Pulicat

THIS PORT TOWN ONCE THRIVED UNDER DUTCH RULE AND NOW ATTRACTS NATURE LOVERS AND HERITAGE ENTHUSIASTS ALIKE

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The salt of the sea tickled my nostrils. The roads gently meandered through a drowsy landscape of salt-stained trees, tilting palms and sun-cracked earth. Salt pans stretched endlessly on either side, shimmering under the harsh sun, with lone figures working silently like mirages in the heat. There was a stillness in the air, broken only by the breeze that carried the smell of brine and stories.

It had always been my dream to traverse down the coastline and lose myself in dusty fishing hamlets. Pulicat, locally called as Pazhaverkadu, arrived without a grand entrance. The nondescript town unfolded like a forgotten sepia photograph. We pottered around narrow lanes stacked with lime-washed homes in faded pastel hues. A bicycle leaned against a tree. Somewhere, someone was frying fish. The air was thick with sea and spice.

Elsewhere the echo of laughter broke the silence and in a moment the scene morphed into a bustling market. The fisherfolk arrived with their catch. The women, draped in saris of eye-popping colours, carried their baskets while the men dragged their trawlers ashore and folded their nets. The boats bobbed on the surface. An old man sat cross-legged on a wooden bench, eyes closed, as if he too belonged to the dust and sunlight.