BROKEN SEASHELL
An apology to a conch…

I owe an apology.
To a shimmering seashell, which I once picked from the Rameswaram shoreline.

It was a pilgrimage. A group from the local temple, me in my teens, with my granny and other family members. I remember it was a beautiful dusk with the sky turning tangerine, and we – me and my granny – went out for a saunter by the seaside, which was close to our modest ‘sathram’ (inn).

Granny’s stories, the never ending lot, were my selfish interest of such walks, apart from my love for sea-sides and the ocean depths.

Sea soothes. It heals the brokenness, be it cuts, wounds, hearts or souls. The sense of freedom that I feel by the sea is ineffable and I was ever so much in love with the phenomenon.

It was during one such stroll in the beaches of Kanya Kumari, the city in South India that houses the temple of the virgin goddess, that I took a liking for seashells. I had fallen in love with them, when granny taught me to hold them close to my ear and I could hear the ocean roaring within.

Every seashell has a story to tell, the same yet different, for they carry the ocean within. I remember reading thus. Seashells are beautiful signatures of lives that are now memories, that’s what I felt when I understood the science behind it.

Then on, I always used to look for those special shells, which lay scattered on the shoreline, like the ocean smiles, even when waves washed them ashore mercilessly.

Holding her wrinkled hands, I walked, listening to that part of Ramayana, where Lord Rama built the long bridge across to Lanka, to rescue his beloved Sita from Ravana.

Suddenly my eyes fell on a shiny bluish coral hue hugging on to a mossy, saline-drenched rock. It was a seashell, unusually big, like a conch, the blowing shell, larger than any that I have thus far seen or collected. Yes, I have seen some of the kind kept for sale in those temple-side shops.

Excited I ran towards it, and had to pluck it off the rough surface, as it was clinging as though holding on to life. As always I held it close to my ear and I could hear the ocean within and I ran back to granny with it.

“This is the biggest of the kind I have ever collected, see how beautiful it is,” I showed it to granny.

She, like an expert, looked at the piece of art in her palm that shone so bright in the brilliance of the sunset.

“No my dear, we can’t have this at home, it’s not a normal seashell, it is the kind that they use to make the conch for the temples,” she said, which dampened my spirit.

Looking at my face, with a smile she said, “Let’s give it to our temple when we get home.”

I was not happy at the decision, but had to yield and we continued the walk, as I kept watching the beauty in my palm. Suddenly I spotted a crack on the shell, at the tip.

“Look its cracked,” I said and granny who looked said, “Oh we can’t have it at all.

“A broken conch is harm to home and a bad omen.

“Neither it is fit for the temple, for it can’t resonate the sound. Listen to it and you will know, the sound within will be different from the rest.”

I once again held it close to my ear, and this time, yes, I heard it different.

It sounded like a sob, no, it was a sob.

“Throw it back into the sea, and come let’s get back,” granny nudged.

Walking closer to the waves, reluctant, I threw the sapphire blue shell, with a broken tip, back into the depths of the ocean.

Now I wonder, did I pluck it off a trance, where it was waiting for mermaid kisses or to make a starfish wish?

I know not. All I know is, I had to throw it away, back into the ocean’s bosom, an ocean that heartlessly threw her away, an ocean that could heal all, but not a broken seashell!

I still hear a sob echoing within me, as though the shell so gently cooed into my heart, her story, before I threw her away.

It echoes within me, each time I see a seashell, broken, washed ashore…

Deep from my heart, a broken seashell heart, on which once the ocean cast a magic spell and took me in its nets forever - I apologise.

Raji Unnikrishnan

Feb 05. 2016.

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