A Spanish siesta

A relaxed lunch in an old Spanish restaurant with lovely ambience. A glass of red wine. Then a Spanish siesta on the couch brings on the best of dreams.

Yet again to my beloved blue green water space… this time Ak and to a smaller extent Ad, feature in it. We are in a sea-creatures viewing area, on dry land, but with open water in front of us without glass barriers – as can happen only in dreams. I am madly clicking away with my camera, only half aware of the children somewhere in the background clamoring for my attention.

Amongst the creatures of note, there is a baby sea-turtle, caught in a sort of bag at the side of a boat. On either side of the sea-turtle, there are two birds, each of them talking to the turtle, flapping their wings, trying to teach it how to jump out of the bag and escape into the ocean. I think incongruously, “Silly birds, don’t they know a turtle can’t fly?”

Now the children are both with me, holding hands, watching this drama, rooting for the escape of the sea-turtle. It tries and tries and finally with a huge effort, pushes itself out of the bag and into the water. Neatly dives in and disappears. I try to follow it into the sea, camera in hand, to try and photograph it.

Mysteriously, a cement platform, about 3 feet wide, and of unspecified length, appears for me to walk on, with sea water flowing ankle height over it. All around is the vast blue green ocean: gone is the sea-creature viewing area, gone are the background crowds of other people. Except for this cement platform, there is no man-made structure or boat in view.

There is a venerable old man with white hair and beard, broad and stocky of build, looking somewhat like how God is depicted in Michelangelo’s Creation paintings. Ak runs behind me, and joins me in my search for the elusive turtle.

The water is so beautifully warm and tempting to get into. I express a wish to kayak in it, but the old man does not believe in my abilities – we are just beginning to argue about it when something else diverts us: there appears before us a speed boat with four tall well built strangers in it, wearing nothing but bathing costumes and colorful Rajasthani turbans. Accompanied by star-wars type music. Ak makes sounds to completes the last notes of the music. When I glare at him in admonition, he shrugs, says “Whaat? I was just completing the music – it is so suitable to the men in the boat!” I have to agree: “Yes… but. They are not friends, you must not mock them…”

As I say this, the men who have disembarked are striding towards us on the cement platform, somewhat menacingly. The venerable old man walks up to them and back-hands them across their faces, pushing them off the platform. Hmm, old man who seemed so gentle, is clearly territorial I think to myself in surprise. And try to pull Ak behind me.

I don’t want to wake up, I want to be in that warm blue-green water… but I wake up reluctantly into a gold-green world: a late afternoon sun filters into the room through the maple leaves at the window.

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