Chapter 17: Megha

# Chapter 17: Megha

## The Ocean

The Konkan Kanya Express entered the first tunnel at 4:17 PM on November 9, and the tunnel swallowed the light, and the light was replaced by the darkness, and the darkness lasted seven seconds, and then the tunnel ended, and the light returned, and the light was different.

The light was different because the landscape was different. The landscape had changed while the tunnel consumed those seven seconds — had changed from the Deccan Plateau's dry browns and yellows to the Konkan coast's greens and blues, the change — the Western Ghats' trick: the Ghats divided the country the way a curtain divided a stage, the Deccan, which was the backstage and the Konkan: the performance, the performance, the palm trees and the red laterite and the paddy fields and the rivers that the Konkan Railway crossed on bridges that swayed slightly, bridge's conversation with the wind — the swaying, the wind — the Arabian Sea's breath, the breath arriving from the west, from the water, from the thing that Santosh had never seen.

Santosh was sitting by the window. Megha had arranged this, had arranged for Santosh to have the window seat on the left side of the train, the left side (side from which the A)rabian Sea would first appear, the appearing that was somewhere between Ratnagiri and Kankavli, somewhere in the stretch where the Konkan Railway ran close enough to the coast that the sea was visible between the palm trees and the hillocks.

She had not told Santosh. She had not told anyone except Keshav — Keshav who was sitting three rows behind with the Canon in his lap, the Canon's battery at 87%, the 87% being approximately thirty-nine minutes of footage, the thirty-nine minutes being enough for the moment, the moment, which was thing that the entire trip existed for: Santosh seeing the ocean.

Harsh sat next to Megha. He sat in the aisle seat, the aisle, his concession, the concession of a man who wanted the window but who understood that the window belonged to Megha on this side because Megha needed to watch Santosh watching the window on the other side, documentary's requirement: the watching, the requirement —: the filmmaker must see the subject see the thing.

Pushpa sat next to Santosh. Rinku sat across from them. Guddu and Sonali were in the berth above, Guddu sleeping (the nineteen-year-old's ability to sleep on trains being the generation's gift, the gift of growing up with screens that trained the brain to shut down anywhere) and Sonali listening to music through her earphones (the earphones — the constant, the constant that Megha had begun to accept the way she accepted the camera. As a tool, as an extension of the person, as the thing that the sixteen-year-old needed to process the world).

The tunnels increased. The Konkan Railway's tunnels: ninety-two tunnels between Mumbai and Goa, the ninety-two, engineering marvel that had taken seven years to build (1990-1997), the building, blasting through theWestern Ghats' basalt, the basalt, which was the hardest rock in India, the hardest requiring the most explosives, the explosives creating the tunnels that the train now passed through every four to seven minutes, each tunnel producing the same sequence: light-dark-light, coast's rhythm, the sequence, the coast saying: welcome. This is how I reveal myself. In pieces. Through tunnels. Between hills. You will not see me all at once. You will see me the way wishes are granted: gradually, then suddenly.

At 5:43 PM, between the Nandgaon and Rajapur Road stations, the palm trees thinned. The hillocks lowered. The laterite gave way to sand.

The ocean appeared.

Megha saw Santosh before she saw the ocean. She saw Santosh because she was watching Santosh, because the documentary required her to watch Santosh, because the moment was Santosh's moment and not hers. She saw his face.

His face: his face did something that she had never seen a face do. His face stopped. Not froze, froze implied tension, implied the muscles locking, implied the body's alarm response. His face stopped the way a clock stopped when the battery died: gently, completely, without drama. The face simply ceased its usual activity. The jaw stopped chewing (he had been eating a mathri from Pushpa's tiffin). The eyes stopped their habitual scanning (the scanning that chaat vendors performed constantly, the scanning for customers, the scanning that had been running in the background of Santosh's consciousness for twenty-seven years like software that could not be uninstalled). The forehead stopped its creasing (the creasing that was the permanent feature of a man who worried about money and health and children and the stall).

