The sun was setting down into the distant sea. The life on the beach was busy, brimming with life and piety. Shaven heads and unshaven chins walked past counting rosemaey beads. Songs called out praises of mother mary and her son. The crackle of the fire on corn and the pop of a soda bottle filled the background. Beach hawkers roped in potential customers and mandatory onlookers with sleight of hand.

An energetic figure walked by. He was trailed by two even hop-pier kids. Girls, with an air of stubbornness and freedom that comes with fun parenting. Their leader was lean, stark his eyes brimmed with vigor though his age was marked by the white hair weeded head and the pouchy skin. He was in his late thirties.

The scene caught fire. The low usual mundanity was wiped by his entry. He was the shark on the beach.

He strode next to the beach near me. Bending, he drew an arch on the ground. From its convocal midpoint, he drew a line downwards and made a cross at its centre. It was in fact a cross with an umbrella as a cap. And then, with a smart flick of the same arm, he swiped sand from the point where the lines of the cross met and rubbed his forehead, being blessed by the sand, son of the mother ocean.  

And here I was thinking only Rajinikanth had such air, such natural sense of style.

I kept watching. Waiting for him to do something even mouth gaping. His kids bent too, to copy their dad. They drew the same arch and giggled as the waves washed their imitations away. The father laughed. It was only then that I noticed him. His chest had a crescent shaped arch below his left nipple. A souvenier from his days as a ruffian. His arms, biceps and abdomen was tattooed. A cross hung lazily from his chest and was wooden.

The kids ran into the sea and called their smart dad to follow. He smiled and ran. Ran and jumped. Jumped and somersaulted. Somersaulted halfway and dove into the oncoming waves. The king of the sea had returned