Choosing between mountains and beaches requires a fair degree of contemplation. But I feel that the contemplation itself isn’t so much about weighing the intrinsic nature of either.

Neither is it about the difficulty of choosing because I would pick mountains nine times out of ten. The issue is more fundamental about the boundaries of expressions and the sprawling nature of their meanings. When I think mountains, I think mountains, as I should if I am to respect the literal conception of words.

But when I think of beaches, I think beyond. I think of the sun, which is like ninety-three million miles away, and its soothing rays falling gently on my face.

I think of the vast blue ocean and the calming sound of the waves that come and go continuously, accompanying our breaths. I also think of the scantily clad women taking snaps or reels or whatever is popular these days. I think of coconuts, the green kind that is cut open and inside of which a straw is put.

But rarely, if at all, do I think about the beach in the most literal sense, as a strip of land covered with sand. Because in that case, I feel there is nothing much to contemplate over as it is nothing but dust and dirt.

Perhaps the only good thing about beaches is that when it's a winter afternoon with clear skies, and one is tempted to sunbathe, the warmth and softness one feels underneath one's feet the moment one takes the first step into the beach is quite welcoming and therapeutic.

That, I acknowledge, is a pretty good feeling. Or perhaps also during summer, when it is sweltering hot, and you’re hiding away in your room all day, waiting for the sun to set, after which you go for a walk along the shores where the waves occasionally, but not always, reach up to your feet and you have that pleasant cooling sensation.

But again, most of what I admire is not the intrinsic property of the beach itself, although whatever it is that comes to mind when we think of beaches, I acknowledge, is quite beautiful. That is, if we are to go beyond the literal. My only point is that, quite like the light of the moon, the said beauty, however, is borrowed and derived. As such, what I feel lacking when people talk about beaches is appropriate deference to the waves and to the oceans from which they originate, among other things. If the option, for instance, was between mountains and the seas or the oceans, then I would have a much more difficult time making a choice.

That being said, my object in this particular instance isn’t to elaborate on the apparent lack of respect for the oceans or the seas in this whole mountain versus beaches discussion. Instead, it is to touch upon a rather trivial incident, or perhaps the more appropriate word would be offence, which took place somewhere between the beach and the ocean. But the way the offence was carried out was so innocent and deftly executed that I couldn’t help but marvel, even though I had been robbed.

For one thing, it wasn’t anything of great value worth crying over. Just a cheap pair of glasses I bought from a newly opened store near my residence back in Nepal as an impulse buy. Initially, on that day, I wasn’t even keen on going into the ocean, but I figured if I was already there, I might as well do the carpe diem thing. So I got up without saying anything and walked towards the horizon in front of which the ocean spread.

As the waves touched my feet, rose up to my shins, and then retreated into the ocean, I was reminded of a time several years ago when I was on a beach near the South of India.

I must have been in my early teens and had repeatedly been doing this thing where I’d go stomach-deep into the ocean, turn around, and dive along with the waves towards the beach.

It was a pretty childish exercise, really, but fun all the same. Without much thought, and as if initiated by muscle memory, I emulated my past, and when I emerged from the water, the only feeling I had was one of pure contentment. It was only after AnaÏs, who was still on the beach, screamed something that I fully came back to the present.

All I could clearly comprehend from her shout was the phrase ‘your eyes’, and I imagined it to be some kind of warning to exercise caution. My first instinct was one of annoyance, the type that arises when someone advises you of an instruction you were about to implement anyway, but the timing of it makes it seem like the other person knew better and you didn’t.

“Yes, I know”, I replied, rather curtly, and it was only after she said, “La lunette,” did I realised, right as I was running my hands through my hair, that my glasses were missing. Like every time I dropped something and did not know, I was in disbelief. How can something just fall off, a state of equilibrium be disturbed, and I not notice? It would have been one thing had this been something tiny or very light and carelessly placed in my pocket. But it wasn’t. It was resting on my skin, helping me see the world more clearly. And that was the irony of it. I couldn’t see the loss of that which was supposed to help me see better.

I thought maybe I had left my glasses with the towel back on the beach, refusing to move away from denial, but it only took me about fifteen steps in the right direction to get to acceptance. I took a deep sigh and looked out into the ocean, which continued feigning ignorance of the offence it had just carried out and continues to carry out.

Perhaps what makes the offence forgivable is that it is indiscriminate in nature. The waves take whatever approaches. I tried but failed to take solace in that. The next day, I was taking a night walk on the beach with AnaÏs, and she was teasing me about the incident when, all of a sudden, she screamed again. “Look!” This time, there was a pair of shades lying by the beach, perhaps washed up as well.

She picked it up and handed it to me. “The ocean is apologising,” I smiled, taking some sort of poetic comfort while also knowing that I was never going to wear those ugly glasses.