I grew up in a coastal metro in India. In middle school, I would accompany a friend and our fathers on morning walks by the beach. Then we would go to a drive-in for a coffee. Later, when I was in high school, we moved to a different part of town. I would cycle down to Elliots Beach. The journey from Sardar Patel Road, Velachery, was about 8 kilometers—but when you’re young, cycling long distances doesn’t feel like a challenge. Traffic was far lighter back then too. My memories of those days are hazy now, but I vividly remember the joy of watching the ocean.
Later in my life, the beach became a rare destination, only visited during vacations when time permitted. But the happy weekends at Eillots Beach had left a lasting impression. Life took me to a small, nondescript town called Nitte where I spent four years from 1999 to 2003, for my engineering studies. As a student, I had to be frugal, and was handicapped without a vehicle. So despite having a lot of time on my hands, I could not visit the closest beach, 30 km away, as often as I wanted to.
After graduation, I moved to Bangalore. A city where I experienced all the ups and downs of my adult life. A lot of people who move to Bangalore find it a fun city. I found it charming initially. The weather was so much better than Chennai and Nitte. I had had a job and money of my own to spend. I had a motorcycle to roam around. But where do I go? I did not know a lot of people here. And there is hardly anywhere you can go by yourself, to sit and unwind.
The beach offers some of life’s simplest joys. You don’t need to spend a dime—just step onto the sand, and you’re part of nature’s beauty. Whether you’re alone or with friends, seeking peace or creating memories, or aimlessly wandering – the rhythmic waves and cool breeze invite you to unequivocally. You can sit, jog, take a dip in the water, play, bring your pet along, and do so many other things with no one to bother you. It’s a reminder that happiness can be found in the simplest things. This was a start contrast from weekend trips day trips from Bangalore that my friends and I would make. Numerous times, we have gotten stuck in traffic on our return journey, or faced resistance from locals who objected to us taking photos or flying our drones.
In 2022, 23 years after my last stint in a coastal town, I voluntarily moved to Udupi, where I lived just 4 kilometers from the beach. I visited it whenever I could, drawn by the endless stretch of sand and the natural boundary where land meets the vast expanse of the ocean. Flying my drone over the water became a favorite pastime—sometimes to capture a sunset, other times to track the journey of fishing boats. My rational mind knew there was nothing romantic about the boats. Fishing is grueling work, and our oceans are alarmingly overfished.
There was something irresistible about standing on that threshold between vastness and beauty. I never got bored of watching both sunsets and the temporary but intricate patterns etched in the sand. Occasionally, I would catch glimpses of mysterious creatures washed ashore. Luckily, this beautiful ocean is spared human encroachment because we cannot occupy it. Not that our shoreline is without pollution. The waters always return the gifts of pollution that we dump into it. High tides were the worst – because they always carried the most amount of pollution. But let us not digress.
I did not know many people in Udupi either, yet, during my evening beach visits, I found myself more present than I had ever been. The crashing waves make the seashore a noisy place. Random rogue waves can easily catch you off guard. In this natural chaos, it is the silence and calmness that you carry within you which makes the difference.
Life in a coastal town isn’t just about the ocean; it’s also about the countless rivers, streams, and water bodies that drain into it—waters that journey from distant mountain peaks to merge with the planet’s largest, yet most elusive, expanse. Waters that rise to form monsoon clouds, and then pour down as relentless rains.
Over those 23 years, much had changed within me. I carried that change from being an immigrant boy who lived in Chennai, where Tamil was not a native tongue, to being an adult, living by myself in Udupi years later, where I felt closer to my roots. Yet, Udupi was just a place I physically occupied—not a home in the truest sense. My father is no more, and my mother had no intention of leaving Bangalore. She was unwilling to leave the city she had grown attached to. Our ancestral home isn’t even in Udupi—it is 100 kilometers away near Puttur. And so, after living in two coastal towns and making some of my best memories by the sea, I found myself grappling with a bittersweet truth: no place on this earth truly felt like home in the 40 odd years I had occupied this earth. Despite this, Udupi left such a lasting impression on me.
During the two years I lived there, I eagerly anticipated 4 p.m. every day. That was my cue to check the cloud patterns and decide whether the sunset would be worth capturing. The sun dipped late, but those two hours before twilight were filled with adrenaline. There was always a possibility that the sky would explode in epic colors, and the thought of capturing those moments fueled my anticipation.
By late afternoon, the house would become unbearably hot, and the thought of feeling the cool sea breeze on my face became irresistible. The heat drained every bit of energy, making the shift from day to night unmistakable—a physical transition I felt in every cell of my body. The scorching sun gradually surrendered to a soothing sunset, eventually making way for the calming relief of nightfall.
I had to leave this slow life much too soon, and it felt like being uprooted from a place I had grown deeply fond of. What saddened me even more was that visiting the beach would once again become a rare occasion—something only possible when on holiday or taking time off from life in the city. It would no longer be a place I could visit on a whim to gather my thoughts, surrender to nature, or simply unwind after a long day.
Beyond the sunsets and serene evenings, there was also a sense of unfinished exploration. The coastline from Udupi all the way to Goa and beyond held countless mysteries. Two years were simply not enough to experience all that it had to offer. I wasn’t even done poring over maps, marking out potential photography spots, and dreaming about undiscovered treasures waiting to be explored.
This is where I lament the corporate slave that I am—the harsh reality of living without generational wealth, where the need to earn a living always trumps what the heart truly desires.
Many people appreciate my photos, but I’ve never seen myself as anything special. I’m merely capturing the sheer beauty I’m lucky to witness: the riot of colors at sunset, the endless ocean, the winding rivers framed by lush green trees, the fleeting sight of the Milky Way’s galactic core, the ominous monsoon clouds, and the mesmerizing patterns formed by water bodies both large and small.
The beauty of the coast is simply too immense to describe or document—it has to be experienced. I am grateful that I had the opportunity to spend 2 years in Udupi and connect to the same feelings I felt as a young boy. Of course, not everything about those two years have been positive. But as I said previously, what you carry within you makes all the difference. Unlike in a city, where the vibe is all about chaos, struggle and slow death of all things natural and beautiful.
