Home

Pink lines streak the sky, flirting with the dusk sun as it inches its way down into the horizon, to be swallowed by the glistening turquoise sea once more. The sand is fine and chooses to stick to our wet feet, peeping out from between our toes. A stray polythene bag dances around, a black slipper wades away with the water.
Kites dot the sky. Kites everywhere, flying recklessly, like they don't care.
Children squeal and run around, chasing shiny red rubber balls and vendors with all sorts of knick knacks that make noises, change colours and are a general nuisance, vendors with blue cotton candy and sundal carts. Garlands of green chillies adorn the bajji stalls that are bursting at the seams with the crowd.
Gunshots are heard but nobody panics. It's only the balloon shooting, where silver bullets that are nothing more than toor dal or urad dal (I really couldn't care less) in disguise are shot out into wide open space, but the maximum damage they can do is burst balloons. The tinkle of bells is heard, one can smell roasted corn. And if you cared to spend a few extra seconds straining your nose, you'd actually detect the slightest hint of lemon, so tangy you'd drool.
And then the flower girls, not more than two feet off the ground, run around with baskets of Jasmine, in the secret hope that someone would buy the whole lot and they could run free like the striped kite or the polka dotted one, or any kite for that matter.
A gorgeous chocolate labrador trots down the pavement. Her name is Sheeba and her long brown tail wags with tremendous speed as people coo at her and loudly exclaim that "She is lovely" and must be "High maintenance"
A baby's wail pierces the calm and all eyes fall on the squabbling couple who are frantically searching for diapers or a bottle or something of the shut-the-baby-up sort. An army of children in hues of orange, blue, green and red are led by a plump lady in a green kurta with long black hair, stress written all over her face. The Kwality Walls pushcart is their source of joy.
Guys on flashy bikes with flashy phones and flashy sunglasses at 7 p.m. at night impress anorexic girls who lazily stroll down the promenade. The orange Barista sign glares at the unfortunate lot who cannot afford to pay 50 bucks for a decent pastry like they are the scum of the universe. Fuck you. Boys "drift" in their modified cars with music blaring. Boom, boom, boom it barks as the brakes screech. And the tranquility flies away with the clouds, a thing of dreams.


And amidst all the noise and mess, I sit on the damp mud, pants rolled up to my knees, hair flying, the sand castle I dug the dark earth for is left forgotten. I look around at everything, taking it in slowly. I smile. For this is Besant Nagar.
This is home.