Everything stopped. And then —

"Samundar."

The word. The word spoken by a man who had waited fifty-one years to say it while looking at the thing the word described. The word spoken not loudly, not as an exclamation, not as a shout, not as the dramatic declaration that a movie would have scripted. The word spoken softly. The word spoken the way a man spoke when the speaking was an act of confirmation rather than excitement, the confirmation: this is real. This is the thing I wrote on a chit. This is the thing that the wall felt. This is the thing that is here.

"Samundar," he said again.

Pushpa leaned toward the window. Pushpa saw the ocean. Pushpa's face did the opposite of Santosh's face, Pushpa's face moved. Pushpa's face collapsed into the crying that had been building since the segment aired, the crying that had been postponed by the packing and the travel and the trains and the tunnels, the crying that had been waiting for this moment, this exact moment, this moment when the ocean appeared between two hillocks and the woman who had never seen it saw it and the seeing released the crying.

"Yeh hai?" Pushpa whispered. "Yeh hai samundar?"

Is this it? Is this the ocean?

"Haan," Santosh said. "Yeh hai."

The simplicity. The simplicity of the exchange, the husband confirming to the wife that the blue expanse outside the train window was in fact the ocean, the confirming, unnecessary (Pushpa could see it was the ocean) but essential (the confirming was the sharing, the sharing: we are seeing this together. I am confirming to you that we are seeing this together. The together is the confirmation.).

Keshav was filming. Keshav had started filming the moment the ocean appeared, had pressed the record button without looking at the viewfinder, the pressing, instinctive, the instinct of a cameraman who knew that looking at the viewfinder would cost a second and a second was the difference between capturing the moment and missing it. He filmed from three rows behind, filmed over the seats, through the gap between the headrests, the angle; imperfect but the footage, perfect, the perfection, which was Santosh's face and Pushpa's tears and the ocean in the window behind them, all three in the frame, all three being the documentary's climax.

Sonali removed her earphones. The removal: the removal, ocean's power. The ocean was louder than the earphones. The ocean was not audible (the train's clatter drowned the waves) but the ocean was visible and the visibility was louder than sound, the visibility, which was thing that made a sixteen-year-old remove her earphones for the second time on this trip.

"Papa, yeh; yeh itna bada hai?"

Papa, it's, it's this big?

"Haan, beta. Itna bada."

Guddu woke up. Guddu woke up because Rinku shook him; shook him the way older sisters shook younger brothers, the shaking, which was gentle violence of sibling love: *wake up, you idiot. The ocean is here.

"Kya? Kya hua?"

"Samundar dekh, gadhe."

Look at the ocean, donkey.

Guddu looked. Guddu saw. Guddu said nothing. The saying nothing being the nineteen-year-old's response. The response that was different from Santosh's soft word and Pushpa's crying and Sonali's question and Rinku's shaking. Guddu's response was silence. The silence of a boy who was seeing something that his brain was processing and that his mouth could not yet articulate, the articulation requiring time that the boy's brain had not yet had.

Megha looked at Harsh. Harsh was; Harsh was not looking at the ocean. Harsh was looking at Santosh. Harsh was watching the man whose wish he had granted. Harsh was watching the way a chai-wallah watches a customer drink the first sip, the watching that assessed: was it right? Did the temperature arrive correctly? Did the sweetness land? Did the cardamom come through?

The ocean was the chai. Santosh was the customer. The watching was the question: was it right?

It was right. The temperature was correct. The sweetness landed. The cardamom came through. Oil ran warm over her fingers.

Harsh's eyes were, Harsh's eyes were wet. The wetness: the first wetness that Megha had seen in Harsh's eyes. The first time in fourteen days of knowing him that the eyes had leaked, thing that chai-wallahs did not do becaus, the leakinge chai-wallahs were steady, chai-wallahs were the counter and the pour and the routine, and the routine did not leak.

