Patterns
Interesting, how a mere hundred feet can wash out the sounds of an evening bustle. The noise that the people brought with them as they came out again after the scorching sun got low on the horizon. A mixture of mechanic gurgles of the motorboats that made haste to catch the sunset, the cacophonous calls of the crows as they prepared to rest for the night and the incongruous music of the shacks, all together drowning the sound of the waves. I too had played my part in it. Ten minutes ago when we were leaving the beach. But now that we get to go further inland at the mercy of the high tide flooding the backwaters. We fall silent. The turbulent water that lead our way in from the coast is calming down slowly. The sounds have all but vanished, revealing calls of the birds and insects we were previously oblivious of. The kayak slowly drifts inland, effortlessly gliding on the water that was still now but for us. I feel like an intruder, disturbing the tranquillity of the stream with the wakes of our kayak that manage to travel all the way to the banks on either side, damped only by the intertwined roots of the trees that jut out from below to breathe.
Not knowing how to behave, I respect the silence and let the kayak drift without paddling. Getting closer to the banks, we are stopped by the roots of the trees that now cover the sky for us. The complex fabric of the roots, at times, give in to the indomitable will of the sun that managed to reach the muddy ground. Giving us a glimpse into the lives of the shy creatures that inhabit this place. If you close your eyes, you can hear the movement. Crabs barely visible in the mud, run away to dig and hide in the ground as they hear us approach. Oddly, some squat down and remain motionless. My call for reason was answered instantly by a lightning strike of a crab plover right in front of me. It hopped away nonchalantly in my imagined apathy.
The sharp noise of me instinctively hitting my forearm breaks the silence. And still, the mosquito manages to escape. “Shh”, she says. “I am trying to make a video”. Sitting at the front of the kayak she points her phone to the barren treetops where the eagles are perching. Capturing the moment, and yet meddling with it while doing so. “Anyway, I think we should head back now, it’s going to get dark soon”. I guess we all have to make compromises. “Yeah yeah, you are right”, I sigh, unsatisfied by the limited time the sun had lent us. Paddling away, the strokes that start sporadically get more regular after each and I settle into a rhythm. Getting more comfortable, more confident, getting used to the motion, even though I know that we have to go against the very waves that pushed us in. “Look, even the moon is out!”, she says. Right on our zenith, the moon was there as expected. Pulling the water towards itself in a rhythm established long before humans walked this planet. An unbreakable pattern that allowed for the existence of these creatures we just visited. Every twelve hours the water brings in fresh nutrients for the fish and the crabs. The trees, in their desperation to exist, catch the nutrients with their roots and shoot up to breathe. This abundance brings in the others who are eager to feast on the little ones.
We exit from the narrow passage that connects the backwaters to the sea. My breaths grow heavy fighting against the waves that toss us back. Heaving, we stride straight against them, gliding precariously over one after the other. Eventually, they grow less stubborn and we sigh with relief. Out here in the open sea, we are now alone but for the fishing boats that dot the horizon with their glaring lights. On the other side, the people who were once buzzing on the beach are long gone. The smaller boats are returning from the day at the sea. The motorboats bringing in the freshly married couples from their expensive, exclusive trips to the beaches that were once secluded. The one they arrive at glows now, not from the reflections of the sun or some bioluminescent algae, but from the juxtaposition of individualities imposed by the owners of the shacks and the colourful lights they deemed fit for tonight. I look at them and wonder about the Mangroves, are we really so different?
