Last summer my wife and I had gone for a short weekend trip to Pondicherry. We were residing at St. James, a beach resort along the east coast road, close to Auroville. It is a nice place. The elegantly furnished delux rooms provide ample view of the balmy turquoise waters. It has a bar overlooking the sea, a lush well maintained garden and a private beach. If you want to check this out, go here .
It was my first day of vacation. I got up early morning to enjoy the salubrious coastal air and a swim in the sea. After having a fun time frolicking with the waves I was returning to the resort when I sighted a solitary fisherman by his boat. It was those common place wooden hulled boats with planks boarded together. Below him in the sand, he had placed a worn out cloth in which he had laid out some small fish, conch and oyster shells. His quaint rustic charm piqued by interest and I went up to him to strike a conversation. He seemed a bit hesitant at first but when he realized that I could follow his broken Hindi, he was more than happy to engage with me. He explained that his had been a hard life, having to depend on the bounty of the sea for the sustenance of his family. He belonged to a traditional fishing community who lived in hutments, pockets of habitation scattered across the coasts. Some of them lived in roofed boats for extended periods as they went around parts of the ocean were fish were in abundance. Water gypsies I should say. He had lived and grown up near the ocean all his life, but his fascination for the waters never weaned with age. The thrill and adrenaline rushes were incredible each time he embarked on midnight sorties over the stormy waters of the Bay of Bengal. His eyes lit up as he talked about his nocturnal visits to the sea. Two or three able bodied men would haul the boats to the waters around midnight. There were usually four or five boats that would go together in a group, the helmsman of the first boat would be the most experienced of the lot and he would lead the group, charting roads across the waters leading to parts in the ocean where fish was plentiful. When I inquired about the conch and shells which he had laid below, he said they were collected from the ocean beds. These were meant to be sold to the local vendors, particularly the oyster shells brought good money and was very helpful when fish was scarce. The fisherman was interested to know about me as well. Where I had come from and what I did for a living? When I explained him my work, he seemed to understand. He then invited me to come to his boat and share his meal. He unfolded a tattered newspaper which had some fish and rotis. That was all he had for breakfast but he was more than happy to share it with me. Our conversation than veered towards life and other subjects. I had almost spent two hours with him in conversation when I saw my wife in the distance beckoning me over. We smiled and bid goodbye to each other.
Later that evening, I was sitting in the beach enjoying the the sunset by the sea. The western skies were ornated with varied shades of pastel and mellow and the sun was casting its final rays for the day. I was in a state of delicious stupor. I could not fathom if my intoxication was wrought by the earthly spirits I had consumed or the enchanting womb of nature I was surrounded with. As I was looking at the horizon I sighted the silhouette of a solitary fisherman by his boat far in the horizon. I kept my eyes fixed at it as it grew smaller and smaller and finally disappeared into the oblivion. The shimmering expanse of the sea in all its vespertine glory made for for an intoxicating ambience and I allowed my mind to wander. Could this be the same friendly fisherman whom I had met in the morning, casting out his labor of love in the ocean he loved so dearly?
