By Nathaniel D’Costa

It's a beautiful June morning. One of those mornings when the sky is neither white nor blue and the sun isn’t out, but still sends its light across a cloudless sky. I amble into the kitchen, pour water into a stainless-steel vessel and keep it to boil. I’ve always thought coffee was for days when you need your sense of the world to be on knife's edge, so instead I open the dull brown box of Matcha tea that Gina had given me. It’s a box made of Japanese cedar with a light engraving on the top. For days when you feel like celebrating, she had told me. Well, the day that your heart wants to melt into the air and cease to exist is as good as any occasion I tell myself. I bring the box of pale green leaves to my nose and take a deep breath. Gina. All in there. With her brown curls and easy smile. With her freckles and silver nose-ring which she had bought from a street hawker in Bandra. Gina with her German accent and love for Japanese teas.

I take two spoonfuls of tea and drop it into the boiling water. I watch the leaves gurgle and simmer in the vessel for a few minutes and turn off the flame. It’s still early; the world hasn’t woken up yet. A stray motorcycle horn punctures the air and I decide that this isn’t the sound to bring in a day such as this. I put Asa on the stereo. Asa with her voice that shivers through your skin seems to be made for this morning. I draw back the heavy lace curtains, sit by the window ledge and watch the sun grow into the sky. The leaves on the jackfruit tree have spotted the sun and they slowly stretch out in the light. The familiar honk of the baker follows him into our lane. I call out to him. ‘Two of the hottest loaves of bread,’ I say. Buying the morning loaves used to be a ritual for Gina. I remember how amazed she was that we got to choose from four different types of fresh bread at our doorstep. How excited she got when the bread man opened the basket on his bicycle and the warm smells of the bakery stole into our garden. Hers was the rough, grain-coated flatbread. Mine was the hard crusted one. We would sit on the table, coat the bread with soft butter, sip our tea and talk about what we wanted to do that day.

What does one do on days when the yearning for a person clings to you like an old song that refuses to leave your head? On days when neither the tea nor the room tastes like it should? The beach is a good place for an uneasy heart. I finish breakfast and clear up. The day has begun, and I can hear light traffic on the road outside. I switch off the stereo and slip out of the house. It rained last night. The air is still cool, and the earth is wet with little puddles across the garden. The leaves of the bimbli tree shimmer with drops of water that still hold the light of stars from the previous night. I’m wearing sandals, shorts, my t-shirt and a light jacket in case it drizzles. I don’t live far from the beach. Past our lane, onto the main road by Pascoal’s store, and the beach is a ten-minute walk away. That's why she loved the house. Because the sea was never too far off. She would make me walk to it every day to watch the sunset. She would sit on the beach with her legs in the water and watch the sun go down. One of the games she played was to name every colour she saw as the sun splashed light over the horizon in its final moments. And it wasn't just the colour, she needed to get its perfect shade. So, it had to be deep blue like the kingfisher that we spotted on our tree, fiery red like laterite dug up from the earth or pale pink like the Zephyr lilies that bloom in the monsoons. Not purple, she would say when I tried joining in, that’s mauve, like the eggplants you buy at Pascoal’s.

Pascoal is at his shop with Julio, his 11-year-old son. Julio is in his uniform, waiting for the school van to pick him up. I wave out to them both. ‘There will be good fish out this evening. The tide comes in at four. I’ll pick you up,’ Pascoal shouts out to me. Big-bellied with a deep voice, Pascoal has a couple of decades on me. A deck hand in the merchant navy, his years on the ship have turned his skin to a dark brown and his hair to the colour of sea salt. He has friendly eyes and loves fishing and talking about lovers he’s left behind on foreign shores. He moved back to the village after Julio was born, and opened the grocery shop. I smile and nod. ‘Give me a call, I don't know what I'll be doing today.’ I can't tell Pascoal that my lungs are fading today. It might make him change his plans.

