542, 541, 540, 539, 538, 537

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It was Diwali. I went to Bombay and life was good. I also made a quick, short trip to HariHareshwar, a quaint, pretty beach town a few hours from Pune. We stayed in a teeny room in a smallish lodge because we hadn't booked earlier.

Here's the highlight.

We went to the beach late at night. No one was there. There was the faint, copper hue from a slim nail of a moon. The sea roared. The sand was rocky. But when my feet squelched in the sand and my hands fiddled with the foam, and the beach lay vast and empty and rocky and solid and was both, music and lyrics, and paean and dirge, a quiet yearning inside of me subsided. In the distance, the mountains smudged into the sky and we could see a trembling continuum between here and there.

We had been painted onto some canvas by a Surrealist painter. We were hung at some gallery that was showcasing the theme, "What nights may be possible."

Diwali- the festival of nights.


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