Making footsteps

I'll never forget the day I met Mira.
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In 2008, my parents decided that we needed a family vacation. We're South-Indians who live in North India, so there's been a persistent mystique about the southern part of our country. On the 12th day of our trip, I was in Rameshwaram, Tamil Nadu. It is city located on an island, and considered one of the holiest Hindu places in India. It is also the closest point of contact to Sri Lanka, through a bridge called Pamban Bridge.

Here is an email I wrote to my friend the day after my visit, which perfectly summarises the next two hours I spent on the overlapping beaches of Rameshwaram.
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xxxx,

Yesterday, I took a walk by myself by the beaches of Rameshwaram. I had two alone hours and all I knew was that I would stop once I saw a bridge. It was a long walk, and I was expecting no company, really.

When I reached there, under the piers, there was this abandoned boat, neatly tucked into the sand. While I sat on the boat, basking in my thoughts, I saw this girl, walking towards me. At first I thought I'd get up and let her have that sweet spot on the boat, but then I figured I got here first.

She came and sat next to me. She just sat beside me and said nothing! It was weird, because at first I felt a compulsion to talk to her – who sits next to a stranger and doesn't say anything? But as soon as I realised she had no plans to make small talk with me, I decided to let it go.

We just sat there, watching the sun plunge its way into the sea. We could have been a part of movie poster, with our young, vacant expressions; the shared wooden plank holding the weight of our fluctuating thoughts. I don't know what she was doing, but she looked as calm as I did.

When the sun set, she finally looked at me.

“Mira,” she said.

“Swetha," I responded.

We smiled and looked away again. There was still some light, swiftly fading into the grey/blue skies, and I wanted to walk around the piers, in the water, before it got too dark and I couldn't see what I was stepping on. I got up, picked up my Ipod and started walking under the bridge. After 10 steps, I heard her call my name.

I looked back and she was standing, perhaps on her way back.

“Nada. Odaade,” she said, in tamil.

Much later, after meticulous deliberation with my father (who is the only one fluent in Tamil), I finally zero-ed in on what I think she meant: Walk; don't run. It's funny how sometimes, strangers make so much sense.