A seaport has always been the grandest of gateway to literature. I have read over a hundred stories from ports all over the world. Symbolising life's struggle; of pain, suffering, hope and joy.
I do live in the city with a seaport, and by the beach. The city, though, rarely wakes up to the charm of the beach or the grandeur of the port. Sadly, there are not that many writers. Those inspired by the sea, port, and the beach must be very few. May be, these writers are littered along the northern shore of the city, lying undisovered.
Somehow, the port has failed to fill the veins of the writing class. There's not much of writing on the working class also. Or are they not part of the mainstream literature? Sadly, a city of rich culture (call it coffee, carnatic, bharatanatyam) has far less to boast in terms of literature. May be, all the writers missed the port, and thereby the city's soul.
I have been dwelling here for a decade but there is only one place where the view of the sea port strikes you in face. As you drive from the northern parts of the city to the collectorate, there is a bridge (under which they used to sell heroin). On top of the bridge, the port's view is dramatic. Sturdy, energetic and vivacious.
I too have missed the port. At least, I'm happy to drive along the beach on weekdays watching the sea in its myriad hues. Emerald diamond, brilliant black, whale blue, shark grey, bluish green, bleached blue, and at times pale brown. Somedays, the sea waves to you and the beach beckons.
After the torrential winter rains for five days, the city's skyscape, for once was deep blue, with spongy clouds suspended between the horizon and the lazy sun of a late afternoon. My feet followed the soul to the shore.
The sea was draped in a deep black spread. The ships were anchored miles away shone in splending lighting. Very rarely, the ship's contours are visible from the beach. I had to be content with the camera in my mobile. As I took a picture of the distant port, this crow flew into the frame, and lent it the poise. The dyeing waves though were touching my feet, murumuring the mysteries of the bay.
The beach has a hundred stories to say, the port a thousand, and the sea a million.The fisher folk, the guardians of the sea, know it better. Catamarans cruise through the bay. On the coast, the crows fly around. As they land, the crows freeze in flight. Time stands still.
Fly. If not afar, at least, to the beauty of beach.