Juhu Beach: A Poem That Never Ends

The sand sighs beneath the weight of a thousand footprints, each telling a story that the sea will erase before dawn. Grains of time slip through fingers, caught momentarily in the folds of a child's palm before the wind claims them as its own. The sea stretches its restless arms towards the shore, then pulls back—like a hesitant lover unsure whether to embrace or retreat. Waves curl and uncurl, whispering secrets to the wind, stories of lands they have kissed, storms they have survived, ships they have swallowed whole.

A dog, thin and weary, weaves between sunbathers, eyes hopeful, tail wagging like a flag of forgotten wars. His paws leave faint prints on the wet sand, only to be stolen by the next impatient wave. Seashells, abandoned homes of quiet creatures, glisten under the setting sun, each one an ear pressed against the chest of the ocean, still echoing with its song.

The sky is a shifting canvas, the clouds smeared across it in careless brushstrokes. Some hang heavy, as if weighed down by secrets too dense to carry. Others drift, light and unburdened, white boats sailing an invisible sea. The sun, a molten coin slipping between the fingers of the horizon, stains everything in hues of gold and longing.

A couple walks by, their fingers entwined, their laughter slipping between the spaces of the waves. Their footprints linger side by side, then blur into one—a brief testament to their togetherness before the sea claims them too. A runner dashes past, his breath measured, his heartbeat syncing with the rhythm of the tide. His world is silent save for the crunch of sand beneath his soles, the whisper of wind against his skin.

Closer to the water, a woman in a sari lets the hem of her garment flirt with the waves, a hesitant touch, a whispered conversation. Her eyes hold the weight of stories she will never tell. A child chases a balloon, the string slipping through his fingers like a dream half-remembered. The balloon soars, a red dot against the fading blue, and then it is gone—like childhood, like love, like all things fleeting.

The high-rise buildings stand at a distance, indifferent, their windows reflecting a sky they will never touch. They watch over the beach like silent sentinels, their lights flickering on one by one, artificial stars that will never burn out. Somewhere, a vendor calls out his last offer of roasted peanuts, the paper cone warm against waiting hands.

And above it all, the wind moves like a wandering poet, gathering the whispers of the sea, the sighs of lovers, the laughter of children, the silence of the old. It carries them all away, weaving them into the endless song of Juhu Beach—a poem without a final line.