Mediterranean Blue – Spain

A gleam of golden blue pecked my skin as I pulled the satin curtains of my hotel room at the crack of dawn. I stood motionless for a moment, taking in the flowing elegance as though the entire world was dispersing warmth. The duvet of a lazy morning wrapped itself around me like my grandmother’s hand-embroidered pashmina. I grabbed my travel companion, my binoculars. It was there! The stunning Mediterranean!

The ambient blue thalassa stretched endlessly in front of me like a lovely maiden made by God’s hands. She seemed to be making love with the first ray of the sun. With a fierce glare, the glistening sun emerged from the horizon’s breast and peered over the water. As they displayed their terpsichorean steps, narcissistic amber rays nudged the blue dome above and scattered across the wave filigree like golden confetti baubles. Once a carefree traveller, the sea changed into a seductive maiden, adorned in fuchsia pinks, silvers, and blues, as though they were playing Chinese whisper, a game of whispering that we used to play as kids. How some memories stick with us like a baby clinging to a nursing mother’s breast! I am also a memory cartographer. Since I long for a safe haven, I frequently travel through the emotional terrain of memories. Each wave appeared to be carrying a story that was whispered from the ocean’s depths and passed along the shore. Beside it, the coastline extended its arms like a bosom friend. Engrossed in their covert meeting, they lay together, the shore and the sea. With the gentleness of a lullaby, the waves tucked the sand as they rolled in. Every soft push against the beach felt like the solace of Rumi’s poetry. They appeared to have known one another since the dawn of time.

Under my window, life was already throbbing. Tweens and teens galloped on their skateboards, the sound of their wheels made a symphony that reverberated in the air like the chirping of birds during Godhulibela. Just like the ECG graphs, they were using their wheels to carve zigzag lines through the streets. With their earphones plugged in, possibly connected to another realm but disconnected from their surroundings, cyclists in colourful helmets whooshed past with their faces frozen in icy robotic resolve and their eyes straight. Arms swinging like pendulums and their breath hazing in the cool morning air, joggers relentlessly pounded the pavement. Some of them had their pets with them as they jogged. They all acted with a sense of urgency, as if they were competing with time. To my surprise, though, none of them looked up or around. They had no idea that the stunning blue parasol was performing its miracle up above. They didn’t stop to admire the sun’s doodles on the sea’s surface. They didn’t pause to listen to the wind’s melody or the waves’ strumming. They did not notice the exotic beauty around them because it did not register on their scale of observation.

Further down the beach, I could see children hopping and jumping, wandering like vagabonds, wild and free. A group of them were playing hopscotch drawn in the damp sand, their chalk replaced by colourful pebbles in all shapes I cannot name. The tide seemed to be cocking a snook at them playfully. Every now and then, the waves moved forward, washing away their square houses, as if teasing them intentionally. And yet, the children did not get annoyed, rather they giggled in delight, rushing to remake the square houses again and again. Their thrill was never tormented by being poked, their spirits were never frazzled by repetition. They seemed to be wiser than the adults. They remembered what we often forget – Carpe Diem! Seize the moment! For, every erased hopscotch square could be just a chance to recreate anew. Just then, I caught sight of a little boy of six or seven years, squatting near the rocks, his tiny fingers rummaging through stones like a jeweller hunting for treasures. I noticed, he picked only the green smooth pebbles that resembled emeralds. I could see him hold each one to the light, cleaned them with the edge of his white t-shirt, pocketed them carefully. I thought, he was collecting them for someone special perhaps . Maybe for his dear grandmother, almost visualising her wearing a green necklace created by his own tiny hands, sewn with love and immaculacy. In that moment, the boy’s story felt like the rarest gem I could ever own.

Then my eyes found something that made me feel warm inside. An elderly couple strolling hand in hand along the shore’s curved waistline, possibly in their 80s or 90s. Like verses etched in stone by the tides of past ages, their presence was profound despite their slow footsteps. For the most part, they were silent. I pictured them having a conversation that didn’t require words. All the talking was done by their souls. They frequently stopped to gesture toward a building or a boat in the distance, perhaps reliving old memories. As the man’s arm around her tightened, I saw the woman abruptly lean into his shoulder. He grinned, beaming with the kind of love that must have survived many a tsunamis. It is the kind of love that gleams steadily, like a lantern that is unwavering in the face of wind, rather than the kind that burns brightly and fades. I was moved by something in that scene. I felt an intense, silent joy well up in my eyes instead of pain. It was the kind of beauty that makes you feel small. The kind that awakens you to the pain of transience and the comforting elegance of a moment that transcends time. As though dream and reality were holding hands, I turned to face the ocean once more and watched as it curved away from me and changed into an innominate state. Its form made me think of life itself- mysterious, transient, and both incredibly close and incredibly distant. I pondered why we constantly look forward to the future, constantly looking for the “more,” the “next.” Why do we ignore the allure of the journey and hurry to our destinations? Why do we drown out the sweet melody of the present by filling our ears with noise?

The cyclists pedalled on. The joggers passed, eyes ahead, never once glancing at the sea shining beside them like a galaxy of stars. The skaters laughed, but their gaze was downward, focused on the pavement. They were there, yet they weren’t present. And in that, there was a quiet irony. Meanwhile, the children laughed as the tide erased their squares again. The boy gathered stones to mark again, finding joy in the Sisyphean task. The old couple lived each step like a stanza in a poem.

And as I stood behind the glass, shielded from potential espials by my own private seclusion, I sensed a change within myself. Some kind of awakening. Like mantras, the waves, sun, and wind all whispered wisdom into my ears. “Slow down,” it said. Look up. Be present. The world is spinning fast. However, exotic mornings like this one, which are similar to Egyptian faience, beg for silence. For a moment. For respect. And I offered mine as a passing guest in this realm of ethereal bliss.

My throat felt bloated with too many stifled syllables. I finished my cappuccino and put on my flip-flops, wanting desperately to pat the psithurism of the moment on my skin and dip my toes into the blue of the sea as the Gaana App played –

“Aanewala Pal Jaanewala Hai 

Ho Sake To Iss Mein Zindagi Bitaado

Pal Jo Yeh Jaanewala hai“. (Gulzar)

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