The Umargam Diaries

The Verandah

It is a bright afternoon. I sit at the verandah, protected from the scorching heat by the shade of the balcony above, and the cool breeze flowing in from the coast. Every now and then, I glance up from my CFA notes and look around lazily. It is impossible to concentrate on something as drab as a textbook when the view is as beautiful as this one.

The coconut trees wave with the breeze not far away. All that stands in between me and that wonderful green canopy is the swimming pool. The water's shade of blue contrasts perfectly with the earthy tone of the tiles around the pool. The tiny ripples created by the breeze continuously deposit small quantities of water at the edges of the pool, which soon evaporate in the summer heat. Every so often, a bird skims the surface, scooping up just enough water in its tiny beak to quench its thirst.

I look to my left. The laborers toil away in this heat. I wonder how they do it. I find myself breaking into a sweat just sitting on my cozy swing, reading notes. There's an old man carrying soil in a large metal bowl. He looks over sixty, and is dressed in nothing but a loincloth and bright blue rubber sandals. Not for a moment does he falter while carrying all that soil, which I imagine must not be a light load. His upper body is naked and gleaming with sweat, rippling with muscles that only hard labor can develop. A girl, no older than eighteen, is waiting for him to bring the bowl full of soil. Once he passes the bowl to her, she carries it the rest of the way to the end of the field. Her facial features and her walk show off an untainted grace, especially when she walks while perfectly balancing the heavy bowl on her head. Every now and then, someone cracks a joke. They all laugh aloud, their toothy grins shining more than the sweat on their brows. They talk in a tribal language that sounds somewhat like Marathi, but one I don't understand a word of nonetheless. Sometimes, they break into a song. One that sounds so sweet and pure, I find myself wanting nothing more than to know what it says.

I am transfixed on watching them go about their routine jobs. Soon, my attention is diverted by the dog stretching lazily next to me. I don't know how he came to call our farm his own, but we just can't seem to get him to leave. I look into his droopy eyes, and he looks back.

I grin, at nothing in particular. Then I take another sip of my Sprite and go back to reading my notes.


The Moon

It's a full moon. I sit at the verandah, absorbing the soft glow that the moon radiates. Its reflection in the still pool makes it seem like there are two of them. A reflection still as a photograph, only moving when the calm surface is disturbed by a bat skimming it to lap up some water. The trees aren't waving about. It is almost as if they are sleeping. It is awkward to see so many stars, most people from a big city aren't used to seeing them at all.

A soothing calm descends over me. I can hear the sounds of a radio playing old Hindi songs. It belongs to the laborers who live on our farm. Their huts are a hundred yards away, but the quiet night allows the songs to pierce the night sky and reach my ears as if they are being played in front of me.

Though there is no breeze, it is unnaturally cool for a summer night. I feel at peace, and wonder whether I am really only sixty miles away from the outskirts of my bustling home town. I know I must get to sleep soon, I have to be up early to study tomorrow. But something about the moon has me hooked, maybe even addicted. I want to continue to just sit there and look at it. Not move an inch.

I finally muster the strength to get on to my feet. Almost as if the night knows I am leaving, it throws a cool breeze my way, weakening my knees. I am held powerless to resist the allure of this beautiful night. I drop back into the swing. I say to the moon, “You win.” It makes me wish I had someone there with me, at that very moment, to share it with.

But for the time being, I am content being moon-struck.


The Beach

It's a perfect evening. Instead of going to the part of the beach I usually visit, I decide to try something new today. I park about a mile before the parking lot, on the side of the secluded coastal road. I climb down the embankment onto a part of the beach that few visit. The sun is a few minutes away from calling it a day, and is celebrating its departure by painting the sky in violent shades of orange and pink.

I take off my slippers and carry them in my hand. The sand is still wet from the waves that have now started to recede. I can feel the sand sinking just a little bit under my weight as I take small lazy steps. The cool sand on my soles, combined with the warm sea water that occasionally laps up my ankles, make for an eclectic experience. It is so hard to let anything worry you when you are enveloped in such beauty.

I always imagined, that if God is indeed with me at all times, I would see His footsteps besides mine on a beach. Simply because it is the purest place for one to walk barefoot. As a kid, I would be disappointed when I'd look back, searching for two sets of footprints. I would only see my own. One day I told myself, that the single set of footprints is actually that of God's own feet. He is actually carrying me on his shoulders. Ever since, I always look back at my footprints and smile at that comforting thought.

I ponder whether the sea has any dangerous creatures inhabiting it. Just then, something brushes against my foot. I squeal like a little girl and run a good twenty feet before I realize that the dangerous creature attacking me is just a harmless piece of seaweed. I pretend to be cool and ignore the kids swimming in the sea who are laughing their little butts off at me.

I can taste the salt in the breeze. The sun is almost gone, and the pink and orange hues have turned purple. Much as I want to continue walking, I turn back. I've walked over a mile down the beach, and my tummy is craving a dabeli (bread stuffed with a spicy paste, a Gujarati specialty). I have been eating them every day, served hot and fresh at the Mewad Special Dabeli-walla's stall. I see a tiny crab scuttle across my path, and hurriedly put my slippers back on. Experiencing nature in its unadulterated form can wait until the crabs are done running around and the killer seaweed has receded back into the depths of the sea. I walk back a little faster, imagining the delicious dabeli. Dayabhai, the stall-owner, sees me coming from a distance and shouts in Gujarati, “Aaje ek ke be?” (One of two today?). I scream back, “Aaje ekaj!” (Just one today!). My dabeli awaits me when I reach the stall. I sit on a plastic chair next to the stall and enjoy every delicious bite.

I pay Dayabhai the princely sum of five rupees, and promise him that I will return the next evening as well. I switch on my iPhone and put on my headphones. As the heavenly lyrics of the song 'Arziyan' from the soundtrack of Delhi-6 fill my thoughts, I walk back to my car. My slippers are back in my hand. The feeling of cool, wet sand on my naked feet is worth the risk of a crab-bite.

If only I could do this every day, for the rest of my life.