But the routine was not here. The counter was not here. The pour was not here. Here was a train, and outside the train was the ocean, and inside the train was a man crying because another man was seeing the ocean for the first time, and the seeing was the wish and the wish was the wall and the wall was the father and the father was upstairs in a room in Gali Mithaiyon Ki with trembling hands and steady eyes and the father would never ride a train again but the father's wall had sent this family to this ocean on this evening.

Megha touched Harsh's hand. She touched it under the armrest where Santosh and Pushpa could not see — gesture that the fourteen days had been b: the touchinguilding toward, the gesture that was not the journalist's gesture (the journalist did not touch the subject) but the woman's gesture (the woman touched the man whose eyes were wet).

His hand was warm. His hand was the hand that crushed cardamom and poured chai and pinned chits to the wall, the hand that had the stubborn calluses of a chai-wallah, the callus on the right thumb (from the mortar's handle), the callus on the index finger (from the strainer's edge), the roughness of the palm (from the hot glass held without cloth, the holding: chai-wallah's toughness, the toughness that came from years of heat).

He did not pull away. He did not hold her hand. He simply, he simply let her hand be on his. The letting, the permission. The permission: the boundary's final dissolution — the dissolution that had begun with the first kesar chai and that had continued through the "tu" correction and the "hamesha" and the train and the tunnels and that was now complete, the completion, which was: her hand on his hand, under the armrest, while the ocean passed in the window.

They did not speak. Speaking was unnecessary. The ocean spoke. The train spoke. The wheels on the tracks spoke the rhythmic clatter that was the train's language, the language that said: you are moving. You are going somewhere. You are going together.

The ocean appeared and disappeared as the train moved, appeared between hillocks, disappeared behind palm groves, appeared at river mouths where the estuaries widened and the salt water mixed with the fresh water, disappeared behind tunnels, appeared again, each appearance being closer, each appearance being larger, each appearance being the ocean saying: I am here. I have always been here. You are coming to me. I am waiting.

Santosh watched. He watched without speaking: without the chaat vendor's constant hand movements, without the habitual scanning, without the creasing. He watched with the stillness of a man who was receiving something that he had asked for, the receiving. Rarest human experience: the experience of getting what you wished for.

The Konkan Kanya descended toward the coast. The tunnels ended. The bridges began, the bridges over the Konkan's rivers, the rivers; coast's veins, the veins carrying the monsoon's water to the sea, the sea that was now visible not in glimpses but in stretches, in long horizontal lines of blue that the evening sun turned gold.

At 6:12 PM, the sun began to set. The sun set over the Arabian Sea: the setting: coast's daily performance, the performance that the coast performed for no audience except the fishermen and the villages and the trains, the trains, the coast's traveling audience, the audience that watched the sunset from behind glass while moving at eighty kilometres per hour.

Santosh watched the sunset. He watched it with the face that had stopped, the face that had been still since the first glimpse, the stillness, watching's posture, the posture of a man who was absorbing.

"Pushpa," he said.

"Haan."

"Yeh dekh."

Look at this.

"Dekh rahi hoon."

I'm looking.

"Nahi, yeh dekh. Suraj. Paani mein ja raha hai. Suraj paani mein ja raha hai."

No; look at this. The sun. It's going into the water. The sun is going into the water.

The sunset over the ocean. The thing that Santosh had never seen, the sun setting into water. In Indore, the sun set behind buildings and hills and the horizon's flat line. The sun set into the land. The sun setting into water was, the sun setting into water was a different geometry, a different physics, a different beauty. The beauty, which was: the sun touched the water and the water held the sun and the holding was the reflection, the reflection, the gold line that the sun painted on the sea's surface, the gold line running from the horizon to the shore, the line that was path, the path saying: walk here. Walk from the shore to the sun. The path is gold. The path is water. The path is yours.

"Papa," Sonali said. "Camera mein photo le loon?"

Shall I take a photo on the camera?

"Le le," Santosh said. "Sab ko dikhana hai."

Take it. I need to show everyone.

