SEA SHELLS
Smrithi Rumdali Rai
Smrithi Rumdali Rai
The early morning sun shone stridently on the white sands of the Bay of Bengal. The sea was a brilliant blue. Icy cold waters from the Himalayas rushed laughing and tumbling as the mighty Brahamaputra and the Ganga to join the salty deep towards the North. Rain swollen and pregnant with silt, the Godavari and Cauvery joined the sea in the South. The sea lay calmly in the morning, having spent her fury in the night.
The rivers murmured, sang, roared and whispered stories to the sea. Stories from the various lands they passed through, from the haughty mountains, green hills, deep gorges and fertile plains. The sea was secretive and kept it all in her depths. Perhaps, if one listened closely, you could hear the stories the sea had to tell.
Along her beach the local fisher folk walked every morning, looking for the treasures the sea washed up…… shells.
Shells to make necklaces, bracelets and decorative mirrors that brought in a few extra rupees. They would be up with the sun, combing the white sands, collecting as many shells as they could, before they turned to their daily chores. They sang and whistled and the children screamed in delight whenever they found a particularly interesting shell.
A little away, from the cluster of the fishing huts stood a big house. It wasn’t all that big, but the local fishermen thought it rather big compared to their two roomed huts. A neatly painted board by the gate read: Ananda Coomar, MSc.
Ananda Coomar collected shells too. What he did for a living, the fisher folk did not know. They did not know if he was married or if he had children, but they did know that every morning he rose with the sun and walked along the beach looking for shells.
Unlike the rest however, he picked up only a few. The truth was that Ananda Coomar just collected any shell that looked a little different from the ordinary, according to his fancy. His home was filling up with shells of all kinds - big shells, small shells, spiral shells, cowry shells, top shells and shells of various names, shapes and colours.
Many a dull afternoon had passed by pleasantly with him looking at these shells. He found great joy in picking them up lovingly, holding them, admiring them, discarding some he did not want, and putting the rest back carefully.
Yes indeed, they were Ananda Coomar’s pride and joy. One day, he hoped everyday, one day he would find the Perfect Shell. What would it be like? He did not know but knew he would know it when he found it. Years had passed, he had collected and rejected scores of shells and his collection had grown, but he was still waiting to find his Perfect Shell. He was confident he would find it.
It was a perfectly ordinary morning like all other mornings. Ananda Coomar was on the beach with his ‘shell pole’, as he called the thin metal rod he used to turn over or prod interesting specimens.The sky was a dull red and the clouds seemed sullen. Ananda Coomar was a little impatient today.
What was that by the water’s edge? He hurried forward eagerly and then sighed in impatience as the waves dragged away whatever it had been, and he was left staring at a swirl of salty foam. He turned away, perhaps he should go to the Big Rock…he stopped. He could hear the sea laughing.
He turned and looked all around. Maybe it was the fisher folk. No, it was the sea and it was laughing.
Maybe he was tired, he thought. Maybe he ought to go home and rest a while. He turned and started to walk away. “Ananda Coomar,” the sea spoke softly. Unable to help himself he turned and faced the sea. The breeze ruffled his hair and this time he was sure it was the sea speaking. But it was not a voice from the outside. Rather it was a soft music from within that beat its wings against his face.
“Ah Ananda Coomar, each day I see you here collecting my treasures. Haven’t you had enough?”
Enough! What did the sea mean? There were still so many shells to be collected, so many to be lovingly cleaned and placed alongside the others… And what about the Perfect Shell? It was yet to be found. If not today, maybe tomorrow… After all he had been looking all these years, hadn’t he?
The sea continued, “How many will you take away? Each day I bring out new treasures. Each day brings a rare find. How many will you take?” “How many?” the breeze seemed to echo.
Ananda Coomar stood silently for a very long time… and the sea spoke to his heart. It whispered to him the song of the rivers, the music of the waves. It told him of joy and of sorrow, of life and of death, and he listened. And every once in a while the sea asked, “How many will you take away?”
The sun had moved higher and the little round boats bobbed gently on the surface of the sea. The fishermen were already at work. Ananda Coomar walked quietly along the beach. The sea was silent as if waiting for him to speak.
The sun shone brightly, the white sand glittered, the wavelets gently lapped the shore, and Ananda stopped and stared at the sand. There it lay… the Perfect Shell… soft and pearly with the most beautiful shades of iridescent green and white. Shaped almost like a man’s open palm.
