When the Tide Came Too Late - Storms Outside, Storms Within - Part 4
The sea was restless that week.
Waves rose higher than usual, crashing against boats with a force that made even the most experienced fishermen hesitate. The sky stayed grey, as if it carried a warning no one could fully understand.
“Don’t go today,” one of the older fishermen told Raman. “It’s not worth the risk.”
Raman looked at the sea.
Then at his empty hands.
And finally, at the thought of his children.
“I have to,” he said quietly.
Because hunger doesn’t wait for calm waters.
That day, the sea showed no mercy.
His small boat was thrown like a leaf. The nets came back half empty. The wind screamed louder than his own thoughts. For a moment—a brief, terrifying moment—Raman felt it.
Fear.
Not for himself.
But for what would happen to his children if he didn’t return.
He held onto the edge of his boat, his knuckles turning white, his breath uneven.
“Not today,” he whispered. “I can’t lose today.”
And somehow, after hours that felt like a lifetime, he made it back.
Tired. Shaken. But alive.
At home, no one noticed.
Arjun wasn’t there.
Meera sat with her books, but her attention was elsewhere.
“You’re late, Appa,” she said, without looking up.
Raman stood at the door for a second longer than usual.
“I… the sea was rough,” he replied.
She nodded faintly.
“Oh.”
Just one word.
And then silence again.
Something in his chest tightened.
Not from the storm.
But from that moment.
Arjun returned late that night.
The smell reached Raman before his words did.
Not alcohol.
But something careless. Something unfamiliar. A mix of dust, sweat, and irresponsibility.
“Where were you?” Raman asked, his voice calm but firm.
“Outside,” Arjun replied, shrugging.
“With whom?”
“Friends.”
“Which friends?”
Arjun sighed, annoyed. “Appa, I’m not a child anymore. Why do you ask so many questions?”
The words hit harder than the waves earlier that day.
Raman stayed quiet for a moment.
“I ask because I care,” he said softly.
Arjun laughed lightly—not out of joy, but out of dismissal.
“I can take care of myself.”
That night, sleep didn’t come easily.
Raman lay awake, staring at the ceiling.
The storm outside had passed.
But the one inside his house had just begun.
Days went by.
Arjun’s presence at home became less frequent. His answers became shorter. His respect—fading in ways Raman didn’t know how to fix.
Meera, too, had changed.
She still studied. Still spoke gently. But there was distance now—a quiet wall forming, brick by brick.
“School was fine,” she would say.
Nothing more.
No stories.
No smiles that reached her eyes.
Raman tried.
He really did.
“Sit with me,” he would tell them sometimes.
“Let’s eat together.”
But there was always something.
“Later, Appa.”
“I’m busy.”
“Not now.”
The house that once echoed with small laughter now held quiet corners and closed doors.
And Raman stood in the middle of it—
Lost.
Not knowing how to reach them anymore.
One evening, as he sat repairing his nets, he looked at his hands.
Rough. Worn. Strong enough to fight the sea.
But not strong enough to hold his family together.
The sea, at least, was honest.
It showed its anger openly.
But life…
Life hid its storms in silence.
And Raman was slowly drowning in one he couldn’t even see.
Because the waves outside may crash and pass—
But the ones inside?
They stay.
They grow.
And they break you… quietly.
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