The Gift of the Sea

You are my sea's present. That was the first line of the letter she wrote to him, which she carefully folded into a glass bottle and dropped into the ocean on a lazy summer day. Ananya had always held the belief that love was vast and deep, sometimes calm and sometimes wild, but always powerful. Love was like the ocean. She spent her evenings in a Bangladeshi coastal village watching the waves kiss the shore and whisper secrets only she could hear. Arif came next. He didn't come from the sea. He was a city man who spoke quickly and had bright eyes. He was carrying a camera and a notebook full of poetry. He went to the village to photograph the ocean for a travel documentary, but instead he discovered Ananya. They met by chance, or perhaps by chance, as Ananya preferred to believe. She was looking for seashells. He was looking for the ideal sunset shot. When they crossed paths, something changed. Ananya spoke as if the sea were alive when Arif inquired about it. She looked at the waves and said, "It listens." “It roars when I'm sad. It sparkles when I'm happy. He made a joke about how "you make the sea sound like it's in love with you." She grinned. "Perhaps it is." The days grew into weeks. Arif stayed for more time than expected. The documentary gradually evolved into a collection of images—of waves, laughter, and Ananya's hair fluttering in the wind. He was inspired to write poems by her voice, which brought to mind monsoon rains on tin roofs. Love was never mentioned. But in the quiet, when they shared mangoes under the old banyan tree or barefoot walked along the sand, it was understood. Arif had to leave, though. He was contacted again by the city with deadlines and facts. Ananya's heart broke quietly as she stood at the water's edge and watched him leave. He said he would come back before he left. She didn't believe her voice as she nodded. Promises were like waves in her world—they came and went constantly. Days went by. then for weeks. Months.

No characters. No calls. Arif absent. Nonetheless, Ananya went to the beach each evening. She poured her heart into the wind, told stories to the sea, and spoke to it. She then wrote that line one day, unable to take it all in: "Tumi aspire to be like God. You are my sea's present." That letter contained all of her memories, sorrow, and love. She put it in a bottle, let the ocean carry it, and sealed it. Time moved silently and steadily, just like the tide. A man who was unconscious near the rocks was discovered by the village children one morning, nearly a year later. He was weak, sunburned, and holding a wet notebook. Arif was it. He was brought to Ananya's house by them. At first, she didn't recognize him because he was thinner and his face was worn from sickness and travel. However, when they opened, his eyes were the same. He mumbled, "I returned." "The letter found me," it read. Ananya asked what had happened, confused and shaking. She was told a story that seemed like a dream by Arif. He discovered her bottle washed up on the shore near his home months after he returned to the city. The sea had taken months to deliver her words. He said that her letter was like a beacon in a storm. He then realized that he had no choice but to return. However, fate yet again prevailed. His journey was difficult and long. He got sick, got lost, and had his belongings stolen, but that notebook and the letter that gave him hope never left him. He was here now. Maybe damaged. But this is. Ananya remained silent. She just held his hand and let the crashing waves of the sea outside speak for her. She sat next to him that night and whispered the same line once more: "I want to be like God." He understood everything this time.