A Tale of Two Beaches

Last year I had written an article for a prestigious publication called 'Indo-Oman' for their annual issue which is published every November during the National Day here in Oman. Its about a place near Muscat which bears the same name as my hometown in Goa.

In Indo-Oman, we read about Heads of States and big businesses. But what about the common man’s views? Here is a common man’s uncommon journey down memory lane…

A TALE OF TWO BEACHES

I was driving on the Sidab road in Muscat on a Friday morning looking for the familiar sign I had seen so many times. I finally reached it at the turning that said “

Haramel Road

”. I had been wanting to go on this road for a long time and finally had taken time out just for visiting this place called “Haramel”.

 

A view of the Haramel beach off Sidab, Muscat

Wondering what’s the big deal about wanting to visit this place? The reason was purely personal. I come from a village in Goa in India. Goa is famous for its beaches and attracts large number of tourists. My village has one of the best beaches in Goa with the added attraction that it is relatively unspoilt. This village of mine is also called – Harmal ! (Tourists would be more familiar with its anglicised name – Arambol). Imagine my surprise then, when I saw a sign of the same name in Muscat!

I have since found out (through a project I was associated with in that area) that there is one more village / area called Haramal in the south of Oman. I also found that ‘Haramal’ in Arabic means a small tree or a shrub, typically desert shrubs. Although, apart from rhyming with my first name, Harmal in my native language doesn’t have much meaning.

  

Goats seeking shelter from the sun, Haramel Muscat



Thinking these thoughts, I drove down the winding road to Haramel. It turned out, as I had expected, to be a small fishing community. Some anglers were taking their boats to the sea, already late as the sun had started to show its strength. A sleepy little hamlet (but then everything looks sleepy on a Friday morning), isolated from the main city by couple of hills.

 

Harmal beach, Goa



 

 I went up to the beach. The shore, the boats, the men struggling with the ocean’s might, the whole scene looked very familiar. And in my mind’s eye I could see a similar scene unfolding. Early mornings on the shore, there is always a purity in the early morning atmosphere…the soft drone of the ocean …a tentative seagull making a quick landing on the water …the music of the waves suddenly broken by the boats coming back with their catch…the fresh fish lying on the shore ...shining in the morning sun like flashes of silver …men with wiry muscles and concave stomachs trying to eke out a living …

Standing on a jagged mound jutting into the sea, there it struck me. The fish and the men both are same on either side. It is just a little expanse of seawater separating them.   These are not foreign lands. This is just the opposite bank. And on both sides of the sea I have a Harmal. Now that’s a comforting thought!

                                                            

माझी आई (My Mom)

My mom's death anniversary as per the Hindu calendar is on 2^nd April this year. Just a few weeks ago, I wrote the following piece, little before 16^th March, her anniversary by the Gregorian calendar. Thought I would share this :  


 

"I woke up sobbing. I had not known when I dozed off but in my dream I was in a foetal position and yearning to get somewhere or something, like a devotee seeking his God, like a baby seeking his mother....that’s it! I was indeed seeking my mother’s lap and sobbing as I wanted to be comforted.

It was a bit odd that I should dream of her all of a sudden. Not because I don’t think of her, she is always in my thoughts and heart.  But because I pride myself on being economical in the emotional department, or atleast I pretend to be. It’s been many years since I lost my mother to cancer. In about 2 weeks from now, it would be 20 years since she left ... was that why I dreamt of her? ..would be typical of her to remind me ...

I suddenly realise that all this time I was thinking, the tears had not stopped. I must check where the wife and son are. Grown-up men are not supposed to cry, although things are changing. You can see people of all ages crying on primetime TV, carefully wiping the corners of their eyes, so that the make-up is not ruined. Public display of emotion is encouraged nowadays. But a 43 year old crying in private? Husbands are supposed to be protective, not shedding tears. Dads shouldn’t sob....but what of the child in his mother’s lap? He has every right to cry. Even if he is a 43 year old child.

I don’t intend to write a big article or eulogise my mother here. A lot has already been written about mothers as a universal symbol of love, sacrifice etc, and by better men and writers than me. But I do feel that our relation which had matured into a friendship and a deep understanding of each other was unnecessarily cut short.  I know she would have preferred my staying in India, with her, after I graduated. She had just undergone all the operations and therapies to get rid of the cancer. But she knew of the efforts I had taken appearing for all the tests and my dreams of studying in US. I still remember my joy on seeing my GRE grades. My mom was with me and as I opened the envelope and looked at the marks, I did a full cartwheel on my parents’ bed. It’s been one of the few spontaneous displays of emotion from me. I am very sure that that was the moment when she swept her needs aside and made sure that I pursue my dreams. Although nobody knew the end would be so fast.

I remember when I was small; my mom would sometimes resort to silence as a punishment when all other forms failed. She would simply go about her activities fully ignoring me, my apologies and my pleas. And somehow I could never bear that. Even 5 minutes of her silence would make me do whatever she wanted me to. And to think I have endured 20 years of her silence ! maybe because I know she is not doing it to punish me, but nevertheless it is a punishment all right.

My dream has created a feeling of restlessness and elusiveness. Like when you try to grasp something in your hands and suddenly realise that it is has slipped through your fingers. I was searching for my mother. How I wish that when I am physically and mentally exhausted, I could curl up beside my mother with my head cradled on her lap, feeling her hands brushing against my face and hair....... I would gladly trade my seat in heaven for it."

Always remember –

There is no velvet so soft as a mother's lap
no rose as lovely as her smile, no path so flowery as that
imprinted with her footsteps.

well, these three lines are not mine, but by  Archibald Thompson