hen I was fourteen I fell in love with a woman. I didn't know it was love at that time, only a peculiar feeling that ascended up from my toes and enveloped me in a warm, fuzzy aura. Years later I still remember our first meeting. One of those moments that you file away along with other memorable scenes of your life's movie, like a paused frame from a video player; an image that could come to life when you want it to, at a mere flick of a mental button.

I have total recall when it comes to our meeting. I could tell you the exact colour of the sky that day- bright blue and clear except for a lonely cirrus cloud drifting like a frightened child looking for its family. I could tell you about the sounds of the thrashing waves, the smell of dried fish and ozone, and the feel of her cold skin under my hand.

Before I send your imagination into overdrive, you should know that she was made of stone.

You cannot blame me for falling in love with her. It was the way she stood, sculpted atop a lump of rock, in the foot of a small hill overlooking the sea. Her arms flung above her head in wild abandon, untamed curls of hair cascading over her shoulders and a look of love mixed with despair in her eyes. She looked out at the sea, waiting for someone to return. I at once wanted to hold her in my arms and whisper comforting words into her intricately sculpted ears. Years of wind and rain had polished her skin to perfection. She wasn't even complete: her hips tapered off into the amorphous lump of granite and she looked like a stone mermaid arising from the sea of rock. That only added to her mysterious allure.

I had no inkling of our meeting when I arrived at my uncle's farm in Singanallur to spend my school holidays that hot and languorous summer. I enjoyed visiting my uncle, for each year he moved from one exotic locale to another, working as an agricultural adviser to the local farms. This gave me a chance to sample the scenic delights of South India, a refreshing change to my city eyes. My uncle's current residence was a lovely cottage in the middle of a coconut grove, only a mile or so from the beach. I basked in the warm welcome from my uncle and aunt who were always delighted to see me, especially because they had no children of their own.

I finished a sumptuous lunch, savouring all the delicacies my aunt had lovingly made (for her special nephew from the city) and our conversation drifted towards the shore temples of Singanallur.

"They are very pretty," said my aunt. She dabbled in art and most of her sketches adorned the walls of their house. "I am trying to do some sketches when time permits."

"Are they very far from here?" I asked, chewing on a delicious piece of curried chicken.

"About a mile or so," My uncle said. "If you follow the path through the coconut grove, it is not far at all. It's not a very big site, mind you, most of the Pagodas have been eroded and submerged by the sea."

"That's a shame. I think I'll have a walk after the meal. I really fancy having a look around the beach."

"And stick to the shore. No wandering into the sea or climbing the hill. It's quite rough around there." My uncle warned.

I noticed my aunt trying to fill my plate again and whipped it away. She insisted on stuffing me full of food at every available opportunity. She said I was a growing boy and needed nutrition. I told her I very much intended to grow, but preferred to do so vertically rather than horizontally. I helped them clear the plates and left them discussing what they would feed me for the evening meal. A shudder ran through me at the thought of another plate of food.

I took the path through the coconut plantation that led to the beach. There was a cool breeze coming in from the sea as I negotiated the mud trail, mindful of the coconuts that could freefall anytime and stun me senseless if I didn't watch out. The world was full of different noises for me. I was used to the incessant horns of cars and buses, the blares of loudspeakers spouting forth gibberish and film songs all day in the city. It was pleasing to hear the whoosh of the waves, at once threatening and welcoming. There were birds: sparrows, robins, ravens and cuckoos in a bewildering ornithological array. The coconut palms waved their fronds in rhythm, their long hard trunks bending in unison like a troupe of dancers. I was taking it all in with a feeling of sensory overload, pleasurably overwhelmed.

The beach burst upon me as the path ended abruptly. A vast golden spread of sand, glistening in the mid-day sun, repeatedly assaulted by the bluest of blue seas, rolling onto the coastline like a posse of wild horses foaming at their mouth. I stepped onto the beach after removing my shoes, my bare feet sinking in the soft sand up to my ankles, and awkwardly walked towards the waves, pausing occasionally to pick up a few shells. They came in all shapes and colours. If you are lucky you could come across a big conch. One from which, when you held it close to your ear, you could hear the restless rendition of the sea.

