When the sea becomes a neighbour 

For most of my life, my window opened to chaos — blaring horns, endless traffic, and concrete towers stacked so close that even the wind felt locked out. The soundtrack of my childhood was not birdsong or breeze, but honking, shouting, and the occasional construction drill. From my room, I could see only a grey wall of buildings that blocked the sky. The air was heavy with humidity, and the air-conditioner became a year-round necessity. 

As the years went by, the daily commute grew longer, and the daily travel began to feel increasingly tiring. That was when we decided to move closer to work. Still, when the decision came to shift homes, it was not easy. Leaving behind familiar streets, relatives, friends and familiar faces carried a certain sadness. But sometimes, a heavy heart must make way for a lighter life. And so, we moved — and the sea became my new neighbour. 

The difference was immediate. For the first time, when I opened my window, fresh wind rushed in — cool, salty, untamed. The morning no longer began with car horns but with the crash of waves and the chatter of sparrows flying freely in the sky. The view was not of dusty roads but of green trees bending to the rhythm of the breeze, and of the sea itself, stretching out like an endless companion. Clothes dried faster here, though they never quite lost the lingering scent of salt. 

Every day offered a new performance. At sunset, the sky turned into a canvas of pink and gold, and it felt as though time itself paused. Strangers gathered on the shore, their hurried footsteps slowing as they stood in silent wonder. For a few moments, office workers, tourists, children, and fishermen shared the same stillness. That is when the sea felt less like a neighbour and more like a philosopher, whispering that all our rush is temporary, but the waves will continue rolling in — with or without us. 

There are days when the sea shows its playful side. Clouds scatter into unusual shapes, and the breeze teases the trees into sudden shivers. Flocks of sparrows wheel in coordinated arcs above the water, as though rehearsing for an invisible audience. On foggy mornings, the Bandra–Worli Sea Link disappears into the mist, only to reappear at night, lit up like a golden necklace strung across the dark waters, a sight that never fails to lift the mood. Sometimes, I watch the moonlight scatter over the sea in silver patches, and it feels like living inside a painting. 

But this neighbour is not always gentle. During the monsoon, the wind howls with such force that every door in the house needs a stopper. The waves crash louder, rattling windows and reminding us who is in command. Salt creeps into walls, furniture weathers too quickly, and patience is tested. Yet, even in its sternest mood, the sea never allows life to feel dull. 

From my window, I often notice the fishermen, out at sea for hours with nets in hand, their patience as vast as the water itself. I think of their resilience and wonder if the city’s restless commuters could ever learn such calm. The air here carries a mixture of salt and faint fishy notes from the boats, but it feels more alive than the smoke-filled air of the city I left behind. 

Life beside the sea is not just a change of scenery; it is a change of rhythm. The sea does not hurry, yet it never fails to return. It erodes walls but builds perspective. It unsettles and comforts in equal measure. Above all, it teaches that there is calmness even within constant motion. 

When the sea becomes your neighbour, you realise you don’t need music to feel uplifted or alarms to wake you. The waves, the wind, and the birds carry enough reminders that a new day has begun. And perhaps that is the greatest gift of all: the chance to live in harmony with a force that is both eternal and ever-changing.

atharvabhuse1@gmail.com