In the Vizagite’s mind and life, Ramakrishna Beach (or Visakhapat-namu beechi as it is called in chaste Telugu) occupies the same place as the bank of the Sarayu seems to have in the psyche of the Malgudi resident. It is a source of pride and joy, never more than a short ride from where we live, the place where Vizag kicks off its chappals at the end of the day and lets the Bay of Bengal tickle its toes.
I was home for Deepavali this year, and went for a walk on the beach to explore our old haunts. Back in the ’60s, when my newlywed parents moved here, the beach was a deserted stretch of sand and shingle. People looked askance if you said you were going to the beach and you could expect the odd jackal for company.
This is now a busy intersection with a bus stop, auto stand, restaurants, vendors of food and purveyors of trinkets made from seashells and coral. Unfortunately, the food stalls and curio stores have spilled on to the sand, somewhat ruining the ambience.
Dubious-looking ‘Chinees’ establishments are in danger of putting the ‘traditional’ muri-mixture-walas out of business. For old times’ sake, I parted with Rs 10 for a newspaper-cone-full of the mixture (a muri-onion-tomato-peanuts-lemon-chilli concoction that can occasionally rise to superlatively tasty) and a couple of bajjis. The Ramakrishna Mission that lends the beach its name has set up shop at one end of the road. I walked into the Mission’s cavernous meditation hall and took in the quiet for a few minutes before plunging into the hubbub on the Beach Road proper.
Vizag is India’s busiest port and also the headquarters of the Navy’s Eastern Naval Command, and their presence is palpable throughout the city, but especially on the beach. The horizon is filled with ships of all sizes waiting patiently for a chance to enter the overcrowded port. At night they look like so many faraway Christmas trees separated by inky patches of nothingness. On Navy Day (December 4), there are marching bands, sailors in crisp uniforms, assorted weaponry, floats…the works. As darkness falls, an armada of warships from the Eastern Naval Command that has been patiently standing out to sea lights up, leaving the onlookers on the Beach Road gasping and sighing — an annual moment of roasted corn-on-the-cob and magic.
The Beach Road is also Vizag’s equivalent of New York’s ‘Museum Mile’. Walking northwards from the bus stop, the Visakha Aquarium is closest at hand. Home to a number of denizens of the deep, and interesting though it is, it could definitely do with an expanded collection, more funding and better upkeep. A half-kilometre stroll took me past a mermaid ‘sculpture’ and a pair of surreally painted concrete dinosaurs to the Panduranga temple. A few hundred metres up from the beach on a hill slope, this used to be a quiet, delightful little small-town shrine with a wonderful view of the surf. Today, it’s just another busy temple, and the forest of apartment buildings that have since come up have killed the view.
The esplanade is lined on the seaward side with a broad pavement, and a perennial favourite for evening walks and morning jogs. I sat on the stone parapet and looked out as I had done on countless days, unwinding with friends at the end of the day. A little further is RK Beach’s newest attraction, Asia’s only submarine museum. The navy grounded the INS Kursura on the beach and runs this excellently maintained facility. For the price of an admission ticket, I sauntered into the innards of a diesel-electric submarine, walked from the torpedo tubes through the control area and into the engine spaces, and took away a slice of history and technology, thanks to the very helpful and knowledgeable staff on board.
A little further, the Visakha Museum. The setting — a refurbished high-roofed colonial bungalow with a broad veranda and colonnade — is almost as interesting as the museum itself. Largely dedicated to the maritime traditions of India and the local history of the region, the idiosyncratic collection houses such things as an unexploded Japanese bomb that was dropped on the port, the coconut that Nehru broke on the occasion of the launching of the first ship from the city’s shipyard and artefacts recovered after the sinking of the Pakistani submarine PNS Ghazi near the harbour.
My last stop in the gathering dusk was VUDA Park. This large, shady garden marks the end of RK Beach. Although it was full of holidaymakers, I found a secluded spot where I could sit and allow my mind to wander across the years. The beach is a shared space, where over the course of a day, many worlds co-exist and sometimes collide. The mornings are dominated by the health nuts, mostly of the retired variety. In the evenings, it is a crazier place, a truer representative of urban middle-class India. The city descends here to commingle, throw a ball around, grab a snack and steal a few moments alone with a significant other.
In the middle of the day, RK Beach throws on an invisibility cloak, gets into a time machine and goes back to being what it was like in less frenetic times. If you can take a little bit of heat and loneliness, it is perhaps the best time of the day to be here. There is a fresh breeze; the occasional non-mechanised fishing boat traces large lazy arcs, all taut muscles and tauter lines. A white-bellied sea eagle occasionally wings its way over the shoreline. And a lonesome hack who grew up not too far from the water digs his toes into the warm sand and ever so often uncovers a memory.