By the time Iraj reached the beach, the tea in his steel flask had gone cold.
He did not mind.
The road behind him ended near a row of casuarina trees, and beyond them was a strip of sand with hardly anyone on it. A fishing boat lay upside down near the dunes. Someone had left a blue plastic bucket beside it. Farther down, two men were pulling a net in from the water, stopping now and then to untangle it.
Iraj walked until he found a flat piece of driftwood.
It made a surprisingly comfortable chair.
He sat.
That was all he had come for.
The sea was not particularly beautiful in the way photographs tried to make seas beautiful. The water was grey-blue, the horizon slightly hazy, and the afternoon had left a thin brightness on everything.
But sitting there changed the size of things.
A small shell near his sandal became worth looking at.
The foam around his feet came and went with such patience that he found himself watching the same patch of water for several minutes.
The air smelled of salt, wet sand, and something faintly green from the trees behind him. Every now and then a cooler breath arrived from the water and slipped underneath his shirt.
Iraj leaned back.
A gull passed overhead.
Then another.
They were not flying in a neat formation. One was higher than the other, and the second seemed to be in a hurry to catch up.
He smiled.
“Late again,” he said to it.
Nobody heard.
The sun had begun its slow descent.
The fishermen had finished with the net. One of them carried a basket toward the village, leaving dark footprints behind him. The other stood beside the boat, looking out at the water with his hands on his hips.
From somewhere inland came the smell of wood smoke.
A bicycle bell rang once.
Then the beach became quiet again.
The sun touched the far edge of the sea.
For a few minutes, the whole shore seemed to lose its ordinary colours. The sand became pale gold. The water near the horizon turned copper. The casuarina trees became dark, thin shapes against the sky.
Iraj took out his flask.
He opened it, remembered the cold tea, and laughed quietly at himself.
A flock of small birds came from the direction of the village.
They had spent the afternoon somewhere beyond the trees, and now they were returning in loose, untidy groups. Some dropped toward the sand before rising again. Others disappeared behind the casuarinas.
There was something comforting about watching them know where to go.
No announcement.
No hurry.
Just evening, and home.
The last bright part of the sun vanished.
For a while, the sky remained orange. Then the orange thinned into pink, then violet, then a deep blue that seemed to spread upward from the water.
Iraj stayed.
The beach looked different at night.
The things he had noticed earlier, the shells, the fishing basket, the footprints were mostly gone. The sea had become a long moving darkness. Each wave appeared for a second when it caught the faint light, then disappeared.
He could hear them more clearly now.
Rush.
Break.
Withdraw.
Pause.
Again.
A breeze came across the water and touched his face.
It was cool enough to make him pull his sleeves over his hands.
Above him, the first star appeared.
Then another.
Then, without him noticing exactly when it happened, there were too many to count.
He lay back on the driftwood and looked up.
The village lights had begun to appear behind the trees. Somewhere a dog barked. Someone called a child home.
The sea kept moving.
Iraj closed his eyes for a moment.
He could still feel the breeze.
Still smell the salt.
Still hear the waves.
When he opened his eyes again, the sky was darker.
He finally stood.
The driftwood creaked beneath him as though disappointed that he was leaving.
“Tomorrow,” Iraj said.
He knew he probably would not come tomorrow.
But the beach did not need promises.
He walked toward the casuarina trees, following the faint path back to the road.
Behind him, the waves continued arriving at the shore, one after another, as if the night had given them a simple task and they were perfectly happy to keep doing it.