We sat there, on many evenings, as the sun set and the promontory would slowly develop into a craggy outline merging with the liquid ink of the Arabian Sea.
We sat there, weary in our smelly chef coats, as our own sweat and the tang of the sea-breeze enveloped the faces with a sticky patina.
We sat there, as the gala of lights came on at dusk, the then Ashok Beach Resort, a Charles Correa creation built in the swinging 60s, at the height of the counter-culture.
We sat there, the mind numbed by the day’s flurry of activities, taking our time out, with or without friends, wishing that there was a respite from the long stroll back home.
We sat there, knowing that a tomorrow would come, to do things all over again in a circus of routine, but oblivious to the good chance that we would write about it in the distant future, lost in the haze of pervasive nostalgia.
As I am now.