The Arabian Sea outside the window, 6 pm

{The Arabian sea outside my window, 5.30-6 PM, Sunday, Mumbai}

The sea which stretches before me changes its colours, silently, from an almost discernible pale blue to a refreshing pastel blue to a robust bluish green to dull grey in dense shades. Its pleasant smiles, its calmness, its restlessness, its agitation, its gentleness, its delightful dialogues, its playfulness, its joyful exuberance, if you observe closely, each mood comes in various shades. You have to come out of the confines of your room to brace the salty smell of sea breeze, and sit by the sea and lose self to the rolling waves of water that rush across the sea. The sun’s warm rays  and the kiss of a gentle sea breeze takes you far away from the world that you live in– a world full of many events that you had participated in, but were left idle or untouched for some time. I feel, that’s what many others do sitting on the parapet overlooking the sea, slipping gradually into their private worlds, mingled thoughts and unrecorded observations…

I, certainly, have no strength to capture the sea’s moods and its ever-changing demeanor. I am incapable of presenting to the world, my view of the sea, what happens to me as a human when I stand in front of this overwhelming stretch of the watery world of blues and greens. Each time, I leave a piece of conversation with the sea, I may wait for it to respond to me, linger for a while or leave the piece there at its feet for it to read or go through it when the sea finds some time for me. But every time, interestingly, I feel so light-hearted when I am walking back to my room. I am sure, most of you would have read a few works of Iris Murdoch, a well known Existential Philosopher, especially, The Sea, The Sea (1978), The Sea, The Sea (Penguin Twentieth-Century Classics)perhaps Murdoch’s finest achievement, which is a tremendously powerful and moving work about the pathologically self-absorbed Charles Arrowby, who, after a career as one of England’s leading playwrights and directors, retires to a cottage by the sea only to find the sharpnel of his entire existence returning to wound him anew.

She writes….”the sea glows rather than sparkles in the bland May sunshine. With the tide turning, it leans quietly against the land, almost unflecked by ripples or by foam. Near to the horizon, it is a luxurious purple, spotted with regular lines of emerald green. At the horizon it is indigo. Near to the shore, where my view is framed by rising heaps of humpy yellow rock, there is a band of lighter green, icy and pure, less radiant, opaque however not transparent. We are in the north, and the bright sunshine cannot penetrate the sea. Where the gentle water taps the rocks there is still a surface skin of colour. The cloudless sky is very pale at the indigo horizon which it lightly pencils in with silver. Its blue gains towards the zenith and vibrates there. But the sky looks cold, even the sun looks cold….'”   

Intelligent and Sensitive, Is not her expression? each moment with the sea is spectacular and vibrant, but sadly, the human expression runs short of doing it full justice in required a level of intensity. The words alone may not be able to fulfill the role, I think, certain load of emotions to be brought in so that the world of imagination gathers enough substance to express what we felt then with the sea, why did not we feel like revealing certain unpleasant developments to it, or to express the complete awe. The Sea shimmers in the evening sun, which drenches everything around, through its final glance for the day – the trees, the leaves and blossoms, the buildings, the crowds, the cars, the dogs, the light shadows creeping across etc etc. , before the young night takes over ….

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