Gattu ran towards the beach, his feet digging into the dry sand, and the damp air brushed against his tear-stained face. He longed to escape the reality that had stung him, and every time the pain resurfaced, the sea soothed his aching heart like the comfort of a mother’s lap; it lapped his sorrow in its folds.
“Scoundrel, you are a useless moron, wash the net and dry it in the sun; can you do that, huh?” Appa had ordered, kicking Gattu.
Gattu quietly obeyed the order, his voice choking with resentment and pain. Tears brimmed in his eyes and dried in an instant; the pain had lessened. Appa’s words had probably stopped hurting him like before. The recurrence of this harshness had toughened him from within.
Was Appa the same person Gattu remembered as warm and sober? Over time, Appa had become more of a stranger, arriving home late at night, drunk and unsteady on his feet. He stammered and spoke in vague terms. Gattu saw two different sides of his father, each contrasting sharply with the other. When did he change? Why did he change?
It was early morning and a suitable time to catch fish in the deep waters; Appa set his boat and roared into the deep sea to cast his net and trawl fish. It usually takes him ten long days in the ocean; the wind and waves leave a clue as to where to cast the net and wait for the fish to fall prey to the wicked tricks of the fisherman.
June to September were lean months for fishermen; the tidal currents rose, and the unbridled wind made rowing difficult. Appa’s absence gave Gattu some solace, but some memories haunted him like ghosts; they lingered like shadows in the abyss of his mind. He was naive and unable to comprehend what his heart yearned- perhaps it longed for love, which seemed distant, diminishing like the setting sun on the horizon.
A flock of seagulls circled in the sky, tracing imaginary patterns in the clouds. The sea beaconed these migratory birds from faraway lands—places they never belonged to but could still find a way to reach, crossing hills, meadows, oceans, deserts, and forests. Love has the power to bridge distances.
For Gattu, ‘love’ meant Amma. Gattu remembered his Amma every day. Had she been alive, Gattu’s life would have been different. Amma died three years ago, leaving this young boy with a clumsy father. She died of misery that spread like a disease, infecting her body slowly and painfully. Her breath thinned like a vapour, and one morning, it suddenly halted. Her pain had eased, and calmness engulfed her whole being. She looked like an angel sleeping peacefully on her deathbed, never to wake up again. She dwelled in hell as long as she lived. Death brought an end to her suffering. She was at peace.
Amma was unlike other fisherwomen who fought in the streets, their hands on their hips, hunching over the fish they sold. Their skin tanned under the sun, their voice raspy like roaring sea tides. They smelled like fish. Amma knew how to read and write even without attending formal school; she taught Gattu to count, to spell the words correctly and to read sentences. She knew the world more than Appa did. It was she who planted in Gattu the love for books.
Whenever Gattu read a sentence correctly, she praised her son by placing a seashell in his palm. She gifted him a jar that she called “the jar of appreciation.” The jar was full of colourful sea shells, differently sized. It was the jar Gattu treasured forever. The love of her mother taught her to appreciate the simple things in life, which are more valuable than jewels.
Now, Gattu sought solace in the sea in the absence of his mother’s comfort and recognized its ability to hold the world’s pain. Perhaps the seawater is salty because it carries the tears of aching hearts.
The Momma Clan 
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