The Dry Fish Breeze

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I carry the tales of fishermen’s toil,

Salt on my skin, born of sea and soil.

From nets at dawn and the curing sun,

I lift their dry fish when the day is done.


I play with sails as boats return,

Heavy with hope that the markets earn.

By night I rise, with a trader’s call,

A roaming path beyond hill and wall.


Through coastal lanes where the sea winds sleep,

Past laughter, bargains, promises kept,

I gather the scent of dried silver scales,

Packed in baskets, tied with tales.


Upward I climb where the Sahya stands,

Through winding ghats and forested lands.

In village haats at break of day,

I arrive with the sea, though far away.


I echo with bells from temple doors,

Mix with tea steam and earthen floors.

I guide the voices, the hunger, the dream,

Of hillfolk waiting for gifts from the sea.


From the Queen’s wide waters, bold and free,

To Sahyadri’s ribs of ancient stone,

I am the sandal-salted breeze you feel-

The sea’s hard work, gently home-delivered.


So when dry fish scents the mountain air,

Know I have walked the long trade there.

Land to sea, and sea to land,

I sell the ocean - by nature’s hand.

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