Salt in the Air

 

By the Beach, By the Heart

The sun hadn’t yet risen fully, but the salt was already in the air—stinging, thick, stubborn. Just like her love for him.

Radha walked barefoot along the shore, sari pinned tightly around her waist, carrying a small tin box wrapped in cloth. She paused every few feet, bending to pick seashells, not for their beauty, but because they reminded her of resilience. Shells break, yet they return to the sea.

She had lived in this coastal village for 27 years. Her father sold salted dry fish from a wooden stall. Her mother made papads during summer to sell in bulk. Radha had grown up with the smell of brine and burnt turmeric, the sound of waves folding into themselves.

And then Arjun came.

He arrived in the village on a blue Hero Honda, wearing a white shirt too crisp for the heat. The panchayat had hired him from the city to help digitize land records.

“He’s a government boy,” her father had whispered proudly.

Radha met him during ration distribution, holding a black bag filled with ID cards. He dropped his pen. She picked it up. That’s all it took.

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Two Worlds, One Heart

He liked tea with two spoons of sugar. She preferred her coffee strong and black. He played Kishore on his phone. She hummed old Tamil lullabies.

But when they spoke, they spoke like monsoon and soil—meeting suddenly, changing the texture of everything.

He would wait near the old mango tree, she would pretend she was passing by. She began carrying jasmine in her hair. He bought a cheap chain with her initial.

They kissed only once, under a tin shed during rain, lips salty, wet, unsure.

“I will talk to my mother,” he promised.

Radha believed him.

---

Walls Have Ears, Homes Have Shackles

When his mother came, she came like thunder without warning. A grey-haired, stern-faced woman in a maroon silk sari. She did not eat the fish curry Radha’s mother made. She did not sit on the charpai offered to her.

“She’s dark,” the mother said later. “And poor. And not from our caste.”

Arjun didn’t speak. Not then. Not later. Not even when Radha cried into his chest.

“I need time,” he finally said.

But time was a fickle friend.

A week later, Arjun was transferred to Chennai. His number stopped ringing. His messages became fewer, then none.

Radha waited a month. Then two.

The jasmine in her hair wilted.

---

Struggle Is a Woman’s Surname

The village moved on.

So did the fish. So did the moon. But Radha stayed.

She began helping her father more—salted, sorted, scaled, sold. She learned to say "no" when customers haggled. She stopped looking at Hero Hondas.

One day, her father said, “There’s a proposal.”

Radha didn’t say yes. But she didn’t say no.

But the man, a widower with two children, took one look at her silent face and declined.

“Too proud,” he muttered.

Radha smiled for the first time in months.

“Pride is not a sin,” she said to no one.

---

Salt in the Wound

Two years passed.

One morning, while laying dried anchovies on a mat, a familiar voice broke the air.

“Radha.”

She turned.

Arjun.

Same white shirt. Greyer eyes.

“I came for a wedding,” he said. “I… thought of you.”

“Did you bring your mother too?” she asked, straightening.

He winced. “I’m not married.”

She didn’t ask why.

He sat beside her, uninvited, and picked up a fish.

“You remember how you used to laugh? Loud, like a temple bell.”

“I forgot,” she said. “I had bills to pay.”

“I made a mistake,” he whispered.

“We all do.”

“I still love you.”

Radha looked at the sun. It was rising. The fish would soon dry.

She stood up.

“Love that disappears when it’s tested—is it still love?”

He looked away.

She dropped a handful of salt over the fish.

“Go,” she said softly. “Before the sea comes in.”

He left.

She did not cry.

---

End: But Not a Tragedy

That evening, Radha opened the small tin box she had carried that morning.

Inside were dried jasmine flowers, a rusted chain, a photograph, and a train ticket—unused.

She added one more item: a seashell, chipped but still whole.

And she smiled.

Because some stories don’t end with weddings.
Some end with women choosing themselves.

The End.

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links

Salt in the Air : https://lifeinwords2025.blogspot.com/2025/05/salt-in-air.html

Price of Dreams: A Tale of Money, Morals, and Mayhem (Chapter 5): https://lifeinwords2025.blogspot.com/2025/05/price-of-dreams-tale-of-money-morals_23.html

Price of Dreams: A Tale of Money, Morals, and Mayhem (Chapter 4): https://lifeinwords2025.blogspot.com/2025/05/price-of-dreams-tale-of-money-morals_3.html

Price of Dreams: A Tale of Money, Morals, and Mayhem (Chapter 3): https://lifeinwords2025.blogspot.com/2025/05/price-of-dreams-tale-of-money-morals_97.html

Price of Dreams: A Tale of Money, Morals, and Mayhem (Chapter 2): https://lifeinwords2025.blogspot.com/2025/05/price-of-dreams-tale-of-money-morals_22.html

Price of Dreams: A Tale of Money, Morals, and Mayhem (Chapter 1): https://lifeinwords2025.blogspot.com/2025/05/price-of-dreams-tale-of-money-morals.html

Full story_ In another life : https://lifeinwords2025.blogspot.com/2025/05/in-another-life-love-story-left_14.html

In another life trailer: https://lifeinwords2025.blogspot.com/2025/05/in-another-life-love-story-left.html 

Intro of life in words: https://lifeinwords2025.blogspot.com/2025/05/life-in-words-home-for-heartfelt-stories.html