Nurungukal....contd....

      I had visited Madras harbour once or twice. Even had a chance to get into a cargo ship.It was a nice experience. We were showered with hospitality. Even offered hot drinks which we politely refused as we were on duty. The ambiance inside the ship was that of a star hotel. The food was excellent and a few dishes were new to our taste. It was only a courtesy visit. As we were about to leave the harbour, somebody showed me the damage inflicted by Emdon, the most dreaded and elusive submarine of the German navy during second world war. I doubt the German’s target would have been Sigapore and their deep intrusion into Bay of Bengal to hit Madras Harbour was a mistake. I tried to unwind some the scenes from war time movies, which was once my craze. Another elusive fighter was Rommel the desert rat.

          My friend Rajappan who was an upcoming painting contractor and me used to enjoy an evening on all most all Sundays on the silky sands of Marina. In Oxford dictionary the word Marina meant a harbour for yachts. Perhaps many years ago the beach would have been a  favourite port in the maritime map of the  traders from other continents. But for Italians the word meant beautiful. I leaned this when I met an Italian girl very recently in Wayanad. Her name was Marina. The roar emanating from the fathoms of the bay and the tranquil carpet of smooth crystalline sand spread delicately as if to induce a mermaid to the shore always made ripples in me. Rows and rows of kattumaram waiting for their next fishing spree lay motionless like an school of sea lions migrated from Pacific ocean. I used to wonder about the safety of the fisher men who embark upon their dangerous journey far in to the sea to make a living, on a few logs bound together while we derive a pleasure in bargaining with a fisher women to reduce the price unaware of the dangerous task behind the catch.

               A slow walk in the water when the water slide back into the sea can tickle your bare feet by the receding sand particles, while healing the bruises. The lengthening shadows reaching into the sea as the sun descends in your back, weaving  patterns on the sand gave a signal to leave. But to us it was the time to grab a cone of chundel  from the old woman and say ‘till we meet again’...........contd.....