My bony fingers dangled as I pointed at my lazy grandson, who was slouched uncomfortably watching TV. He really must work out. He is fat, and if I were not this vegetable, I would wake him up every day and make him run in the uncertain Ooty weather. But no, I am too old. So old that my voice refuses to translate from my head to my mouth. By the time it reaches my mouth, only air comes out. I blame death, the reaper, the Yemen, an irresponsible fellow with fancy names. I’ll give him one star when he comes to pick me up.

Finally, my bubbly sloth turns his head towards me.

“What do you want?” he asks, this buffalo.

This question triggers a lot of memories and questions. I want him to move so I can see those bloody soap operas. But I also want to go to the beach. The crabs, the penguins, and flamingos flash on the Discovery Channel. I tell him to change to the previous channel. There it is: the white beach, the waves, the surfers. My old 89-year-old heart wants to smell the briny beach. Dammit, regret comes crashing upon me like a road roller. All these years, I never went to the beach. Never left these hills, never been on a fast electric train. The farthest I had gone was to Coimbatore. It was so hot I returned the same day.

I worked all my life in a boring convent school. Montessori, primary, middle school, high school, principal, then retired teacher, hostel warden. Along the way, two children, one boy and one girl, both ungrateful wrecks. They look after me so they are spoken of highly by the neighbors.

The truth is so different. I live here in this dingy home—my daughter is somewhere in California, and I am living in these cold, desolate, dormant Western Ghats. The place is unbearable, so I am told, every April and May. If it is so hot and people come here, perhaps I should go once to the beach before my vision fails or they lay me in a coffin.

My grandson announced to the family that I wanted to go to the beach. They did not like it.

“This is my last wish,” I squinted my eyes to look despondent. “You don’t want to fulfill my last wish? Believe me, I will haunt you all your life.”

My son did not like my existence now, and sure he won’t like my existence in whatever ephemeral form I would haunt him.

“We need to rent a car, and it is expensive,” he complained.

I sipped my sugarless tea. I thought, this house, the land, everything I earned now belongs to you, and still you won’t take me. I thought these things, but he understood. His wife gave a million reasons, but I was stubborn. If I am going to die, I will die on my way to the beach.

Things were set up, arrangements made. An oxygen tank was installed in the car. The driver even said, “You could rent an ambulance. You know… if anything is to happen…”

My family looked at me to see if I was offended. Of course not. That would be a story worth telling. But no, they wouldn’t get an ambulance. We started by evening so I could sleep, and by early morning, we could reach the beach so I could see the sunrise.

When we reached the hairpin bends, my grandson vomited on his mother. (Thank God he did not baptize me with his slimy samosa vomit). We stopped another three times before reaching Mettupalayam. I was the dying woman, and I didn’t have any trouble. But all of them got sick. Then they had tea a gazillion times, not even bothering to ask me.

Listen—if you have old people traveling, ask if they want something. Yes, they won’t be able to eat, but ask, just ask. Manners. What are teachers teaching nowadays? With these thoughts, I slept, and I didn’t know what happened after that. When I opened my eyes, it was morning. We had not reached the beach. I was disappointed. My son was in unusually high spirits.

“Mom, 5 more minutes and we will reach the beach.”

My grandson seemed excited. He did not peer into his Pandora box, so I knew he was excited. Suddenly I felt happy; my family was happy, and finally, I was going to really see the ocean that I had only read about. But I was sweating. Chennai heat is—well, in my last days, I promised not to use expletives.

But there was a calmness when we finally arrived. They struggled to get me out of the car, and then I saw it. Like art in front of me, welcoming my aching soul, this vast grandness, the sheer strength stretched towards the horizon. Fishermen were pushing boats into the water. I sat there in front of this blue sea in awe. I didn’t like the beach… rubbish stretched for miles, rubbish heaped like monuments of hopeless humanity. My grandson ran into the water and in a moment was pushed back by the gentle hands of the waves.

“It is salty,” he stood up, sand sticking to his wet trousers.

Then it was my turn. They held me, and my old feet made a hole in the wet sand. We all waited. The waves came, then retreated; it seemed they were playing with us. We stood in anticipation. Then, like a reluctant lover, the waves touched my old, weary feet. My soul opened to the vastness of the universe. Then I thought about him leaving me with the broken promise.

“We will go to the beach?” He had promised so many times. But he went away not keeping his promise. He stayed only for 5 years with me, then all of a sudden, he left for work and never came back.

My son was hardly 4 and my girl just 6 months old. For years, I waited for this moment. Now I can cross the ocean and be with him. I really wanted a fantastic climax for this visit; I was hoping for a tsunami in the end, but no, it was way worse.

My daughter-in-law lost her golden trinket, so they rummaged the entire beach till afternoon. I knew what a scoundrel the ocean is… it is inviting, it kisses you with the wind, entices with freshness, then swirls around until you get deep enough and lose consciousness.

I woke up in a hospital in my hill station.

It took me several hours to understand what had happened, and this is according to my saint grandson. I suddenly, in an adrenaline rush, ran towards the water and almost drowned.

“Why did you do that, grandma?” he asked.

“I went to search for the trinket…” I struggled to tell him.

He laughed out loud.

“What?” I raised my eyebrows.

“Grandpa cried like a baby when you wouldn’t wake up…”

Then I saw the man, the one I was married to, all grey and old, walk into the room and very much alive.

“Like I promised, I took you to the beach, and you wanted to drown there?” He sat down.

After three weeks, I understood what had happened. I noticed my grandson’s unusual change. He was respectful, studied always, and did not have a phone. Then, by Jove, I finally understood.

The ocean, that scoundrel, had swapped me into a universe where my husband returned early to play with our 6-month-old sweetheart. Now I am sure the other me died by this time, meeting her alternative family.

© Ronald Hadrian 2024.