What do you see with the faraway look in your eyes? Is it the
river, flowing indolent, along a coast thick with mangroves, while the sky darkens
with anticipation? Does the bird (a kite? a vulture?) that just took flight
among the prawn farms, lift your spirits? Do you see that this is the place
where hope is born? And then what happens?
Then there are snatches of conversations here about cake and
tea, and laughter tinkling between friends and acquaintances. Two young girls
who are the best of friends, wander about with innocent abandon. “Is that pao”
, one of them asks, watching a buoy float past.
We lounge , and we drink how many glasses of urrak? Who
knows, who even counts on an evening like this. We sing old antakshari staples
while eating fresh cooked Durado and prawns. We arrive on the shore where the
Sal meets the Arabian Sea. We hear whispers of promises between lovers. We feed
the dogs who have assembled out of habit, and we perform Kalari on the shore.
We cut cakes to celebrate the SEQC anniversary, and sing Konkani
cantars. We play dumb charades. How extraordinary our lives seem in this moment.
All is well and we are safe in our familiar picnic rituals; amongst friends and
family we have known for eons. Can it really be only 18 years?
And then, we talk, we listen, we stay silent and we try to
find. While all this is happening, the Sal just is. She is in no hurry. Time
stops in her, while our lives have moved on a tiny bit.
No comments:
Post a Comment