It was time, that usual hour, when the old lady walked from her house to the beach at her backyard. She could hear the waves at high tide, roaring aloud, washing on the rocks by the shore. She had her favored spot. It was where she had always sat with Gopala, her husband of many years, now journeyed ahead, these past ten years and more. They had made it a routine of their own, "their private lives", he had termed it.
That was him. Always. He needed to define their moments in life with perfect terms and name-calling. "Saroja", he had said, "this is where we wait for the sea to take strength from any tempest tomorrow and to rush in past us and to enter our house and to take it over. This will be our tempest rock where we will go with the return tide to wherever the sea takes us in its flow."
She had smiled. And when she was widowed, she waited for the evening to walk out and to be able to sit here, faithfully, waiting for the sea to rush past the beach and to enter her house. The high tide had never done so and it had always lapped at the lower rocks. It would throw up the spray and return. The spray would be like a giant curtain of water and she always thought that she could see herself, sitting out here, at the tempest rock. A minute later, the tide would be back, crashing onto the rocks, stubborn, strong, determined to return, and steady as ever.
She continued to sit at the tempest rock, every evening, watching the sea and the tide rushing in, looking at the twilight turning to dusk and waiting for the night to take over. The moon was her message to herself. To return to the house.
Her bed was by the window that looked out to the sea and she sat there, propped by her pillows, determined to stay awake for she had no need to wake up early or go anywhere. It was not so difficult now, after all these years. This was her life. And this was her awake hours, happy, waiting and watching. The roar of the waves could be heard at her bedroom and the sound was her companion. It never failed her. The sea was always out there, whenever she looked out.
She would sit up and watch the moon shimmer over the sea and the tide would bring the moonlight to crash over the waves and the spray of the sea would only be interrupted by the silhouette of Gopala, her husband, sitting over there, alone, by the tempest rock.
Bharat Bhushan 18 June 2022
From the series - the very very short stories - the old lady and the sea - a new approach to visit the memories of yesterday
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