Perspective The sand here does not have the smooth golden glow of the beaches of my home state of Goa. Here, the sand is coarse, heavy, wet, black and scaly; like a toad’s back. Yet, I love this beach. I am in Nagaon, a small village near Alibag. As I leave the main entrance to the beach behind and start to walk in the opposite direction, the crowd soon thins out. There are no revelers here. No squealing kids, no fat men with hairy stomachs entering the sea, clad in only their underwear. No women in shiny, synthetic salwar kameezes squeezed tightly inside a hybrid cart painted in garish colors drawn by a skinny dispirited horse, no stalls selling cheap hats and cold-drinks, just a vast empty beach and the low, throaty sound of the waves. I walk rapidly, my bare feet making a scrunching sound on the wet, coarse sand. Black sand particles stick to my damp calves and ankles in pretty, abstract patterns like an intricately etched tattoo. The beach is flanked by a thick grove of casuarina trees, standing tall and erect in neat, orderly rows, like an army regiment awaiting marching orders. On the other side, waves lap languidly at the shore, clear as the eyes of an infant woken up after a long afternoon nap. I stare in the distance. The horizon is a lazy dab of green and yellow, a line of gently undulating hills, with little rectangles of red scattered in between, the red-tiled roofs of houses along the hills. It is a serene, almost pastoral scene. As this thought crosses my mind, as if on cue, a herd of goats appears magically from a narrow gap in the casuarina trees, little flecks of black, white and grey jumping one after the other in a neat line. The goats are followed by the goatherd, a tall, lean man with a narrow, gaunt, yet surprisingly gentle face. He looks a little bit like his goats in fact. I point my camera at the goats and keep on clicking. It is a majestic sight, the herd of goats cantering along a deserted beach, perfectly backlit against the sun. I click pictures till the man and his goats become mere moving dots in the distance. I press the preview button on my camera eagerly, convinced that there is a good image in there somewhere. I am disappointed by what I see. The camera has not captured what my eyes have experienced. I feel let down. With a snort of annoyance, I turn the camera off, blindfold it using the lens cover and shove it down in its case. ‘You have a good eye for pictures Shef, but you need to work on the perspective’, I remember the words of a senior photographer friend of mine. I keep walking, annoyed with myself. The beach now curves in an elegant, wide arc. A pair of fishermen - an older man and the other, a mere boy - are attempting to push their canoe into the water. It is hard work. The older man is about 35, bare chested, as dark and solid as his canoe. His hair is rough and liberally sprinkled with grey. Thin trickles of sweat flow down the hollow of his back as he strains to push the boat. His shoulder muscles are taught and glistening with sweat, making them look like well-oiled temple pillars carved in black stone. The boy standing besides him is perhaps 12, as slim and graceful as a minnow. I stop to observe them. The man merely nods at me, a curt acknowledgment of my presence, but the boy grins, showing even, white teeth. I smile at them. The boat is finally in the water, moving gently with the waves. They jump in, each grabbing an oar. The boats starts to move, clumsily at first, but soon getting into a smooth rhythm. The boy waves at me, an insolent smile lighting up his face. I wave back. I stand there, staring as the boat starts to shrink in size, till it becomes a tiny rectangle bobbing up and down in the distance. I turn towards the casuarina grove. There is a big flat rock on the beach that is directly under the casuarinas. I plonk myself down on that rock, my camera bag dangling on one side. There is a shallow pool of lukewarm sea-water at the base of the rock, a memento left behind by last night’s high tide. I dip my feet into the pool and lie down flat on the rock. Sunlight falls on me in dappled waves as my toes sink deeper and deeper in the soft, wet, sand. The beach is empty. I can only see my own trail of footprints and the abstract patterns etched on the sand by tiny scurrying crabs. Pellets of sand litter the beach like confetti after a wedding. A strange drowsiness comes over me. The gentle murmur of the casuarina trees, the sharp, salty tang of the sea breeze, the warm sunlight and the intoxicating bliss of solitude, all go to my head like a couple of rapidly downed margaritas. I close my eyes, feeling slightly delirious. I realize, with blinding clarity, I am just an insignificant dot of color on this vast canvas! Finally, I understand what perspective really is! © Shefali Vaidya
Posted on: Sat, 28 Jun 2014 07:00:00 +0000
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