When I was growing up, a staple vacation was to the seaside town of Puri, in the state of Odisha, in eastern India. Our large family including dogs, children, grown ups and many many bags would make the over night train journey from Calcutta to Puri for the much awaited week or 10 days at the beach. The trip was rarely eventless- in fact I could fill a few blog posts with the trials, tribulations and adventures of traveling with our family. We always made it and there was always a story to tell.
The holiday itself was a welcome relief from the teeming city of Calcutta and we looked forward to the fresh fish, early morning swims, long afternoon naps with bellies filled with rice and curry, daily walks down the beach and evenings spent playing charades or Pictionary. We often traveled with close friends so it was always a big bustling bungalow – compete with mattresses on the living room floor for the kids.
A ritual we followed every evening was a walk down the beach. I remember the beach being busy, in that late afternoon/early evening slot, especially as one got closer to the fishing village, but I don’t ever remember feeling like we were in a crowd.
Something we did almost daily as we walked, was to collect shells. My mother has always had an eye for symmetry and colour- especially out in nature. As children we followed her lead and would scrutinize and pick the shells with interesting stripes and unique patterns. If we were lucky we might find the perfect cowry shell, or one with a hermit crab still inside- it would gingerly poke out from inside its home and scurry away along our arms and a giant leap onto its sandy home.
This afternoon while walking along a very different beach in a very different land, I found myself in a reliving a childhood ritual on a shell strewn beach. As we walked, the water just lapping at our feet, we would bend over, reaching for the flash of orange or dark blue stripes- marvel at the perfect cowry and hold onto our growing treasures.
I am so grateful for having been schooled in looking for the extraordinary in the ordinary- picking shells and rejoicing in their beauty is a ritual I hope my children will continue.
Change the words 
Each of your shells is so unique. They are beautiful. My kids have always done the same things with rocks.
The memories come back Nitasha…. And it fills my heart with joy to let the memories flow , full of nostalgia and grateful that we have them. You have a wonderful way of writing. Big kiss Darling.
What a beautiful memory and a handful of shells to spark the same in your children’s future. I looked up Busuanga Bay; it is stunning, and you capture its beauty here. That the memory of your mom in another time, on another shore in India, her attention to nature’s patterns, is carried in the shell and warms this piece throughout. (I also traveled every summer to our beach house in a car packed to the gills with family, so that image also spoke to me, too.)
Beautiful Nitasha !! Both the piece you’ve shared and you too
You write lovingly of your experiences on vacation with family and with very few words you convey the desire to offer your own children happy beach memories. The rhythm of your slice reminds me of the water lapping at your feet as you collect shells with your kids.