It’s a quiet walk to the beach. The village is nestled in a corner, far from the clusters of tourists and city folk. There are green fields on either side of the road and big dunes that rise to fifteen feet to mark the beginning of the beach. The villagers say that the dunes were as big as the hills that lay to east of the land and used to tower like old sentinels protecting the village from the storms that came in from the sea. The road ends with a small parking bay, scattered with motorbikes and cycles belonging to villagers and early morning joggers. The sea is at its finest in the mornings. The air is crisp and salty, and sounds of the waves beat heavy in stark contrast against the stillness of everything on earth. I don't think the ocean or its inhabitants ever sleep. A man like me filled with the aches of the world feels unworthy and small against the tumultuous life of the ocean. I watch each wave weaken and then try to cling to the sand as the moon pulls it back to be part of the next unending cycle. Can waves give up and refuse to be part of this cycle? Or is giving up an option only offered to us humans? A white seagull screeches loudly as it tries to battle the wind. The gull moves easily and with purpose even when the wind is against it. It swoops up and then uses the breeze to glide in a looping circle while looking for prey. I watch it dive down three or four times only to fly back up with its webbed feet dripping water. It screeches angrily one last time before settling down on the shore, hoping for better prospects amongst the shells.

I don't know how long I stood there facing the sea. The returning water pulls away the sand under my feet and I notice that my feet have sunk almost to my calves. I must have been here a while. I look back towards the sun to try and get a bearing of time. It isn’t quite overhead yet, so I take the time to be around 11:00 am or so. There is more activity along the beach now. The fishermen are out on the shore and preparing the nets for the evening’s sail. A few men from the village recognize me and nod their heads. I return the nod, and smile. The dogs are about, chasing each other along the shore. I join in and start chasing a brown-and-white fellow with a scruffy tail. He bounds away as the rest of the pack and I chase him. After a burst of 50 meters or so, he decides it's his turn to chase, so he wheels around and runs towards me. I follow his cue, turn on my heels and run. Running on sand is hard and I collapse in the water, panting and heaving, with the dogs gathered around for my attention.

Gina would have laughed seeing me in the water surrounded by dogs. I didn't know I loved dogs until I met Gina. Until Gina, life and love was complicated, made ponderous by what people expected it to be. I was a young investment banker ready to buy and sell the world, and she was volunteering at the animal shelter. I had to spend time at the shelter as part of the corporate program and that’s where I fell in love with dogs. And with her—Gina with the freckles on her face and the green of the deepest seas in her eyes. We would take the dogs out for long walks and she would tell me stories. Stories about Romeo with the stunted leg who wouldn’t touch his food until all the other dogs had eaten. About Ginger with just one eye who always chased something or the other in her dreams. About Golu, the old Doberman picked up from the streets, who hated baths. About a German girl who loved the Beatles and held a deep sadness within her.

I jump into the sea for the last time to wash away the sand and the melancholy. The old women from the village say there’s nothing that a good bath in the sea can’t cure. We would see them make their way into the water every evening to get the salt and minerals into their bodies. They would give us both toothy grins and ask Gina what fish she had for lunch. Mackerels, she would say, or pomfret, with spices hot as fire inside. And they would chuckle and go back to letting the sea creep into their old bones. Time at the beach always works out an appetite, whether you’re running, swimming or spending your time dancing with a memory that's left in your head.

I walk out and make my way towards a small shack at the side of the road. It is made of thatched coconut palms and bamboo. No sign boards or flickering lights around. This is where the fishermen ate after returning from the sea. Filsu, the lady in the kitchen always has hot rice and fried fish available. Some say she never sleeps, and you can get a meal at Filsu’s at any time of the day or night. A couple of plastic tables are about, and I pull out a chair to face the beach. Lunch is a simple affair. Parboiled rice that I soak in a thick yellow curry cooked with shellfish and coconut, and a slice of kingfish fried with crumbs. I am the only one at the shack so Filsu joins me for lunch. Her feet are bare and a silver ring on her toe shone against the sand. She is slender and tall for a woman from these parts. Her hands are brown and calloused, and you can tell she carries strength in her arms.

