The beach

Walking along a litter-strewn beachfront, the author finds something infinitely precious

BY SONDARYA KRISHNAN

Iremember smiling down at Cochin a few years ago from the plane, despite seeing the dilapidated roads and discoloured stone buildings. It was like nothing I had seen before, and for someone who had never been out of Australia all her life, this was a strange place to have a holiday. But after I read an article about this part of India in a magazine, I couldn’t stop thinking about what it would be like to actually be there and sure enough, here I was now to see for myself.

Around twenty minutes later we touched down and came to a halt on what looked like a short runway. My glasses kept knocking against the bridge of my nose and everybody gripped their seats a little tighter as our hand luggage rattled loudly in the overhead lockers. It was a wonder how any plane managed to land here at all, who approved the tarring of this runway?

The first thing I noticed about India as soon as I got off the plane was the smell; and it wasn’t pleasant. Then after sweating through three hours at the airport, I finally made it to immigration.

“Passport,” said a sweaty Indian man, peering over his glasses and into my eyes. I placed my passport in his hand and watched as he typed furiously into a computer.

Three angry clicks, one judgemental gaze and he ushered me through.

I cautiously took my passport back from him and walked out of the airport.

Outside, there was a hustle of people, rickshaws, beggars and scooters with what appeared to be whole families riding on the back of them. Everyone was frustrated and running late, it seemed, their horns were blaring in a bumper to bumper traffic jam. From the look of the traffic it was probably better if I walked to my hotel, and so I started making my way there.

As I walked along, I noticed that the road was very dusty and there was rubbish littered everywhere; it looked as though people threw things out of their cars as they kept driving. It was a heartbreaking sight.

I came to an intersection and noticed that to the right, about a kilometre or so away was a beach, and it looked too good to miss. As I neared the beach I was appalled at how people could litter so carelessly right next to it …

Disgustingly enough, even the air around me seemed to be tinged yellow with dirt and pollution. I clamped my palm over my nose and my mouth, but the smell could not be avoided.

When I got to the beach, I marvelled at the beautiful yellow sand, which seemed to span on forever on either side of me. Amazingly, the rubbish managed to cover most of the surface of the beach as well. Numerous food stalls along the shore wafted a not-so-divine aroma of their wares, and the sight of a small boy defecating in the water around ten metres away left me very unimpressed…

I shook my head and stood there with my eyes closed for some time, until I felt a gentle tugging at the leg of my jeans.

I glared down and saw a small boy looking up at me as though I was his mother, with one little hand clutching at my jeans. I blinked and looked again at this little boy, and then looked around; surely someone must have noticed that their son was missing.

“Nobody is looking for me.”

“What was that, little boy?” I asked, squatting to his height.

“Nobody is looking for me, I have no home to go to, please can I have some money?” he begged, cupping his hands in front of him.

I looked him in the eyes and felt that he was telling the truth, so I gave him 50 rupees.

“Thank you ma’am, you have made me so happy, please come, I want to show you something,” he said with glee, grabbing my hand and excitedly pulling me along. I grimaced as I had no idea where this boy’s hand had been, but I decided to go along as I could always wash my hands later.

He led me along the beach down to a dilapidated little boat whose paint was once bright, but had now peeled to reveal damp, blackened wood; the boat itself lay on its side, a pathetic shadow of what it once was.

“Wait here, ma’am,” the boy called, glancing at me in awe as he scrambled eagerly into the boat through a broken window.

What is he doing? What does he want me to see? My eyebrows furrowed, but in a minute the boy was back, holding a little piggy bank, the grin on his face spreading from ear to ear.

I squatted down, took the bank from him and examined the faded and dirty receptacle. On upturning it, I found a few notes, about rupees 200, or 4 Australian dollars.

I raised an eyebrow at this little boy; I couldn’t believe the poverty which he called his life.

“I’m saving to buy a new pair of shoes one day, thank you for helping me get closer to buying them,” he said.

I looked at him for two more seconds, and grimaced before I looked down at his feet. He had no shoes, just a pair of mismatched socks that were blackened with grime. I closed my eyes and turned my head away. How could anybody live like this?

I scratched my head in confusion, how could anybody not know that this was happening in some part of the world?

I sit on this park bench and reminisce about that little boy I met three years ago; I admire his willingness to be happy in such adversity. But then again, I remind him of that every day.

Craning my neck to my right I

My eyebrows furrowed, but in a minute the boy was back, holding a little piggy bank, the grin on his face spreading from ear to ear call out, “Raj! Do you remember how I met you?”

“Yes, Mum, you’ve told me this story countless times before….” he answers.

“Son, how did you manage to be so happy without even a decent home to live in?” I ask him, tapping the seat beside me. He sits down, lays his head on my shoulder and replies, “I think life is what you choose to make of it, even when I didn’t have a proper home, I wanted to be happy, and so I was.”

The author is a Year 10 student at Penrith Academically Selective High School