Everyone. The everyone: Guddu's ITI friends, Rinku's factory colleagues, Sonali's school friends, the neighbours in Manorama Nagar, the Chappan Dukaan shopkeepers who had donated ₹500, the strangers who had donated ₹100, the one lakh twenty-three thousand people who had watched the segment, the city that had sent this family to this ocean.

Sonali took the photo. She took it on her phone — a Realme C35, the phone that Rinku had bought for her from Croma with the Diwali bonus, sixteen-year-old's most treasured possess — the phoneion. She took the photo through the train window — the window's glass adding a greenish tint to the photo, the tint (train window's signature), the signature that identified every train-window photograph in India, the identification: this was taken from inside. This was taken while moving. This was taken by someone who was going somewhere and who saw something beautiful and who captured it with a phone through a green-tinted window.

The photo: the Arabian Sea at sunset. Gold and blue and the dark silhouette of palm trees on the shoreline. The photo that was, the photo. Wish fulfilled. The wish on the chit. The wish in the Godrej box. The wish that said: I want to see the ocean. The photo — the proof that the ocean had been seen. The atta dust was fine and dry.

Megha did not take a photo. Megha did not need to, Keshav had the Canon, and the Canon was recording, and the recording was the documentary, and the documentary was better than any photo because the documentary had the motion: Santosh's stillness, Pushpa's tears, Sonali's photo-taking, Guddu's silence, Rinku's shaking of Guddu, the ocean's appearing and disappearing, the sun's descent into the water.

She looked at her hand. Her hand that was still on Harsh's hand. The hand that she had placed there when Harsh's eyes leaked and that she had not removed because the removing would be the ending and she did not want the ending, not yet, not while the ocean was in the window and the sun was setting into the water and the train was carrying them toward Goa.

Harsh looked at her. The look, which was. The look that was look. The look that needed no adjective. The look that was the look.

"Samundar dikha diya," he said. The ocean has been shown.

"Haan."

"Baba khush hoga."

Baba will be happy.

"Baba ko photo bhejo."

Send Baba a photo.

Harsh took his phone from his pocket; took it with the hand that Megha's hand had been on, the taking requiring the removal, the removal — ending that neither had wanted but that the phone required. He took a photo through the window, his photo, his phone, his window. The photo: the same ocean, the same sunset, the same gold, the same blue. But the photo; different because the photographer was different, the photographer, a chai-wallah whose father had built a wall that had sent a family to this ocean.

He sent the photo to Baba. The WhatsApp message: one photo, no text. No text being necessary. The photo: the text. The photo saying: Baba, samundar. Aapki deewar ne dikha diya. Baba, the ocean. Your wall showed it.

Brajesh's reply came in four minutes. The reply, which was: one emoji. A folded-hands emoji. 🙏

The emoji, the Parkinson's reply; the reply of a man whose trembling hands could manage one emoji but not a sentence, the one emoji being enough, prayer, the enough, the prayer: thank you. Thank you, God, or universe, or whatever it is that made this possible. Thank you for the wall. Thank you for the son. Thank you for the ocean.

The train moved. The sun finished setting. The ocean turned dark. The dark ocean was. The dark ocean was still the ocean. The dark, the ocean's night dress, the night dress being less spectacular than the sunset dress but no less real. The ocean did not stop being the ocean when the sun set. The ocean was the ocean in the dark. The ocean was the ocean always.

Hamesha.

The word that they had said to each other in the shop. The word that the chai carried. The word that the ocean now carried. The word that was: always.

The train arrived at Madgaon Junction at 10:47 PM, forty-seven minutes late, the forty-seven minutes being the Konkan Railway's contribution to the delay, tunnels and the bridges and the single-tr, the delayack sections where the train waited for the oncoming train to pass.

Santosh stepped off the train. He stepped onto the platform. He stepped onto Goa.

He had seen the ocean from the train. Tomorrow, he would touch it.

The touching, the wish's completion. The seeing, the wish's beginning. The beginning having happened in the window. The completion would happen on the sand.

Tomorrow.