I learned to tell when the sea was turbulent, having taken a ferry to college every day, from Mora to Bhaucha Dhakka, the smelliest dock in Mazgoan (Sassoon Dock was the smelliest dock on the East coast of Bombay, and best avoided). I commuted by boat since I was fifteen, first for French classes over the summer after my boards, then for the next five years to St Xavier’s College. My routine was fixed, and I had ferry friends, who would hold the boat if I were running a few minutes late. We adjusted our schedule to match the sea’s temperament— low tides and high tides— were carefully tracked and missing a boat meant spending an hour (or more) on an uncomfortable bench, with flies, dogs and a very fishy smell for company. If it were the rainy season, you couldn’t even risk eating  spicy chaat and had to stay hungry or eat (Peppy) chips; I wasn’t drinking coffee yet, but would occasionally treat myself to a bottle of sweet Mangola, killing time until the next boat was announced. It’s been over a decade since my last ferry ride, but the most unforgettable part of the commute was the monsoon. If you thought Bombay rains are dramatic, they aren’t a patch on the experience of getting to Town on a rickety ferry. I viscerally remember a typical turbulent boat-ride in the monsoon. Even as I type this, I feel my knees soften and I take a deep breath to fill my lungs and mentally steady myself in anticipation.

The colour of the sea changes as clouds roll in, at first imperceptibly, and later fiercely. In the early days of the monsoon, the boat would lurch once or twice as a warning to those with motion sickness. When the colour of the sea turned a murky grey, matching the skies and horizons were lost from sight, I knew what was to come. The last boat in the evening would be at seven, not eight, and one would rush to find a spot in the centre of the boat and settling in quickly keeping the raincoat on, even if it was hot. A few minutes into the ride, waves would lash in, seeping through the gaps in the blue tarpaulin. Each boat was different, and I had preferred spots for each, most of them on the central aisle, as close to the bow as possible. If the boat wasn’t full, I’d ask them to leave the tarp rolled up, and enjoyed the view of a rough sea.

Turbulent seas thrilled me. I was young then, and fearless. I didn’t get seasick, as long as I had some air on my face, much like a dog in a car. The usual 45-minute ride could stretch to an hour. I enjoyed the rollercoaster ride, a sense of adventure. The skies darkened, it often rained. The journey would be rough and one would make it across, often soaked to the skin. If we were all bundled up, and there wasn’t any air, I’d go up to the deck. The sarang (pilot) knew me well enough to let me into the little cabin, leaving a small rickety window open to let in some air. If it was raining, sea spray mingled with raindrops, and you could taste the ocean, which was quite different from the taste of the rain.  Each wave has a rhythm and a pattern. I couldn’t map the wave but knew the movement well. There was the rise, a moment of being afloat, then an inevitable dip. Often the rise and fall would have a sideways motion too, and the boat would “roll” to one side and then the other. Inevitably someone’s bag would slip and slide, and more inexperienced passengers screamed. The ferries were small, made of wood, with paint flaking, and a layer of grime. They all had a peculiar smell, fumes from the engine, fuel mingled with the smell of the sea. On some boats, the smell was enough to make passengers gag. In all the years of being on boats, I never saw an accident— the boat always made the journey, sometimes veering off course, but making it across, no matter how long it took. The boat had to find a sympathetic path, learn when to hit the throttle when to let the sea do the pushing. Some could make the boat slide; others managed to hit every large wave— ensuring an uncomfortable, at times harrowing ride. The sarang had to know how to navigate the waters, keeping a safe distance from invisible but dangerous rocks, parked ships, other sea vessels, and finding efficient ways of getting across. The tossing continued all through the monsoon, as did shifts in my life. Growing up in a small and sheltered community, I was beginning to discover the world, taking to Bombay like a fish to water. I loved the energy of Town, the chaos of college, the frenzy of Malhar (St Xavier’s annual inter-collegiate festival), making new friends, freedom to bunk lectures, emotional rollercoasters and then escaping over the sea, to my quiet little fishing village, where a dog and uncomplicated life lay. As the boat navigated through storms and squalls, I made my way across into young adulthood, absorbing a certain way of life. One way to deal with turbulence was to find its ebbs and flows, but another was to find stability within the boat. It may roll to the edge of the water, but there was a point when it would arch back, and right itself. Balance was the key. I experienced what even keeled meant, all those years ago, even if I struggled to learn it. To stay centred as you sway, but to not fall over. If a mighty wave comes, you turn flexible rather than rigid, ride it out, learn to compromise, and avoid capsizing. It all comes down to judgement, one that is honed over the years.

