My home is near the coast of Honnavar. Every morning before the sunrise the coast wakes up. You can hear it - the waves talking, the boats starting, the birds calling. The fishermen don't need an alarm. The sea calls them.
I have a small spot near Kasarkod beach where I sit daily. I take my 10x42 binocular with me. Not to see far but to feel close.
Yesterday I saw an old man teaching his grandson how to throw a net. With my binocular, I could see his hands - wrinkled, strong, full of stories. He threw the net and it opened like a flower on the water.
On the other side at Honnavar Sante (festival), women sell the morning catch. Their voices are louder than the waves. If you look through a binocular from far you can see the silver shine of the fish before you even reach the market.
In the evening, the coast changes color. The Sharavati river becomes orange, the Arabian sea turns gold. Couples walk, kids play in sand, and crabs run to hide.
The coast is not just beach and water. It's people, work, family, and memories.
My great-grandmother lived here all her life. She used to say, "Look at the sea daily, it will teach you patience." Most likely, she would have been very happy if she had a binocular to see the returning boats clearly from her veranda.
That's my coast. Honnavar. Simple, salty, and full of life. It simply doesn't sleep.
Apeksha R. Tandel