The ruins of the shore temples were a few hundred yards down the coastline. I followed the water's edge, letting the waves lap my feet as I walked along. I liked the way the sea erased my footprints, smoothing the wet sand behind me with a watery hand. The beach was deserted and there weren't many people about. The Pagodas were not that popular a tourist attraction. I had done some reading prior to my arrival, dusting out some books about Singanallur and its temple ruins. The Pallava dynasty was renowned for its Pagodas and shore temples. Their South Indian kingdom was a big maritime nation, their ships traversed the Indian Ocean and the Arabian Sea to distant islands doing trade in spices, silk and precious jewels. The Pallavas adorned their ports with intricate architecture, to show the arriving foreign sailors the many splendours of their culture.

Most of these had been eroded away by the sea and of the eight temples in the Singanallur coast only three remained. The rest were visible as mossy grey rocks in the shallow waters. I could see them now. The open beach that housed the remaining three Pagodas ended abruptly at the foot of a small hillock. It looked like it started out as a respectable sized hill, but repeated quarrying for stone to sculpt the pagodas must have withered it down to its current size. The smell of dry fish wafted past us as I crossed a few catamarans, the twin hulled wooden boats used by local fishermen. Their cracked surfaces glistened in the sun from a million fish scales, like sequins.

I put my shoes back on and stepped away from the water towards the Pagodas. They were scattered around in the sand filled yard, seemingly at random. Gods and Goddesses, trees, animals and chimera thickly populated the many levels of their pyramid shaped dome supported by four stone pillars. Their base was carved to look like the wheels of a chariot. Each had been hollowed out of a single block of stone, a feat that must have taken years to perfect. There were statues of Shiva, the god of chaos, and his wife Parvati, the earth mother.

I walked around them in awe, feeling the carvings that threatened to come alive under my hand. Past the Pagodas there was an open area with a few shops clustered around. They were selling cold drinks and snacks, along with 'authentic' carvings and handmade 'antique' stone trinkets for the unsuspecting tourist. The shopkeepers were mostly asleep in the shade; cloth towels over their heads to keep cool and to occasionally wave the flies off. One of them opened his eyes as he heard me approach but closed it back after seeing that it wasn't a potential tourist. A scrawny mongrel dog roamed between the shops, its fur patchy like that of an old teddy bear left in the attic. It looked at me with rheumy eyes and shook its tail feebly. I bought a pack of biscuits from the shop and threw a few to the dog. He gobbled it up hungrily and the tail wagged a tad faster this time.

There were quite a few Tamarind trees around the area, with a few benches in their shade overlooking the hill towards the south. I propped myself on one of them and lazily chewed a biscuit, taking in everything, when I noticed someone standing atop the hillock. It was only a brief glimpse of a silhouette, and whoever it was vanished as quickly as they appeared. I squinted up to see if there was anyone but only the bare rocks glinted in sunlight. There was a rough path up the hill, steps carved into the rock crudely all the way to the top. I wondered what was up there.

Maybe I could get up there and investigate. I walked up to the steps and started climbing gingerly, feeling the heat radiating off the rocks. It was a bit steep and my calves ached as I made my way up. It was a tortuous path, winding around the hill in a lazy gradient towards the eastern face, one that overlooked the bay. My breath was coming out noisily as I reached the top where the hill flattened out into an open area.

The view was better from here. I could actually see the pattern of the Pagodas better, including the submerged ones. They were arranged in some kind of a geometric alignment, like a six-pointed star. I sat down on one of the rocks that jutted out at the top, dangling my legs. It was a long drop down to the sea, but the danger made it all the more appealing. Shrubs and stunted trees grew on the steep rock faces. There was a fishing boat coming in from the bay and a few seagulls started flying towards the shore in anticipation of an easy meal.

I was following the seagull's flight as it dived towards the waves and my eyes swept past and nearly missed the little niche in the rock face at the bottom of the hill. Here the hill dipped into deep water, without any sandy shore. For a moment it was confusing, the dazzle of the sunlight and the bright blues making me squint, everything hazy with an aura. There's a woman standing there and she's naked, I thought and looked away quickly.

