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Journalism of Courage
While growing up, back in the 1960s I lived by the sea, in what was then Madras (Chennai). Picnics to Elliot’s Beach were a weekend feature. I don’t remember much, except that it appeared that the waves pounding the shores from the Bay of Bengal, were thumping great monsters, which whumped onto the beach, all deep bass and thunder and then roared towards you like an express train. The most memorable occasion was back in 1962 or 63 when a cyclone struck chucking up gleaming treasures from the depths: glistening cowries, multi-colored sea fans, even chunks of coral, a dead hammerhead shark and the exquisite skeleton of a seahorse.
It was in Bombay (Mumbai), however, that we spent the most time at the beach – Marve, not the more popular Juhu. We’d pack the cars up and set off Friday evenings returning post dinner on Sunday. On one extended stay, we even commuted to college (in South Bombay) from the ‘shack’ we stayed at. The beaches extending beyond the INS Hamla naval training station were usually deserted – and different in character – perfect for long walks or picking one’s way over rocky terrain like the long-legged herons did. The monsoons were, of course, the best time (no swimming or getting into the sea) as the tide threw up the purple and inky blue Portuguese man o war and assorted shells. And there were always the sunsets, misty orange and fiery gold: you photographed the gently drowning globe perhaps a million times.
After dusk, at low tide, the beach would lie, vast, gleaming and lacquered as you meandered aimlessly thinking deep thoughts (of how to change the world or inveigle that girl to like you – you were in college after all); the wind buffeting you in the back like a good old friend.
You realised the sheer power of the waves if you got even calf-deep and across the bays there were cross currents and rip tides that had claimed many a swimmer. After a good briny dip – and hose down afterwards, there was fresh prawn curry and beer on hold followed by a long siesta. And then perhaps games of seven tiles on the beach in the evening followed by a trip to nearby Madh island to pick up fresh pomfret for the barbeque dinner afterwards. Yes, you could live here…
Of course, it was sweaty hot in summer, especially when the wind dropped dead and the sea almost sighed to a standstill, shimmering like mercury. Invariably the power would go off, leaving you squelching uncomfortably in your bed and wondering about your sanity.
For the dog it was, of course, heaven. Ears flapping she’d race over the sand, exultant with freedom and in an excess of high spirits, chase rheriwallas on to their carts. You could never let her off like this in the mountains for fear of leopards.
But yes, the mountains were magnificent and grand too, and you could never tire of their changing hues. No sea breeze could quite match the cologne-like freshness in the air. Mountain people would draw up their noses and sneer: the seaside air stank of dead fish, and so did the people, they’d say – a point well taken, especially on still afternoons. By the ocean, the ever-present roar and hiss of the waves would play a background refrain – here there was just the gentle sighing of the breeze through the pines that could coax you to sleep.
Yes, both places could turn ferocious when the weather turned and be equally terrifying: There was danger from deadfall and lightning in the mountains, not to mention landslides that could leave you stranded. The ocean could whisk you away like a cork if it ever caught you – and giant waves could sweep perilously close to your shack, hungry as any shark. You couldn’t dream of cozying up by a roaring fire in your beach shack (though yes, you could have one going on the beach at night) which you would up in the mountains.
More importantly, the mountains offered a plethora of wildlife and birds to look out for, not to mention wildflowers, ferns, mosses and fungi. For a wild-lifer and botanist, perhaps, there was more here, to observe and delight in. Occasionally, however, you did get the feeling of being hemmed in by the mountains – they were always there, surrounding you, seemingly drawing closer as dusk approached. A kind of vast, very beautiful open-air prison… The beach, especially for those living in coastal cities – and anyone debating on whether to live by the seaside — offered a vast panorama of sea and open sky: a relief from the narrow canyoned streets and tower blocks more claustrophobic than the mountains.
So, given a choice, where would I prefer to live? The sheer biodiversity offered by the mountains put them just ahead in the race, I thought. Or so I believed, until I came across Sejal Mehta’s gem of a book, ‘Superpowers on the Shore’ (Penguin) that described the kaleidoscopic and astonishing life forms (and lifestyles) that existed on every shoreline – from property-obsessed hermit crabs and chrysanthemum-like anemones to shape-shifting octopuses (which you could meet even at Juhu beach), all of which had been shamefully ignored because you were stupid enough not to look down. So, now I thought ruefully, the scores were level: Mountains: 1, Seashore: 1.
But there’s a very simple solution to this quandary – if you can manage to pull it off: Spend the winter by the sea and the summer in the mountains.