‘Good fish today,’ she says. She had a soft voice that rang in the same lilting manner as the other villagers. Fish was a constant subject of discussion in this village. In summer, they spoke about fish from the sea. During the monsoons, they spoke about river fish. The biggest festival was celebrated when the boats went out to sea after the monsoons. I nod. It’s beautiful to see how much their lives are led by nature and the environment. The villagers can tell the tides better than any tide clock. They can spot a rain cloud miles away. They know exactly when the rain brings in the silt from the highlands that draw out the fish near the mouth of the river. In the city, I didn’t even notice the sun rising or setting each day. It’s the small things, Gina would say. Just pay attention to the small things and you will see how remarkable the world is.

Pascoal, as promised, comes to meet me at Filsu’s in the evening. She had long ventured back into the kitchen while I dozed off in the afternoon sun. Pascoal is carrying his fishing rod and three cold beers. Julio is with him carrying prawns for bait, a bottle of water and sandwiches wrapped in old newspaper. I ruffle Julio’s hair and he grins at me. ‘They are already out with their nets,’ Pascoal gestures towards the sea. I can see three figures near the shoreline fiddling with their nets. They’d have cast them when the tide was going out, so it pulls the nets into the sea. We amble towards the shore with the dogs at our heels. They know fishermen signal fresh fish. 

‘I like to cast my first line when the tide starts coming in,’ Julio says, ‘It brings me luck.’ I don't know much about tides and fishing. I just like watching the men go hunting at sea. Pascoal once told me that you get the biggest fish when the tide is coming in, while Francis, who runs the bar at the village square, said that you need to chase the outgoing tide to get the tastiest game. All I know about fishing is that it needs immense patience and a calm heart. We take a spot 20 or 30 metres away from the men with the nets and settle down. Julio sets out cleaning the bait while Pascoal opens the line and ties the weight and the hook. There's a slight breeze about and it swirls around us. The first line is ready and Pascoal's fingers twitch like they always do when he's excited about fishing. He wades knee deep into the water and casts the first line. Immense patience and a calm heart. The fishermen say that if you are nervous the fish can feel your heart thumping through the thin nylon line, and they move away. Julio walks about the shore looking for shells and starfish while I sit on the beach with the wind and my thoughts for company.

I open a beer can and take a sip. It's strange how aware I am of being by myself. Aware of my fingers that feel empty by themselves. Of my shoulder that's lighter on one side without the brown head on it. Isn't it remarkable how your body can get so accustomed to another being that it almost ceases to function without it? I was used to being alone before but never had the inclination to notice and acknowledge it. I didn't really keep friends. There were people I spent time with but none of them opened me up the way Gina did. She got me to look at things, to pay attention to them. I don't believe I was ever selfish or self-absorbed, but other people just did not interest me.

Everything interested Gina. ‘Look at that flower,’ she would cry, ‘look how neatly the petals curl up. Look at that bark of the tree; it has a stain that looks like a moth.’ And she would move in to inspect it closer. ‘That man has light blue eyes,’ she would nudge me, urging me to look at a man in the train. ‘He must be from Afghanistan.’

‘What’s your secret?’ I asked her once, ‘How do I get to see the world like you do?’ She broke into a faint smile and looked at me, unsure for a bit. ‘I constantly need to find things to make and keep me happy.’ At that moment I did not understand her. I didn't ask her what she would do if she couldn't find anything that would make her happy. Now that she’s away, sadness slips up upon me like a thief in a dark alley. It’s as if she introduced me to loneliness and then left me to have conversations with it by myself.

Pascoal comes back to shore with the bait gone. ‘There's a fish in there, and it's at least 5 kilos. I felt it pull hard at the bait.’ And he sets about getting the next line ready. ‘Did I tell you the story about when I took that girl from Hong Kong fishing with me on board while the captain slept?’ I shook my head. I could live here a thousand years and Pascoal would still have a new story about a girl he met. ‘Caught a huge mackerel. He was a good 20 kgs at least, struggled with him for at least half an hour before I pulled him in. That girl couldn't believe that a man could single-handedly pull up a fish that big.’ I opened the second can of beer and passed it to him. ‘I caught two fish that night.’ He winks at me and guffaws loudly, pleased with his story, and adjusts his line. His rough hands are skilled. and he manages to bait the hook while telling me the story. He puts the beer can into his pocket and strides back into the sea.