After a moment's hesitation I shaded my eyes and looked again. She seemed to be standing on a rock, arm raised up as if hailing someone from the sea. I could see the smooth curve of her back, the slope of her shoulders and a glimpse of her breasts. There was a funny feeling in the pit of my stomach. I remembered accidentally stumbling upon a farm hand bathing in the river during my last holiday. She didn't know I was there and she only had a thin sari wrapped around her hips as she kept dipping in and out of water, sunlight glinting off the droplets on her bare back. I was transfixed behind a tree. A bit excited, a bit frightened, the voyeuristic curiosity submerging the feeling of danger. I felt the same now.

"She's pretty isn't she?"

I jumped in shock and whipped around to see the shopkeeper grinning at me.

I mumbled something inaudible, feeling guilty about getting caught ogling at naked woman.

"I have seen her a million times but every time I see her, I feel exhilarated." He enthused.

For a moment I didn't realise what he was saying. I turned back, looking down at her once more when it dawned on me. She hadn't moved an inch. She was frozen in the same position… She was a statue!

"You can get closer you know." He grinned.

"How?"

He pointed to a large boulder behind us; " There is an underground passage behind that rock. It's a bit damp and uneven but it leads to the cave. If you follow the path you come to the mouth of the cave where she stands. She looks even better closer. The workmanship is exquisite."

"Is she part of the temples?" I asked.

He scratched his chin. "No. More recent. I think she was sculpted only twenty or thirty years back."

"I'll go have a closer look."

"Yeah, it's worth it. But I have to warn you," he winked conspiratorially, "They say the cave is haunted. But don't expect any ghosts this time of the day." He leaned forward and spotted a tourist coach. "I'll have to go. Got customers. Sorry I gave you a shock, I just wanted to make sure you weren't up to any trouble. We get vandals spraying graffiti so we have to keep an eye out. See you some other time."

I watched him jog down the steps towards his shop. It was getting late. I resisted the urge to explore and decided to go back home.

"She was the prettiest woman in Singanallur, according to the story." My uncle reclined on his bamboo chair, sipping a chilled glass of lassi that my aunt had freshly made for us. The sky was a shade of maroon and the air filled with the scent of jasmine. The birds were coming home to their respective trees, and the leaves rustled rhythmically as they settled in.

We were installed comfortably in the backyard after another incomparable meal conjured up by my aunt. I decided to ask my uncle about the statue, tactfully leaving out my encounter with the shopkeeper. My uncle would panic and ban me from roaming freely, if he knew.

"And that's what most of it is, just a story. How much truth there is to it, I don't know. You know how it is in small towns- the stories take on a life of their own and grow in the telling. Sometimes even the people involved originally forget what really happened."

I nodded. Small villages are well known for their myths and legends, where even something that happened as recently as a few days back would assume fantastic trimmings.

"This must be over thirty years back. It was before the British left India, when the whole country was splintered under numerous vassals. It was a very feudal environment, clusters of villages governed by the biggest landlord therein. These men usually got rich from the farmers who toiled under them. They lived like kings, building palatial mansions that were run by numerous servants and housekeepers. They laid the law, did what they pleased and no one in the village even dared to question their authority. One of them, called Kalinga, lived not so far from here in Singanallur. He decided to build a house to outshine the others. He acquired the best marble from north, teak and mahogany from the forests of Kerala, and assembled the finest craftsmen available at that time to build his dream.

He sought inspiration from the shore temples and wanted a sculptor to fashion statues around his massive gardens. The story goes that he found a young man, a very talented sculptor who agreed to do this for him. He was only in his twenties but possessed immense talent and inspiration.

The landlord had a daughter called Neela. She was brought up like a princess, naturally. Her father had great plans for her future. He was arranging her to be wed to the son of a neighbouring landlord, so as to combine their wealth into something more formidable.

Trouble was, she fell in love."

"With the sculptor?" I interrupted.

