My Vizag Beach then and now

My Vizag’s Beach

View from our beach home balcony in 1960.  Then an outer harbor Iron Ore jetty came up on the beach.
A large wall blocked off the beach for the residents.

Half a century ago, as a child I lived in an old stone building by the sea. So close in fact that, in stormy weather, the crashing waves sent a salty spray into our home. Ah the smell of the sea! The constant crashing of the waves! So subliminally deep was it driven into my psyche that, even when I went inland on vacation, I could still smell and hear it.

On these sparkling waves and golden beaches we first learn to swim. All through summer vacation the neighbourhood boys frolicked among the waves. At dusk, we came home reluctantly, only when we were exhausted or when mom came looking for us, threatening dire consequences if we did not drag our salty black bodies back home.

Here, I cast my catgut line with a bottle cork for a float and steel nut for weight, and caught my first snapper, and zebra fish just 20 feet from the water line. Here, we watched the sinewy muscled fishermen draw in their nets alive with a thousand leaping, sparkling fish. Here we watched the sea gulls strutting at the water line and getting fat on fish.

And as darkness fell, the phosphorous on the waves sparkled like neon. And on full moon nights the molten silver from the moon spread on the surface of the swelling sea. It was on these lonely beaches, that we sat in our wet shorts, sand on our thighs, nursing our beers and talking sublime nonsense as young men often do. The beach was central to our lives through childhood and youth.

Time flew. One stormy evening in December, 33 years ago, I stood on the beach with a girl who would become the mother of my child. I remember that evening like yesterday. There was a light drizzle, the wind was chill and as far as the eye could see there was not another soul on the beach. I proposed that evening and soon we were married.

Fisher folk walking home after a day of fishing 1970

That was then. This is now. The sea is different now; the fish near the beach are all dead, something about dissolved oxygen. The beach is different too. This is where folk go to warm up in the morning and cool off in the evening. It is a walk track, a mela ground, a food court, a fashion ramp, a protest park, a pulpit, a campaign trail and a race track. Every city needs some breathing space and this is where Vizag collectively congregates to get their fresh air. And every night after they leave the cleaning crews arrive to pick up the litter before the sun comes up again.

I say to myself, “drop thy wistful pining for the past and thank God for these, still beautiful, ten kilometres that keeps our citizens sane.”