He drew his breath in sharply and stooped to pick it up. The sea murmured softly, “How many will you take away?”
That morning, for the first time in many years, Ananda Coomar came home without a single shell.
The rivers murmured, sang, roared and whispered stories to the sea. Stories from the various lands they passed through, from the haughty mountains, green hills, deep gorges and fertile plains. The sea was secretive and kept it all in her depths. Perhaps, if one listened closely, you could hear the stories the sea had to tell.
Along her beach the local fisher folk walked every morning, looking for the treasures the sea washed up…… shells.
Shells to make necklaces, bracelets and decorative mirrors that brought in a few extra rupees. They would be up with the sun, combing the white sands, collecting as many shells as they could, before they turned to their daily chores. They sang and whistled and the children screamed in delight whenever they found a particularly interesting shell.
A little away, from the cluster of the fishing huts stood a big house. It wasn’t all that big, but the local fishermen thought it rather big compared to their two roomed huts. A neatly painted board by the gate read: Ananda Coomar, MSc.
Ananda Coomar collected shells too. What he did for a living, the fisher folk did not know. They did not know if he was married or if he had children, but they did know that every morning he rose with the sun and walked along the beach looking for shells.
Unlike the rest however, he picked up only a few. The truth was that Ananda Coomar just collected any shell that looked a little different from the ordinary, according to his fancy. His home was filling up with shells of all kinds - big shells, small shells, spiral shells, cowry shells, top shells and shells of various names, shapes and colours.
Many a dull afternoon had passed by pleasantly with him looking at these shells. He found great joy in picking them up lovingly, holding them, admiring them, discarding some he did not want, and putting the rest back carefully.
Yes indeed, they were Ananda Coomar’s pride and joy. One day, he hoped everyday, one day he would find the Perfect Shell. What would it be like? He did not know but knew he would know it when he found it. Years had passed, he had collected and rejected scores of shells and his collection had grown, but he was still waiting to find his Perfect Shell. He was confident he would find it.
It was a perfectly ordinary morning like all other mornings. Ananda Coomar was on the beach with his ‘shell pole’, as he called the thin metal rod he used to turn over or prod interesting specimens.The sky was a dull red and the clouds seemed sullen. Ananda Coomar was a little impatient today.
What was that by the water’s edge? He hurried forward eagerly and then sighed in impatience as the waves dragged away whatever it had been, and he was left staring at a swirl of salty foam. He turned away, perhaps he should go to the Big Rock…he stopped. He could hear the sea laughing.
He turned and looked all around. Maybe it was the fisher folk. No, it was the sea and it was laughing.
Maybe he was tired, he thought. Maybe he ought to go home and rest a while. He turned and started to walk away. “Ananda Coomar,” the sea spoke softly. Unable to help himself he turned and faced the sea. The breeze ruffled his hair and this time he was sure it was the sea speaking. But it was not a voice from the outside. Rather it was a soft music from within that beat its wings against his face.
“Ah Ananda Coomar, each day I see you here collecting my treasures. Haven’t you had enough?”
Enough! What did the sea mean? There were still so many shells to be collected, so many to be lovingly cleaned and placed alongside the others… And what about the Perfect Shell? It was yet to be found. If not today, maybe tomorrow… After all he had been looking all these years, hadn’t he?
The sea continued, “How many will you take away? Each day I bring out new treasures. Each day brings a rare find. How many will you take?” “How many?” the breeze seemed to echo.
Ananda Coomar stood silently for a very long time… and the sea spoke to his heart. It whispered to him the song of the rivers, the music of the waves. It told him of joy and of sorrow, of life and of death, and he listened. And every once in a while the sea asked, “How many will you take away?”
The sun had moved higher and the little round boats bobbed gently on the surface of the sea. The fishermen were already at work. Ananda Coomar walked quietly along the beach. The sea was silent as if waiting for him to speak.
The sun shone brightly, the white sand glittered, the wavelets gently lapped the shore, and Ananda stopped and stared at the sand. There it lay… the Perfect Shell… soft and pearly with the most beautiful shades of iridescent green and white. Shaped almost like a man’s open palm.
He drew his breath in sharply and stooped to pick it up. The sea murmured softly, “How many will you take away?”
That morning, for the first time in many years, Ananda Coomar came home without a single shell.
© 2006
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