Footsteps on the sand

It was a June afternoon, drizzly with overcast skies. We stood at the edge of a slushy tract trying to focus on a clump of coconut trees at a distance. The broker stood beside us, animatedly explaining where the road connector would come up from this ‘piece’ of land to the main road. He was trying to sell us the property for a ‘farmhouse’- our weekend getaway from the city and post-retirement destination. 

This search for a property was by then a familiar weekend pastime. Till one Friday morning, we chanced upon an advertisement on the Home & Property pages of Telegraph. A house by the sea in the beach town of Digha was up for sale. We fell in love with the place, instantly and the next six months was a whirlwind. We were caught up in buying the place, renovating, interior-designing and landscaping. Every Friday, we hit the highway with the kids and returned on Sunday evenings. Slowly our favourite books, family games, my son’s cricket paraphernalia, kitchenware and full set of clothes, was up at the house. We only needed to drive down to another ‘home’.

The highway was under construction and we told ourselves that we really didn’t mind the four hours of drive. The Government was upbeat on many projects and there was talk of the Raichak Expressway over river Haldi. We estimated that in a couple of years travel time would be down to two-and-a-half hours.

On the other side, the house was taking good shape. We discovered some old Sarkar branded chullahs and set up a barbeque pit, built a balcony space overlooking the sea, planted our X’mas tree the first season and played cricket with our 7 year old on a well maintained lawn.

Paintings by my daughter

Salim project got dropped, the State Government changed but these little changes remained news clips as we were well engrossed and adjusted to the new pace of life. For us, Digha remained a family space. For my parents, suffering from cancer and mom-in-law with limited mobility, unable to travel, the house was the only holiday option. My daughter, painted murals on the walls of the house and looked forward to the evenings when the beach town gathered life. There were vendors hawking shell knick-knacks, the roundabouts in winter, the first ice-cream parlour and the balloons for target shooting. We were probably slow to notice that hawkers were proliferating, newer places for ‘’fooding’’ and lodging coming up and the return trips were getting longer with heavier traffic.

About this time, we planned a holiday at Pattaya. My son was quite impressed with the drive from Bangkok airport to Pattaya. Browsing through some tourist literature, later, he asked us very innocently, “what do you think is the distance from Bangkok to Pattaya”.

Me, Ï am not sure, what does the brochure say?”.

“167 km and we made it in 1 ½ hour. Now, what is the distance between our home and Digha?”

 

He had a good point, there. 187 km and we were taking 3 – 4 hours each way. On one long weekend, due to some political rally, we reached past midnight, completely exhausted and after a 7 hour drive. Another weekend we came back from mid-way. However, these were quickly brushed aside as stray incidents and we kept looking forward to the weekends.

On one such weekend, we were approached by 2 gentlemen offering to sell us the tract between our home and the sea front. ‘But, that’s within 250 yards of the sea and in our knowledge cannot be used for constructing a building’, we said. Not wanting to be caught by surprise, we did evince interest and asked to see the property documents. After some follow-up from our end, we concluded that the property was not properly backed with papers. Much to our surprise, the plot did get sold and a horrific three storey tall structure came up, completely blocking our view of the sea. 

Where earlier incidents were discordant, this was the moment of disconnect. We stopped our regular weekend jaunts. The children got engrossed in their studies. They did return a couple of times, though, with their friends. Somewhere, deep down, we know that change – in the skyline, quality of tourists, age and taste of our children, parents passing away – contributed in small ways towards our dwindling interest. Even as a post-retirement destination, the place had lost its attraction with the sea-view gone!

The current government has worked to have the place spruced up. Train connectivity has improved. Throughout winter, the place is choc-a-bloc over weekends. What it still lacks is good quality food or eateries, leave alone a respectable restaurant. The power grid is unreliable and power-outs are common in summers when A/Cs are in us or when a Norwester disconnects the cables.

Interestingly, one summer holiday while working on a project with my son, we discovered that Warren Hastings had referred to Digha as the Brighton of the East. Out of inquisitiveness, I visited Brighton in September this year. It might be the fond memories of Digha but at first sight, I did relate with Hastings. There are many parallels to draw between the two places. Both don’t cater to very high end tourists, are low on glamour, have a long sea front, small beach town activities for families to engage with their kids. What makes the big difference are the wide promenade, the excellent Fisn-n-chip stores, the clean road and beach and the quietness that compliments the scenic beauty of the Brighton shores. 

Brighton by the Sea

The excellent Fish-n-chips store

We have sold off the property. On some odd Saturday evenings, there is that slight tug at the heart, when one misses the kids (who are now away and studying abroad), Panther & Elsa our lovely Labradors and those moments of simple family bonding and carefree times. Digha will always remain a part of us but our presence there will fade out in time, like footsteps on the sand.