A Talk With The Sea

As I was running along the long sea beach this morning, I remembered my Geography teacher from school. We were generally good at Geography. We understood the Earth’s rotation and revolution, the Tropic of Cancer, the seasons, all the respectable parts of the subject. But one chapter haunted the entire class: tides.

Our teacher tried his best. He spoke about ships waiting patiently on the shore for high tide, about the water level rising and falling twice a day, and the special high tides twice a month because of the Moon. It was fiction to us. The classroom collectively surrendered. Back then, there were no YouTube tutorials nor ChatGPT to explain it better, so the chapter quietly passed without much discussion. We memorised it word for word, line by line, and never questioned it again.

Today I stand in Cox's Bazar, and tides are no longer a textbook chapter. I saw that the water level was higher this morning. The running route that I took a few days ago was under waves today. I was enjoying the run, and I ran about nine kilometres on smooth sand beach. There was no one around, except the waves, the empty beach and sand. Boats were already heading toward the horizon. The beauty of the sea was overwhelming, yet no one seemed to notice. Perhaps the locals have already had enough conversations with it. I, on the other hand, am new here. As the saying goes, नयाँ जोगीले धेरै खरानी घस्छ or I am eager to have a conversation with the sea.

So I run, and I watched the tide. I thought that the topic 'tides' needs no explanation to the student in Cox's. The sea itself explains to them. As I see the sea rises. The sea retreats; it reminds me of a story of The Old Man and the Sea by Ernest Hemingway. The sea is not scenery but a companion, sometimes kind, sometimes indifferent, always larger than human pride. The vastness of the Sea tells us that it has many things to share, but it is not in a rush. Listen to the sea with patience, and it explains everything.

Comments

The Weekend Expedition

"The world is a book and those who do not travel read only one page." — Saint Augustine "One must travel to learn." — Mark Twain "To travel is to live." — Hans Christian Andersen Travel quotes are beautiful. They make me want to quit my job, buy a backpack, and disappear into the mountains with nothing but a notebook and an unreasonable amount of optimism. Then I remember I have bills. I also admire the people who wrote these famous travel quotes. They all lived before commercial airlines, budget airlines, baggage fees, airport security, visa applications, and the invention of the middle seat. Back then, travel was a genuine adventure. You packed your belongings, mounted a horse, boarded a ship, or simply started walking. If you returned, you wrote a book. If you didn't, someone else wrote your biography. There was no climate guilt attached to every journey. Nobody calculated the carbon footprint of a camel. There were no traffic jams stretching for fi...

My Morning, Their Midnight

Time is relative. I am not bragging about Einstein's Theory of Relativity. This is about several time zones within Kathmandu city. Five o’clock is not universally “early morning.” This morning, it was a usual morning for me. But the empty roads suggested that for many others, it was still midnight. Near the temples, devotees were already walking back from their prayers. Their day had clearly begun long before mine. I imagine they must be thinking, "Ah, the late risers are out." And the vegetable vendors? For them, 5 a.m. is practically late morning. Shops open, scales ready, transactions underway. Their workday was already in full swing while it was still dark. Then comes Thamel, lights still glowing, people spilling out of pubs, laughing, smoking. For them, the night was young. It appears Nepal’s little Las Vegas, blinking through a hangover. “Early” and “late” are not absolute words. They are relative to what we make with our own lifestyles. Time is less a clock and mor...

The Pursuit of 3:59

I registered for my next marathon. The 18th Kathmandu Marathon is scheduled for Saturday, 10 October 2026, just one day before Ghatasthapana. The following morning, Dashain will begin. Families will gather, kites will appear in the sky, Dashain dhuun and smells of the festival. And for me, if all goes according to plan, it will also mark the end of a three-month break from alcohol. What a day to resume a glass of whiskey. I am giving myself three months to prepare properly. No shortcuts. No excuses. Clean eating. Consistent running. Adequate rest. I am breaking my last year's marathon record of 4 hours and 28 minutes. This year, the target is clear: sub-four hours. The difference between 4:28 and 3:59 is not only twenty-nine minutes, but it is also going to be what I do in these three months. My run, my food, my sleep and many more, all my small decisions will definitely make a difference. In many ways, the marathon itself is the easy part. The race lasts a few hours. The preparati...

When a Job title becomes an identity

"Hello, my name is Bond, James Bond, and I am a marketing assistant." A 9-to-5 job holder, James Bond would be proudly selling a product. But James chose the right job: to become an assassin. he is still a government employee, and much of his identity as 007 is as an MI6 agent. Our surnames are based on profession. My surname is Maharjan, which means a farmer. I no more do farming; nonetheless, the surname remains deeply embedded in social identity. My surname says what my parents and ancestors used to do for a living. Many government quota systems are still based on surnames. For me, I have a profession, and I have my Business cards, LinkedIn profiles, office door nameplate, email signatures, and my elevator pitch; all reinforce my profession as the centre of my identity. Have I blurred the line between my profession and personality? I have been a job holder for more than 25 years now. A job title is useful for me. It tells people what I do. It is comforting. It provides pu...

The book Thief

I finished The Book Thief this week. The first thing that stands out about the novel is its narrator. The story is told from the perspective of Death. Rather than appearing as a terrifying force, Death becomes an observer, a collector of souls, and ultimately a storyteller. Out of the millions of lives that pass before him, he keeps returning to one ordinary yet remarkable girl: Liesel Meminger. Liesel is a foster child growing up on Himmel Street, a modest working-class street in Nazi Germany during the Second World War. Through Death's narration, we witness her life, her struggles, her friendships, and the quiet moments that unfold beneath the shadow of a devastating conflict. What impressed me most was the simplicity with which the story is told. There are no grand military campaigns or dramatic political speeches. Instead, we see football games in the street, the loyalty of her friend Rudy, the kindness of the Hubermann family, and the small routines of everyday life. Most war ...

Random hits on the keyboard

Search This Blog