"Yes. His name was Surya. And like his namesake, the Sun god, he was bright and handsome. They say the attraction between the two was instant. They started meeting secretly in the cave near the sea, for nowhere else was safe from prying eyes. The father didn't know about their relationship. The lovers knew they were risking their lives. The young sculptor was certainly risking his, for Kalinga was known for his thunderous rages.

But love, as they say, conquers all. Even the fear of death. He saw in her his muse and inspiration. He wanted to sculpt her, to immortalise her beauty in stone. In days when even looking at a man was taboo, she posed for him in the nude. His theme was a fisherman's wife looking out at sea, waiting for her lover to return. There are storm clouds in the sky and she is worried. That is the expression he wanted to capture, as a tribute to all those women who lost their husbands and lovers to the sea. She was only too happy to model for him.

Needless to say, they decided they wanted to spend their lives together. They realised her father would never agree to her union with a poor sculptor, so they decided to elope. This is where the story gets different endings."

He paused, as he always does for effect. He sipped some more lassi and wiped his moustache. The sky was darker now and the moon was out. The stars were much brighter here than in the city. I lay with my hands folded behind my head and urged him to carry on.

"Patience boy." He chuckled. "Kalinga came to know about his daughter's affair and quickly proceeded to lock her up in his house and set about arranging her marriage. He sent his men out to bring in the sculptor, dead or alive."

I sat up. This was getting interesting.

"We don't know what really happened. The old man was so powerful that he didn't let the villagers even discuss what happened afterwards. Maybe what we hear is his version. They say the girl escaped from the house, we don't know whether it was with her lover's help. Some say they made a suicide pact in the cave where he was sculpting her and died together. Only they never found his body. They found hers… she washed ashore a few days later. Others say he killed her because he couldn't stand the thought of her being married to someone else."

"What a horrible ending."

"Hey I don't make these up, I only pass them on."

I sighed. My heart felt heavy for the woman I had begun to love.

My uncle started to say something, hesitated and scratched his chin. He had a funny smile on his face. I raised my eyebrows and said, "What?"

"Well. It wasn't quite the ending to the story."

"There's more?"

He chuckled. "Depends on who you believe. They say the cave is haunted, that sometimes they hear conversation between a man and a woman, laughter, and the sound of sculpting at night. It seems the doomed lovers still meet there at nights. Sometimes they hear a woman crying, mostly muffled sobs emanating from the cave. I personally think it's probably a secret rendezvous for the village lovers looking for a quiet place. But when I asked around, no one seems to want to go there at nights. They are convinced that the ghosts till hold a grudge against the village."

He stood up and stretched. "Anyway, enough tall tales, it's late."

That night I dreamed more vividly than I have ever done before. I was in the cave and I could see her standing at its mouth, bathed in moonlight. As I walked to wards her she turned. Her stone lips moved and she whispered to me, granite eyes looking at me unblinkingly. "I am waiting for my love." Her sibilant tone echoed within the cave walls. "I am waiting…" I moved closer and touched her cheek to find it wet with tears. I wanted to hold and comfort her, but felt my fingers losing all sensation. Slowly I was turning into stone, first my fingers, then my arm, and as the stone took over my body, I couldn't move. I screamed, but no one heard me. My scream was lost in the roar of the waves.

I felt myself leave my body and fly. Halfway up in the air I turned and saw the two statues at the mouth of the cave, hers looking up with expectation and mine in a frozen scream, swathed in mottled pattern of moonlight and shadows.

There are things that you do in life which pump your blood so full of adrenaline and your head full of anticipation, that you never stop to consider the dangers involved.

But despite stepping close to that threshold of life and death, despite the cold and fear and the near certainty of oblivion, despite the churning in my stomach and the shiver that runs through me whenever I think about that night, I am glad I did it. For if I hadn't, I would've never known the real ending to the story of the woman I fell in love with.

In retrospect it was all quite easy. My uncle and aunt had been invited to a wedding in the nearby village and they asked me to come along, because they knew they couldn't make it back the same night due to poor road conditions. I pretended to be ill, from something mild enough not to stop them from going but severe enough for me to stay back. I laughed away any fears of them leaving me on my own. I told them I will be fine and it was only one night anyway.

