Every time I'm at Bandra or Amarson's park or even Worli or Nariman Point or Juhu, the one thing I know is that there's someone at the other end, listening to my rant, listening to whatever I have to say, whatever I must blurt out, my mistakes, my frustration, my wants, my regrets. the sea makes the right noises: the "hmm"s, the "I know what you mean"s. In rapt attention.
It's the friend I thought I will never have; the unconditional friend; the friend who doesn't feel the need to touch; just the aura is good enough.
The light breeze is not didactic or probing. The sea knows many of my secrets, many of my stories, so it is a sea of stories. And every time its waves ebb, it comes afresh with a clear slate to start listening once more. It doesn't change the topic, it doesn't wipe my tears, it's just there.
The sea is not pretty or tall or hunky. It is mine yet no one's. It will not deny. It has never said no. It will never go away, if anything, It will just keep edging closer. Like the old doctor husband of Fermina Daza in Love in the Time of Cholera.
It is large
It contradicts itself
The sea is me