A thick, black cloud lumbers on the horizon. ‘We're going to have heavy rain,’ Pascoal shouts. ‘Another 45 minutes or so.’ I watch the grey, black cloud collect force. It's breathtaking to watch a storm form over the sea. The cloud will grow bigger and eventually swallow the horizon. Sprinkles of sunlight will glitter on the top of the water before it’s swallowed by the cloud. Sometimes a cloud will break over the sea and you'll see the rain lashing against the water in the distance and know that it will soon come for you. The wind will get harsher and force the sea to do its bidding. The sea then starts frothing like a mad dog, angry at the wind’s aggression. Forces of nature, warring against each other, are a sight to behold.

Like the sky, Gina too had moments when things got dark and cloudy. Her sensitivity meant that despair always hit her first, like a lightning rod. She would get sucked into a dark hole and I would lose her. She would withdraw into herself and stay there for days, not talking to anyone. ‘At that moment I feel there's not a soul in the world that knows me and I'm all by myself,’ she once told me as I sat there doing nothing. What could I do when I lost my source of light? She couldn’t fathom why the world was becoming such a sad place. How can people like her, happy and in love with the world get so lonely, I asked her? ‘Even birds get tired of flying,’ she said, simply.

We often spoke about the place where she always wanted to exist. Strawberry fields. That’s where she always wanted to go. Where nothing was real and there was nothing to get hung up about. I remember listening to the song with her. At 5 am on a winter night in my apartment in Bombay, drinking tea. Winters in that city aren't as cold as one would imagine but its dwellers still celebrate it on occasion with sweaters and blankets. It was unusually cold that night though and it seemed that the cold had frozen the sounds of the city. Those are rare moments when the city's sounds are silenced, and two people can actually have a conversation without the city interrupting. She told me the song was about an orphanage in John Lennon's hometown where he used to play as a kid. She didn’t believe that of course. She believed it was Lennon inviting people to his version of the afterlife because he was lonely in this one. Inviting people to a beautiful place without heartache and emptiness. That's why songs are so precious, she told me, Because anyone can make it their very own.

Pascoal lets out a long yell and Julio comes running towards him. ‘Got him, I got that fellow,’ and he leans back, pulling on his reel. The line is taut, and I can see the muscles on Pascoal's arm tense. At that very moment the storm hits us and suddenly it seems that Pascoal is taking on the sea itself. The waves get bigger and crash hard on the shore. ‘Leave it,’ I shout to Pascoal. ‘Cut the line, it's too dangerous.’ I doubt Pascoal hears me over the rain and the wind. I can see him reeling the line and cutting slack, letting the fish tire itself out. I walk over to Julio and watch Pascoal, who's now almost up to his waist in the water. He slowly starts backing out towards the shore, still reeling and letting go. I pull my jacket over me and hold Julio close, trying to protect him from the rain. Pascoal comes onto the beach and reels the final bit of line in. A huge snapper is at the end of it. Julio rushes to it, grabs it and throws it onto the sand, where it can’t get back to sea. The snapper is still fighting and the water glistens on its body. Pascoal, soaked to the bone, has a wide grin. ‘I knew this fellow would be out today.’ Julio holds down the fish while Pascoal pulls the hook out. ‘Tonight's dinner will be great, you should come back with us,’ he says. I nod and help them get everything today. The rain still stings my face, but my fingers aren't so lonely anymore and the sea smells like the sea again. Today was a good day to be alive. I shall wait for another cloudy day for the heart to die.

Nathaniel grew up in Navelim, Goa, chasing chickens and pigs instead of doing his homework, not knowing that that would give him endless patience, and a love for the wild.

The banner image is by Shikhar Bhatnagar and has been downloaded from unsplash.com