Mangalore: An Evening by the Estuary

And hey — here we go, to a place less travelled. The Mangalore estuary evening, thirty-eight years maybe, so close, yet so far. The estuary — an imperfect blend, like me. Boulders sharp, rocks steep, currents pulling back, pulling back. Human filth washed up on the shore. The sun, perfect, carving its slow path toward the horizon. I make my way down, closer, just to watch you by the bay.

Hey, you pretty thing, you hold space for my feet. I watch you flow, currents steep. Sand and crushed shells sting my bare feet. Push and pull, push and pull. The confluence plays, quiet fight in my deep face. Gulls call, scattered across orange light, their wings slicing the sky.

Gullible dogs tumble, chase, and fold like my Zoe under. Fishermen sit, watching the tide weaken. The sun hits the water, counting nautical miles of peace. Driftwood and shells crunch underfoot; the smell of salt and smoke hangs heavy in the air. The Mangalore estuary evening stretches, slow, unhurried. Smoke in hand, sea salt peaks in the air. I follow the tide, let it pull me back, fold me into its rhythm. Push and pull. Flow and retreat. Sun and shadow.

And I stay just a little while longer, because it’s unfiltered and deep. Currents, sand, sun — all converge to remind me: even brief, raw moments leave their mark. By the time I leave, the Mangalore estuary evening has done its quiet work — shaping memory, folding time, leaving me small and full at once.