A stray follows the man who picks plastic from the beach every morning. I notice it's not looking at him, merely tracing the footmarks he leaves, like it knows them, shaped into eight, blurring away towards the tiny toe. They stop and start, a pattern like a question, sometimes answered, often not. The man stoops where tiny red crabs are rearing heads, cowering back, like a children's game. He picks a shell, two, then more, like the ones girls thread together to wear around their necks, then puts them in his breast pocket remembering something. I imagine a daughter, waiting.
Mandira Pattnaik is a writer, editor and columnist. She loves the sea and beach walks. More at mandirapattnaik.com.