Tsunami

You've been waiting for it. I know, you've mentioned it, asked about it, secretly saying prayers for me with it in mind.

It's Wednesday night and Kevin and I are at the beach with Srini, his wife and his brother-in-law. We walk, have raw mango with salty spice topping, and I buy a soda. Srini, as usual, lectures, talks, and tells stories. Interrupting him, I hear the screeches of a pet monkey, which Srini warns his wife to avoid. Although I can hear it clearly, it takes effort for me to see the animal. The same was true for the ocean. The beach's parking lot is well-lit, and the beach itself is dark. When we got out of the car, even though I could only see headlights and ice cream stands, I could taste salt and hear waves rolling whenever traffic would allow. Although, now, I can see the white crests of the waves as they break, forming an irreuglar line which separates us from the sea. The breeze feels wonderful. With the humidity, we're kept warm. I've adjusted to the weather enough that sometimes the fan will make me cold in the mornings. The air conditioner barely comes on anymore. We walk down the beach, in a line, kicking sand and feeling it flipped up onto the backs of our legs. Talking. Thinking. Srini tells us about the Ice House. About how the British, for their whiskey, wanted ice and had none here. When it came from England, they used the House, filled it was sawdust and kept it there until it could be redistributed. Chase, the brother-in-law, when conversation is quiet and thinking takes over, asks about it. "So, did the tsunami hit here?" In a Texas accent from a dark man. Yes. Yes, it did. It came over the soccer-field long stretch of beach, took all of the cars from the parking lot, and rolled them past the Ice House. Imagine 30 feet. Feel 30 feet. Feel its weight above you. Srini talks about it like one talks about dead relatives. Boldly, without reservation, and then, upon hearing one's self, quietly, hushed. He starts talking about the destruction. About how he felt the tsunami hit from back at his flat. Wondered how on earth an earthquake had found Chennai. He talks about relief. How He and Susan went to eat with those who were displaced when Rahman fed them. Tuesdays and Thursdays. He talks about how all of the buildings up the beach were ruined. He reminded me of when we had walked past the huts made of palm branches. Those used to be houses. He talks about the dirt and the muck that the tsunami dredged up from the bottom of the ocean, and in it's fury left it smothering the beach. He talks about how black the beach was. We walk down into one of the drains. Easily 50 feet wide, the drain is actually a place where water stagnated for months. The ocean slowly sucked the sand and the water back from here, leaving the surface beneath my feet hard and wet. I look toward the ocean and then in the direction that the wave moved, back towards the Ice House. I imagine it swelling behind my back, shudder, and keep walking. I climb back out of the drain on the other side. Srini had paused and he's starting again to talk about superstition. Softly, he talks about the fishermen, as if their grounded boats which we're surrounded by have ears. He says that they don't like to go out anymore. That if the tsunami came a few hours ealier, they would have all been sacrificed to the sea. He says that they're afraid now, as well, because there are more sharks in the bay than there were before. The fishermen don't trust the sea anymore. He goes on to say that the homeless, in the slums, don't come down to the beach to sleep at night either. Afraid. More afraid of what the ocean will do to their bodies than the damage that has already been done by their strenuous lives. He starts into the part of his story that always stops him; I realize that this is all I'll hear of the tsunami for the night. He tells us, pointing to the left of the Ice House, that that was a cricket field. When the wave took them, there were two teams of girls playing. The visitors were from Singapore, he thinks. They were washed out to sea, all of them. The only proof of their existence is a Singaporian's necklace that was pulled from the sand by a clean up crew. Just girls, he says. He scolds himself for talking carelessly about lives and pain. His silence slowly unfolds and envelops the rest of the beach.