Living next to a fishing village encouraged reverence for the sea. I often travelled with the Kolis, a fishing community and Bombay’s original inhabitants, who lived off the ocean. They knew when to venture out, when to stay ashore and when to pray. In their machchwas (fishing trawlers) they skipped over the waves, delicately rather than elegantly. Weather warnings were heeded to, and offerings of coconuts were made on Narali Purnima before going back into the sea. The Kolis knew their lives (and livelihood) depended on the benevolence of the ocean and behaved accordingly.

On the other side of the home was an impressive naval base. The Navy had bigger ships and a ferry service that ran round the clock. Monsoons didn’t bother the quick barge, Nancy, as she made her way across the bay in her usual 25 minutes. Smaller windows, stronger build separated the passenger from the view or even the experience of being on the water unless you stood on the deck, which was often regulated by stern men in uniform. The Navy knew how to navigate treacherous waters, and trained for combat, the sea was their ally, their arena and turbulence was a part of the deal. While there was a move towards dominance, there wasn’t arrogance in the stance, at least not at the Pratigya Sthall where elite commandos took their oath of defending the country to death, on completing their training, in the most picturesque location of the naval base. A larger than life bronze sculpture stood against the open sea for a background: from choppy waters emerged a strong forearm, powerfully wielding a knife. The knife wasn’t to stab the water— that would be a profoundly useless thing to do — but found its strength from the ocean. Pratigya Sthall creates a tableaux of permanent turbulence, reminding every passerby of the transience of good weather, and unwavering commitment to a cause. 

As my interests veered to visual studies and history of art and the English romantic artist JMW Turner’s seascapes held my attention, but the turbulence in his sea was quite different from my own. In my experience, large ships stayed steady on anchor, and didn’t move very much, at least in the bay. Sails had been replaced by turbines and the high seas were off limits, even for keen sailors of the Bombay’s various sailing clubs. But what I most resonated with, was the light. The shaft of light that cut through a cloud, illuminating a boat or a patch in the squall. I have seen that magic, and know it’s not just a painterly technique to create drama— I have felt a golden ray on my skin, and how it brought comfort, delight and respite. Turner caught these impossible to photograph, difficult to describe moments, and played with the essence of turbulence. The ocean binds human existence and experience, we all want to stay afloat, for waters to be calm, and the ride smooth— but turbulence has character and it teaches you to survive. In contrast, the sinister waves in the French master Géricault’s 1819 painting Raft of the Medusa (once called the Shipwreck Scene), recounts a tragedy— and a human response to a tragedy. It brings to surface the dark nature of empire building, shaking of faith, and failure of human leadership. Standing in front of the painting at the Louvre, I felt panic raise— I had no experience of being in a shipwreck— but knew how dangerous a wave was, and how easy it is to be swept off the raft of Medusa. Boats are still crashing, and choices on who should survive are being made, who deserves opportunity, and who is left to fend for herself, or to perish. We are in turbulent waters, and survival (for all) is not guaranteed.

A few years after my ferry commute was long over and replaced by dreary mundane train rides, with ten minutes over the Vashi Creek, I still noticed when the sky turned colour, and imagined the mood of the sea. You could see the rainclouds gather and move, sometimes see the sheet of downpour before it hit the boat. You braced yourself, and some people muttered a prayer. Safely stowing my iPod (classic, those were the good days) and headphones, I tuned into the sounds of the sea, in jugalbandi with the wind and the rain. Now, as thoughts swirl incoherently, I wish I could hop on to a boat, for an hour of quiet chaos, to let my confusion melt in its turbulence, and come away calmer, happier and balanced.