The Silent Sea

  -- By Arulnambi K.

She lived in Chennai for most of her life - Chennai, that maddening but lovable city of millions, sitting on the coast, with the long Marina Beach bordering the sea. She worked, she traveled by bus, by auto rickshaw, by foot. She loved: her family, her job (most days), her children - most of all. She made friends. The sea sat silent, bearing witness to her life in that city.

She loved the sea. She liked to watch its waves. Beach visits were amongst her most favorite things to do. She went with her family, with her friends. She was no swimmer, and feared the water. But the vast sea and its waves were comforting, and she loved to watch - from a distance. Rarely, she would let the sea lap at her feet. The silent sea then saw her, up close.
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As her children grew up, and her professional career as a teacher and academician matured, she embarked on pursuing her doctorate. She chose a subject that was anchored in her specialty, zoology, but combined  aspects of psychology, her husband's field and passion. Her field work involved trips to the beach to collect samples and to interview visitors and sightseers. The sea bore witness to it all, ever so silent.

In 1992, she lost her mother, her beacon of love. After many years of balancing her family and her work with the pursuit of her doctorate, that year - 1992, in the aftermath of her loss and grief, she dug into her research with renewed energy. She completed her thesis and submitted it before the end of that year. She dedicated it to her mother. The sea watched silently, and perhaps a bit proudly.
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Later in life, whenever her grandson Adhiban visited, a trip to the beach was compulsory as he loved the beach and the sea too. She delighted in his delight. The silent sea watched them both.​
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Later, disease became an all-encompassing concern in her life. By 2014, pain was a near-constant companion. That summer, she accompanied Adhiban once more to the beach. But she could not cross the sands to the sea and its waves. She was too weak. She waited afar while the rest of us walked to the water. The sea sat mutely, wondering. 

On February 9, 2015, she departed this world. Later that month, some of her ashes were scattered over the holy Ganga by her husband's IAAP friends in Varanasi. She had always wanted to visit Kasi. Her husband was fulfilling her wishes, in a way.
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A few of us took the rest of her ashes to her beach and her sea, which had remained witness to her life and times. As I scattered her ashes into that sea, it finally seemed to break its silence. The waves roared, threatening to suck me in as well. That day, it seemed to me, the sea cried in lament for her. As we continue to mourn her, five years later, that lament still echoes in my mind, now and forever.
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