They left half-heartedly at five in the afternoon. I quickly sprung into action. I put on my hiking boots, wrapped myself warm and checked the batteries in the torch. It was going to be a full moon night. I wouldn't get another opportunity to explore the cave and get close to the statue.

And check if the stories are true.

I took the route through the coconut grove and this time circumvented the shops at the pagoda site. There was hardly anyone about. Most of the stalls were shut anyway. I climbed up the crude steps quickly and reached the open area at the top of the hillock. Dusk was on the horizon and the sun was a large orange blob hanging low over the sea to the west. I spotted a few seagulls surfing the waves, their feathers turned golden by the setting sun. I reached the boulder and looked around for the passage. It was no more than a roughly elliptical hole. It was dark inside and I wondered if it was wise to go down.

Uncertainty lasted for a few seconds and I soon found myself clambering down the rough rockface. There were enough nooks and crannies to hold on to. It was claustrophobic and at times it felt as the rock was closing in on me. I grazed my knees a few times but eventually dropped into a little passage that opened into a large chamber. Shadows flitted on the walls and I was sure there was a bat flapping about somewhere above me. The sound of my footsteps echoed loudly inside and even the clink of a disturbed pebble was magnified tenfold. There was an incessant sound of dripping water. The walls were damp and green, sticky with algae. Finally I reached a flat strip of sand and saw the orange-red glow of the sun through the cave opening.

The sea, of which I couldn't hear much when I traversed downwards, was louder and closer.

And there she was.

A mere silhouette at first sight. Even from this angle, the gentle slope of her shoulders and the smooth tilt of her neck made her an elegant sight to behold. The curve of her waist ran into the shapeless rock. I walked on wet sand and got closer. Every little detail was there: a small mole above her upper lip, the thick eyelashes, the gentle swell of her breasts below the collar bones and erect nipples, the rich, cascading hair that tumbled down as wet ringlets… all sculpted with attention to detail. I noticed how the statue was without any trace of moss or other accretions as if someone had taken care to clean it regularly.

I didn't realise how much time had passed. It was much darker now and I switched the torch on. Despite the glorious light of the full moon and cave was still dark. The torchlight was strong but it cast menacing shadows. That and the sound of dripping water made it disturbing. I took a few paces back into the cave and felt my boots drag and slosh. I looked down.

Water.

Up to my ankles.

I was a fool. It was full moon night and the tide was coming in. I thought about all the dampness in the walls and the algae. The sea must pretty much fill up the cave. Panic set in. There was only one way out and it involved the treacherous climb. I better hurry. I ran inside and started hopping from rock to rock, taking long slippery steps towards passage up the rockface. Climbing down had been a lot easier than climbing up. I was halfway up, torch clutched under my chin, both my hands gripping damp rock when disaster happened.

I slipped.

I came down unceremoniously. I felt a shooting pain in my right foot as I landed on sharp rock. My ankle refused to work as I tried to stand up. My torch was still on, but it lay a few feet away from me, its beam illuminating the phosphorescent coating on the roof of the cave. Cold sweat broke out on my forehead when I felt seawater lapping my buttocks. I screamed. I could hear the sea rushing into the cave. The water level rose steadily. I tried to drag myself higher but every move was agony.

The water was up to my hips in no time. I shouted for help, hoping someone would hear me, but knowing that no one was going to be around. My shouts got feebler. I knew then I was going to die.

Like her.

My breathing was heavier and I was freezing. I moved yet again, this time the pain was so awful that my vision darkened and waves of nausea swept through me. The torch beam was now a scattered refraction from under water, sliding eerie speckles of light on the cave walls. I shouted again. My senses were numb with pain and panic, my head felt woozy and I started hearing other noises. Laughter, clinking of chisels, a woman's sobs, a man's voice…

I saw ghosts. Hazy figures flitting in the cave. Singing, dancing. There was a sudden hush and then a figure of a woman huddled in a corner, head resting on her knees, crying. I remembered the dream… my limbs did feel like they were turning into rock.

