Re'porting

When you trudge up to your room at 9pm with sore heels and perspiration sliding down your neck, you know it's been a productive day in Chennai.

Not that I achieved a lot. We had gone up to the port to interview a bunch of guys who run a sport fishing club. Fishing, by the way, is not as simple as it looks. It took the combined effort of 3 of us novices to reel in two Great Trevallys (which we released back into the water before they became fish-not-flapping).

It was a brilliant evening to be out at sea, medium breeze and very little light filtering through the heavy clouds. The boat circled a random sunken shipwreck with its mast sticking incongruously out of the waters, schools of mackerel swarming around it. Did you know that little fish sparkle when they jump out into the pale light? It was mesmerising, I wanted to dive overboard and swim with them. 

The spray of our speedboat was fast, cool and never got boring. It cruised past an endless stretch of breakwaters, and turned back when the coastguard's boom resonated through the air. Our hosts instructed us to stow away our equipment when the police boat approached. We needn't have worried, the Indian police is the same everywhere - just trying to show who's boss. 

I longed to go further, break the law, go into the unknown. I tried to imagine Kasab & co. navigating stealthily towards shore. Their intent notwithstanding, the idea of using the ocean that way was thrilling. Even more thrilling was the thought of ancient seafarers just taking the wheel and slicing their destinies through the waters. How were these enormous expanses tamed?

Further towards port, there was a magnificently tall multi-pulley system lifting heavy containers off a large freighter. On the other side was the unmistakable grey hull of an Indian Navy ship. Oil tankers, British vessels, American vessels. The tiny figures on those ships seemed to be from a different plane than the one I live on. And these are not even the greatest vessels in the world. Man-made wonders! There was a tinge of disappointment in realising that I would never be a part of creating any of this.

Being a journalist would be a sorry consolation - atleast I can live such experiences vicariously. I might get a visitor's pass to a gated community.

The shore looked pretty as we approached. The entire skyline was made up of dozens of identical cranes piercing through the sky. They arched over Chennai, saying yeah baby, we're the ones that invisibly make things work for you middle-class joyriders. Metal has never looked that beautiful and strong.

A huddle of fishermen's boats formed the last frame of the pictoric experience as we drew in. The laughing boys called out as they emptied their swollen nets. We waved. They waved. Everybody waved.

We all were feeling mighty pleased with ourselves for some reason, so decided to walk on the Marina instead of hurrying back to edit our recording. 

The Marina beach is filthy. But then again, if I lived in a hut the size of my bed, I might not care where I shit or throw my trash either. 

We walked for an hour or more, sampling the standard beach fare of boiled groundnuts, bhutta and lousy Chennai chaat. Our whistling, wandering sojourn ended at the lighthouse, which is really not as interesting as it sounds. We scurried quickly through the spooky deserted local train station and were soon on our way back to the hostel. Grimy hands clutching handrails, earphones tuned in and eyes staring vacantly through the windows. Our homecoming at the mess lived up to the standards of the day - hot mini uttapams with yummy tangy chutney.

And my bed felt really soft when I sank into it that night.