Alone, but not Lonely

 

There was a time when I used to visit Henry Island often. It took nearly five hours from Kolkata, including a ferry ride— back then, there was no bridge connecting the mainland to the island. The roads were rough, and the number of visitors was few. But that was part of its charm.

I spent many quiet afternoons there, watching the sea in stillness— alone, but never lonely—while the waves whispered their endless stories against the shore.

🌿 A Spring Quiet: Henry Island Memoir

The ferry pulled away slowly, its engine hum fading into the wide, salted hush. Before me, Henry Island opened up—not dramatic, but tender. Golden sands stretched gently to meet the Bay of Bengal, where the sea breathed in slow, soft waves. This wasn’t just a beach. It was a threshold—where the Sundarbans whispered to the sea.

The spring sun hovered low, warm and generous. I sat on a time-smoothed rock, its surface sunlit and quiet beneath me. That light didn’t simply shine—it moved like music. It touched the shape of my limbs, not for show, but as if life itself had drawn their lines. I felt it sink in—calm, deep, real.

Sunlight sips from sea and stone,
On skin, on silence, all alone.
I drop the city's heavy tone,
And breathe a stillness of my own.

Far behind me, Kolkata’s noise felt distant, almost imagined. Here, even the air was alive—earthy, salty, filled with secrets from the mangroves. They rustled softly, keeping rhythm with the ocean’s endless hush. I watched the blue stretch out endlessly, sky melting into sea— until a sudden burst of red caught my eye. Tiny crabs, bright like gems, scattered across the sand— their movement sharp and beautiful, like a heartbeat against the calm.

Tiny dancers on the shore,
Red and wild and nothing more,
A moment’s flare, then back to floor—
Nature’s quiet metaphor.

I sat with it all—this stillness, this spring heat, this perfect pause. Solitude, here, wasn’t lonely. It was grounding. Every sound, every shadow, every grain of sand felt connected—to each other, and to me. The rock, the breeze, the water—each had its own kind of welcome.

Rock below and wind above,
A rhythm only quiet loves.
Not apart, but part thereof—
This hush, this warmth, this endless cove.

Here, the heart forgets to race,
The world slows down to leave no trace.
Spring wraps me in its soft embrace—
And Henry gifts me peace and space.

– A memoir from spring, Henry Island