By Vikram Karve

 
Sunrise, on the eastern coast, is a special event. I stood at Dolphin’s Nose, a spur jutting out in to the Bay of Bengal, to behold the breaking of the sun’s upper limb over the horizon of the sea. As the eastern sky started unfolding like crimson petals of a gigantic flower, I was overcome by a wave of nostalgia – vivid memories, not diminished by the fact that almost ten years had passed.

I was a young bachelor then, and Vizag ( Visakhapatnam ) did not have much to offer. Every Sunday morning, I used to rise before dawn and head for Dolphin’s Nose to enjoy the resplendent spectacle of sun majestically rising out of the sea. The fresh salty sea–breeze was a panacea for all the effects of the hangover caused by Saturday night excesses.

After the viewing the metamorphosis at sunrise, I used to walk downhill along the steep mountain-path towards the rocky beach for a brief swim. I used to notice a flurry of activity at a distance, in the compound of a decrepit building, which I used to ignore, but curious, one day I decided to have a closer look.

It was a fish market. Most of the customers were housewives from the nearby residential complexes. They were in their “Sunday-worst” – sans make-up, slovenly dressed, faces unwashed and unkempt hair – what a contrast from their carefully made-up appearances at the club the previous evening.

I began to walk away, quite dejected, when I first saw her. I stopped in my tracks. She was a real beauty – tall, fair and freshly bathed, her long lustrous hair dancing on her shoulders. She had expressive eyes and her sharp features were accentuated by the rays of the morning Sun. I was struck by the thunderbolt and instantly fell madly in love with her.

But I knew in my heart that I stood no chance – she had a mangalsutra* around her neck. She was married – probably happily too. Nevertheless I went close to her and made her pretense of buying some fish. Smiling cannily at me she selected a couple of pomfrets and held them out to me. I managed to briefly touch her hands – the feeling was electric. She communicated an unspoken good-bye with her teasing dancing eyes and briskly walked away.

I was too delightfully dazed to follow her. I returned to my room and had fried pomfret for breakfast. Needless to say they were delicious. I religiously followed this routine every Sunday morning. She never missed her rendezvous with me – same place, same time, at precisely the same time, seven o’clock. But not a word was exchanged between us. I was too shy and she probably wanted to keep it this way – a beautiful ethereal relationship – a love so delicate that one wrong move might destroy everything. Meanwhile, I have developed a taste for fried pomfret – quite creditable, considering that I had never eaten fish before.

I left Vizag. Time passed , I had sailed around the world , but I never forgot her : A man’s first love always has an enduring place in his heart. And now I was back in Vizag almost ten years later. As I walked down the slope towards the beach, in my mind’s eye I could still vividly visualize the playfully sublime look on her face - her gentle smile and communicative eyes – although ten years had passed. I could not contain the mounting excitement and anticipation in me. I was desperately yearning to see her again. It was a forlorn hope but I was flushed with optimism.

As I reached the beach I noticed that the Sun was well clear of the horizon. I glanced at my watch. It was almost seven o’clock. I hastened my step – almost broke into a run – and reached the fish market and stood exactly at the same spot where we used to have our rendezvous at sunrise.

With tremors of anticipation, almost trepidation, I looked around with searching eyes. Nothing had changed. The scene was exactly the same as I had left it ten years ago. Only one thing was missing - she wasn’t there. I had drawn a blank. I was crestfallen. My mind went blank and I was standing vacuously when suddenly I felt that familiar electrifying touch. It shook me to reality, as quick as lightning. She softly put two promfret fish in my hands. I was in seventh heaven.

I looked at her. I was not disappointed. Her beauty had enhanced with age. But there was a trace of sadness in her eyes as she bid me an unspoken goodbye. I was too dumbstruck by the suddenness of the exhilarating event to react or say anything. For a moment we looked at each other in silence – a deafening silence.

It was only as she was leaving that I noticed that there was no mangalsutra around her slender neck.

I am going to stay in Vizag for a week. And next Sunday I shall rise early, behold the majestic sunrise from Dolphin’s Nose and run down to the beach fish market to be on time for my rendezvous at sunrise. And then, dear reader, I shall tell you what happened.

VIKRAM KARVE

*A mangalsutra is an Indian and Nepali symbol of Hindu marriage, consisting of a gold ornament strung from a yellow thread, a string of black beads or a gold chain. It is comparable to a Western wedding ring, and is worn by a married woman until her husband's death.

A London street. The body of King Henry VI is being borne in a funeral procession [historically 1471] from St. Paul's to Chertsey monastery and is accompanied by Anne. To herself, she curses Richard, his future wife, and his future offspring for the murders of Henry VI and her husband Edward, Duke of Wales. Richard arrives and boldly has the procession halt so he can talk to her, threatening the armed halberdiers who try to block him. The corpse begins to bleed again in the presence of the murderer. Though he initially denies the murder of her husband, he eventually takes the position that he did the murders out of love for her, and wants to lie with her.

LADY ANNE, Widow of Edward, Duke of Wales
What, do you tremble? are you all afraid?
Alas, I blame you not; for you are mortal,
And mortal eyes cannot endure the devil.
Avaunt, thou dreadful minister of hell!
Thou hadst but power over his mortal body,
His soul thou canst not have; therefore be gone.

RICHARD, Duke of Gloucester (later to be King Richard III)
Sweet saint, for charity, be not so curst.

LADY ANNE
Foul devil, for God's sake, hence, and trouble us not;
For thou hast made the happy earth thy hell,
Fill'd it with cursing cries and deep exclaims.
If thou delight to view thy heinous deeds,
Behold this pattern of thy butcheries.
O, gentlemen, see, see! dead Henry's wounds
Open their congeal'd mouths and bleed afresh!
Blush, Blush, thou lump of foul deformity;
For 'tis thy presence that exhales this blood
From cold and empty veins, where no blood dwells;
Thy deed, inhuman and unnatural,
Provokes this deluge most unnatural.
O God, which this blood madest, revenge his death!
O earth, which this blood drink'st revenge his death!
Either heaven with lightning strike the murderer dead,
Or earth, gape open wide and eat him quick,
As thou dost swallow up this good king's blood
Which his hell-govern'd arm hath butchered!

RICHARD, Duke of Gloucester
Lady, you know no rules of charity,
Which renders good for bad, blessings for curses.

LADY ANNE
Villain, thou know'st no law of God nor man:
No beast so fierce but knows some touch of pity.

RICHARD, Duke of Gloucester
But I know none, and therefore am no beast.

LADY ANNE
O wonderful, when devils tell the truth!

RICHARD, Duke of Gloucester
More wonderful, when angels are so angry.
Vouchsafe, divine perfection of a woman,
Of these supposed-evils, to give me leave,
By circumstance, but to acquit myself.

LADY ANNE
Vouchsafe, defused infection of a man,
For these known evils, but to give me leave,
By circumstance, to curse thy cursed self.

RICHARD, Duke of Gloucester
Fairer than tongue can name thee, let me have
Some patient leisure to excuse myself.

LADY ANNE
Fouler than heart can think thee, thou canst make
No excuse current, but to hang thyself.

    

And here, a modern version... with the great Ian McKellan...