Endless allure of the sea :

Tantalizing tranquility

Aditha DISSANAYAKE

The first thing I see when I open the door of the hotel room is the crab’s claw lying on the floor of the balcony. Is that a good omen? What kind of a future does a crab’s claw portend? Does the claw have the same kind of power found in the monkey’s paw in W.W Jacob’s horror story?

I have no time to decide. A sudden gust of wind through the open doors of the balcony pries open the wardrobe doors, ruffles the sheets on the bed, makes the hotel stationery summersault over the railings of the balcony and land gracefully on the lawn, three stories below.

The sea like a ballet dancer dressed in glittering silver beckons in the distance. The beach is like an enormous bowl filled with brown sugar. My roommates and I forget the irritating inadequacies of our bedroom, leaking taps, the smell of clogged drains, an air conditioner trying to out roar the sound of the waves, as we tumble down the seemingly never ending staircase to the ground floor, impatient to become a part of the beautiful scene before us.

Trincomalee on a Monday morning is lonesome if you are searching for the usual attractions of the popular beach resorts. No vendors selling multi coloured sleeveless jackets and silk sarongs, no appetizing aromas of french fries, fried rice or roasted cashew nuts. Finding the water several degrees too cold for a dip, I wade through the soft sand towards a dozen fishermen pulling a fishing net out of the deep sea.

My first attempt at making conversation with a silver haired veteran of the sea, fails. “How long will it take?” I ask him. When he refuses to lift his eyes from the rope in his hands I repeat the question. When he still remains silent , grave doubts begin to assail me. Is it taboo to talk to strangers when you are pulling a net out of the sea? Would it bring bad luck if you voice out loud the time it would take to pull the net home?

I step back, thinking again of the crab’s claw. The day seemed to be filled with omens and mysterious taboos. “Useless talking to him, Muttu is hard of hearing” says an old man standing near a blue coloured, old fashined boat – the kind in which Upali Ginivalle sails as a stowaway, in “Madol Duwa”. “It will take another fifteen minutes to drag the net to the shore” Kandasamy tells me.

He could have been a kinsman of Hemingway’s old man. Or more likely, in the glint in his eyes and the smile on his face I sense the kind of contentment known to the fisherman who was asked by a rich man not to lounge around but work harder, make more money, and get rich so that he would have enough time to relax. I know if the same suggestion was made to Kandasamy he would say the same thing the fisherman in the parable says “Isn’t that what I am doing right now?”

“My seafaring days are over” says Kandasamy. “I am too old to go out to sea.” At sixty nine he is happy to walk to the beach every morning to watch the boats come ashore, and to chat with the younger fishermen. The father of four children, he says his eldest son who is living in Canada sends him a monthly allowance which is “quite enough”. The other three are daughters married to fishermen. “My wife Indira Devi and I live in our old house by the sea. We don’t want to move in with our daughters. Life is better this way.”

The net is finally dragged ashore. Everyone shakes their heads in dismay. They will have to cast the net again says Buhari the spokesman for the fishermen. He then picks up several struggling, heaving puffer fish and throws them back into the sea.“If the fish are not the type that can be eaten we always throw them back to the sea. We give them back their lives” explains Buhari in a voice filled with compassion.

A lady, unmistakably from Russia, walks past me. She is in deep conversation with a local lady dressed in a zalwar.”Where is your husband?” asks the lady in the zalwar in a loud voice as if the language barrier could be broken if she raised the decibels of her voice several pitches higher. “Gusban?” repeats the Russian lady. Her companion resorts to sign language. She makes a ring with the finger of her right hand and pretends to slip it into the ring finger of her left hand. “Ah” laughs her companion. “Work” she says pointing her finger vaguely towards the horizon. “Russia”. Then she points at herself. “Anna. Vacation”. Then they move out of earshot.

Finally I find myself alone, with only the sky above me and the sea before me. I listen to the monologue of the waves. They too seem to have a story to tell me – a story about the lands they have seen, the storms they have braced.

“Morten!” my solitude is short lived. A chubby golden haired boy runs into the waves, squealing happily. His mother runs behind him muttering a string of admonishes in a language I have never heard before. When the little boy consents to play at the edge of the waves she turns her head to smile with me. Then comes the inevitable question: Am I from India? Though there have been times when I have said yes, today I decide to put things right by giving my genealogy to the lady who says she is from Denmark. When she hears my explanation she claps her hands in delight as if she had come across a rare seashell on the beach.

“You are the right person then, to tell us where we can go after we leave Trincomalee. We have seen all the historical sights and Morten here is not interested in temple paintings or stone inscriptions. He is only three years old and likes the beach.” I suggest they try the Southern Coast. Unawatuna, Hikkaduwa, Beruwala. “The beaches there are just as nice as the ones here”, I tell her. She grabs Morten from the water and goes in search of her husband muttering the string of names out loud. “I hope I remember these places by the time I find Jensen” she grins.

I turn once more to the story the waves have been telling me. The wind blows towards me lifting my spirits to the top of the world. I seem to hear Bob Dylan singing “the answer my friend is blowin’ in the wind” above the roar of the waves.

When I return to our room I realize the crab’s claw is still there, now covered in red ants. Instead of picking it up and throwing it into the dustbin I let it be. The crab’s claw might be a talisman. Without it the sky might turn cloudy, the waves lose their temper, the sun disappear.

Anything is possible on the tantalizing golden beaches of Trincomalee.