Then there was another ghostlike apparition wading towards me. The face came close to mine, looking into my eyes. I started drifting and flying. Bizarrely I wondered if I could dive like the seagull as I faded out.

I came around choking. Brackish water irritated my nostrils and my throat. I rolled over and gagged. My lungs felt like two bags of acid. After I finished sputtering I vaguely wondered where I was.

I was lying on the beach with the Pagodas looming to my left. There was small fire crackling in front of me.

"Are you alright?"

I swung around and felt lightning shoot up my leg.

"Careful, I don't think you have broken anything. But it certainly looks like a bad sprain."

The moon was well up in the sky and it was bright enough to see his face. It was the face I saw wading towards me in the cave . His wiry white hair was dripping wet and kindly eyes crinkled in a smile under his thick eyebrows.

"You almost got yourself killed there, kid. What were you doing there? Didn't you know the tide would come in?"

"I… I didn't think."

"Funny time to go exploring." He sat down next to me on the sand and wrung his shirt. It was difficult to guess how old he was as his face seemed to have a lot of wrinkles in the firelight. He looked fit, cords of muscles rippling in his upper arm as he stoked the fire.

"I guess I was stupid. I wanted to see the statue in moonlight and…"

He looked at me with a wry smile. "A romantic, eh?"

"You saved my life. Thanks seems so feeble a word"

"You were lucky I heard you. And luckier still that I am a good swimmer. I had to get you out through the sea inlet. There was no way I could've carried you and climbed."

I shuddered in silence for a while, letting the shock of the events seep through me. He seemed to understand and kept quiet too. I turned to him after some time. "They told me the cave was haunted…"

"And was it?"

"I don't know. I saw things. But then I was almost delirious with the pain and cold."

He nodded.

"She is beautiful though. I don't regret coming down here to see her."

"She would have cost you your life."

"Yes!".

"So you have been hearing stories." He stoked the fire.

"No one can tell me what really happened. Some say the sculptor killed her, others say they died together. Do you know anything?"

He looked up at the sky and his face looked smoother, younger, by moonlight. " I know a version different from what may have heard, but stories are stories, who knows what the truth is?"

"Tell me then."

"I think she came here and waited for him. They had arranged to elope. And because her father owned the whole village, his people were out to get them. The only way to escape would have been by a boat. They could've escaped a few miles down the coast before anyone noticed. She waited. He didn't come. Maybe she slipped like you and hurt herself. It was another full moon night like this one and she must have drowned when the tide came in."

"What happened to him? Why did he abandon her?"

"He didn't have a choice apparently. He was caught by the landlord's men. They wanted to know where she was but he wouldn't tell them. They could've killed him but they decided to give him a punishment worse than that. They made sure he would never sculpt again. They cut off his thumbs. He was tied and beaten up and then was thrown in a field far outside the village, bleeding, broken, dying."

"That is horrible"

He nodded. "That's why he couldn't come to see her. She must have waited here, like that statue of hers… looking for the boat to come. I don't know when she realised he wasn't coming. Was it when the tide started coming in? Did she panic and fall like you did? Or did she just sit there, watching the water fill the cave, not wanting to go back home? Did she think he abandoned her? Or did she think that he was dead? No one knows. More importantly he wouldn't know. He may be wishing he had died in the field rather than survive and wonder. So all the haunting people talk about is probably him coming here to reminisce, to look at her, to dream of a life that could have been, to cry…"

It was getting colder. The fire was dying down. The moon made the sea look like liquid silver. An image of her waiting in the cave for him paused in my mind. Like a still frame that would never advance. I couldn't let it to advance.

"Shouldn't you be going home son, won't your folks be wondering where you are?"

I told him about my uncle's trip to the wedding. He laughed, his eyes crinkling.

"Still I suppose I should go home. I have make up a suitable story to explain my sprained ankle."

"I am sure you'll think of something." He chuckled, "Well, I better help you get home then."

He stood up and stretched his hand for me to hold. As I grabbed his hand to get up I noticed the stump where his thumb should be.