I have consciously chosen this secluded beach at Betalbatim to be alone, all all, alone. Solitude these days is good company. COVID is in the air. Fear is in the air. Everywhere. You are no longer known, by the company you keep. Rather, you are kept safe, by the company you keep away from. The world has changed so much these last few months.
The fishermen are done, with their fishing. The season is over. Nets are tucked in. And will lie dry, till mid-August. There is a sense of vast space. A sense of peace and serenity prevails. The type I have rarely experienced, in recent times. The sand dunes have bloomed into a vast bouquet of pink flowers, courtesy the goat’s feet creeper. The heat and humidity is the only trespasser, on to this tranquil scene. As I savour the beauty, nature seems to be having a different plan. A quick change in weather, looks imminent.
And soon, clouds twirl, thunder roars. Wind rushes, lightening flashes. Rain pours. Cool and refreshing. The first pre-monsoon showers of another monsoon season. The Arabian Sea seethes in anger. Waves crash, on to the shore. Thunder struggles, to be heard. Driven by ferocious winds, clouds wrinkle and swirl. The threatening sky above competes with the raging sea below. Nothing could be so frightening. And so beautiful. The winds savage, the coconut trees. I watch, from the shelter of the fisherman’s hut. But neither rain nor wind, affects the flimsy looking thatch. It stands firm against the raging elements. Because it is low roofed, open at both ends, allowing the wind to pass through, unhindered.
The showers resume next day, same time late afternoon. And with the same accompaniments. The rains hit the tiled roof making terrific noise. The sun concealed by the clouds makes a valiant effort to peep in. A pleasant breeze continues to blow.
As the rains continue, my mind goes back to the pre-monsoon showers of my teenage years and the lives we led. And I particularly remember Albano, the toddy tapper. A wonderful guy, he was.
Finish dinner by seven thirty. It is his dictat. As I and my brother gulp down dinner Albano with two or three other neighbours have arrived, holding rudimentary torches, made of dried coconut leaves and carrying gunny bags. He is an amiable man, well loved by the villagers. He is the expert, for our night out.
There has been the right amount of rain, he believes as we trudge along. The fields are murky, with little pools of water. The nights hitherto silent, have gained a life of their own. The shrill buzzing call of the cicadas is drowned by the croaking frogs. The creatures which have slumbered underground since the end of the previous monsoon, are responding to the first rain. They have clawed their way out, through the rain softened soil. And are merrily looking for partners. Man and frog have waited, for this moment. Both are out, for the night. For different purposes, though. The frogs to mate, the men for the meat.
I just cannot believe, that there could be so many frogs. The yellow creatures are everywhere, almost waiting to be scooped up. But wait a minute, it is not so easy. They are easy to catch, but difficult to hold. Their bodies are slimy and slithery. More get away from the grasp, than get into the bags. Nonetheless, our bags are full in short time, due to abundance of the amphibians.
It is now, that the expertise of Albano, comes into action. The rains also bring the field crabs out. Experience and expertise is needed. And Albano has both. The crabs have claws, that can snap an unwary finger into two. They have to be approached, from the rear because their claws cannot turn three hundred and sixty degrees. But their eyes, can. The moment a crab sees a movement with it roving eyes, it decamps down its burrow. And not come out, until the threat has moved away. So stealth and precision is the need. Albano soon justifies, his well earned reputation. While most other friends have seen fruitless attempts, with the crabs disappearing down their holes. One or two, even get clawed. Albano shows his proficiency, at the grab a crab process. Not one escapes, his claws. We spend three hours and return, with two sacks full of frogs and a sack full of crabs. For me, the experience is more exhilarating than the catch. Actually, I cannot bring myself to eat a frog.
That was decades ago. Albano has since died. It was the time, when Louis Amstrong sang;
I see trees of green, red roses too
I see them blue before me and you
And I think to myself
What a wonderful world
I see skies of blue and clouds of white
The bright blessed day, the dark sacred night
And I think to myself
What a wonderful world
The colors of the rainbow so pretty in the sky
Or also on the faces of people going by
I see friends shaking hands, saying “How do you do?”
They’re really saying, I love you………….
No more can we enjoy, the simple handshake. Now, if you shake hands it means, you may wish the other person to fall sick or be dead. It means, you do not love him at all! What a change in the implications of a handshake, from the era of Jazz to the era of Rap. From Louis Amstrong to Kania West.
Nature seems to be taking vengeance for all the destruction humankind has wrought, upon it, over the last half century. Never before, has there been a pandemic so widespread, with so many deaths. All over the world. Never before have all churches, mosques, temples, pagodas, been closed, for so long, at one time. All over the world. Nothing works. Not supplications. Not prayers. Not bhajans. All over the world. Even God says “keep away from me”. Such is the state of affairs. All over the world. Will we ever learn? Will we ever be able to again honestly sing, “What a Wonderful World”?
(Radharao F. Gracias is a senior Trial Court Advocate, a former Independent MLA, a political activist)
