Bob Marley Cafe

YOU all have seen those shacks: There is something strangely lyrical about these small stopovers, veiling the coastline, forcing us to the land of Bohemia by sound and sights, the dull thud and whoosh of waves, the splash of water, and the call of sea pigeons. As the night draws closer, they grow naturally melancholic, even with the twinkling lamps and usual chatter of foreigners. The thought of such shacks takes me to Bob Marley Café in Mahabalipuram, and I can pour out an entire ocean behind my backyard in the deep, intense hours. I can't see the sea-shaken café, but, I can smell the waves, hear the dolphin play by the sea air across the flutes of their blowholes.


For most of our lives, we labour under conditions composed of land, dust and grime, a tricky confluence to keep us grounded on a busy urban soil. We struggle with the wind, rain, the sloppy roads and vindictive souls. We struggle with darker questions that hang in the air; grope for our true selves. In the process, many lose the race. A rare few, perhaps, endure all the way to Bohemia, inside the labyrinthine claw of life; hoping to meet some of these foundering nomads; dip into the blue, clear water of the Bay of Bengal.

And, then, the curtains open for good; the sun burns a sideway lantern on the tsunami-ravaged coast of Mahabalipuram, its melancholy set of white sand, wind-shorn mosses and rock-cut temples. We take it in, reclining on cane chairs, grow stiller, look deep into the eyes of our lovers, dreams occasionally interrupted by the curious eyes of the shack owners, Swami of the Tamil fisherman ilk with Janet, his German wife. There is no fog in the air, yet a vapour lifts, a screen between worlds, and in the blink of a seafish's pulse, we can see backward through epochs. 

The lively eyes of Bob Marley still observes me and then sinks, the blue water closing over his ears, across the imperceptible canvas of blue water and pearly Medusa.

Meghna Maiti