the sea kept returning to the shore.