A family of seashell collectors
“That means … I come from a family of seashell collectors?”
My 6-year-old daughter couldn’t believe her ears!
There she was, blissfully collecting seashells by the seashore, when she had an epiphany.
“I want to be a seashell collector.”
And it’s not that her ambitions are vague in this regard …
She seems to have it all figured out, with detailed plans on using the inspiration of the natural artwork on clothes she’ll design, with matching seashell accessories: necklaces, earrings, et al.
I hear her talking to her friend, “You know, my mother used to collect seashells when she was a kid.”
“I too collected seashells when I was a kid,” I helpfully interject.
Arya looks at me wide-eyed, scarcely able to believe the enormous implications of what she’s just heard.
She turns to her friend and whispers with awe:
“That means … I come from a family of seashell collectors?”
In the fading light of the setting sun, I ponder her surprise and delight … and my utter lack of it.
When, indeed, did I become immune to the joys of running on the beach, half-drenched by the frothy waves lapping the sandy shores, rescuing these beautiful pieces of nature’s art before the receding water claimed them back again?
When did gleefully strolling on the freshly wet sand change to scrolling on the smartphone, safely distanced from the salty sprays, sitting high and dry on a resort-issued plastic chair?
Next day, I wake up at the break of dawn, naturally. My usual morning lethargy replaced by a deep desire to step out … which I do, quickly.
The sun’s not up yet, and I notice a chaiwallah — a roadside tea vendor — setting up his stall. After a steaming cup of milky tea, I venture out towards the sea.
No plans. Just because.
Standing on the water’s edge, the waves lapping at my feet, I’m unsure what to do.
I look down and notice a fairly large seashell, with intricate patterns, peeking out from its sandy hideaway. I pick it up, thinking my daughter would love it.
And just like that, I’m hooked.
I start walking down the beach, looking for beautiful mollusc shells.
Picking one here, running after a wave to get hold of another, getting my shorts wet (and consequently, the phone in my pocket), but not caring a hoot.
A few curious glances. A couple of smiles.
Me, once again, not caring a hoot.
Because I was too busy having one.
The child in me, delighting in the unexpected escape from the tyranny of adulthood, was on a treasure hunt of epic proportions.
Not gold or bitcoin, but a free mind and memories of a lifetime. Unmatched ROI of simple pleasures (for the financially inclined).
Very soon my hands were overflowing. I started collecting in my crocs, whose uniquely apt design allowed me to conveniently hold the “handles” while the lattice in the front acted as a net, straining out the sand and water.
And then, the golden orb lit up the sky.
I was witnessing sunrise after ages, and the effect was mesmerizing.
The freshly risen sun is easy on the eyes. It looks like a watercolor painting, with deeper shades of orange below, and yolk yellow on top.
I retraced my steps. This time, the pickings were slimmer, but my footwear was already carrying a hefty bounty.
The sights changed on the way back. Fishermen hauling in their morning catch. Writings on the sand getting washed away with the rising tide. Tourists asking me to click their photos.
As the dawn made way for the day, the daily routines were asserting themselves.
I waded through it all, imagining the glee on my daughter’s face when she woke up to see what daddy had hauled in.
With my clogs otherwise occupied, I walked barefoot on the gradually warming sand.
Wet, sticky sand halfway up to my knees, I weaved through the morning traffic, across the asphalt road.
The guard studiously avoided his gaze and opened the gate, ignoring the footwear full of seashells, and my apparent lunacy.
Once again, I couldn’t care less.
This — as I’d been recently made aware — is what we do.
We are, after all, a family of seashell collectors.
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