A sea is not always blue

In the social studies class (was Shyamala Miss the teacher?) in one of those pre-teen years, I was amused that there were seas around the world that had names of colors.  Red Sea. White Sea. Black Sea. (I now wonder if the Black Sea is referred to in Tamil as கருப்பு கடல், which sounds ominous!)

I was positive that the teacher was playing a prank when she added Yellow Sea to the list, because the primitive atlas of the world that we had at home did not list a Yellow Sea!

Years later, my friend Kumar went to study in the Soviet Union.  Letters were how we kept in touch.  After all, the internet hadn't been invented yet and phones were rare at most homes. 

Kumar always wrote lengthy letters, none of which I ever retained.  In contrast to many people who fill their homes with boxes of old letters and cards from friends and family, I have always tossed out letters after reading and replying.

But, memory retains and immediately recalls what boxes of letters cannot.  In one of his letters, Kumar described visiting the Black Sea one summer and noting that the Ukrainian girls were pretty and friendly. (No, he is not married to an Ukrainian; his wife is Czech!) 

I was meanwhile trapped in an awful college studying something that I did not care for, and wondering what I could possibly do in my life.  Those were some dark years.  If mental health professionals had assessed me then, it is possible that I would have come across as borderline depressed.

Towards the end of the torturous undergraduate years, Kumar came to my college during his visit home.  I wasn't there when he arrived because I had no prior intimation from him about his plans.  As I reached the campus gate, a friend who was leaving yelled out to me that I had a visitor.

I don't quite recall where he stayed that night.  There is a grainy image in my mind of the two of us going across town to say hello to another classmate who was a student at a college that was far better than where I was.

About two years later, I left for America, and with a clear understanding within that I was not going to live in India for the rest of my life.

The USSR collapsed.  Teachers like Shyamala Miss now had more countries to keep track of and teach their students.  

I completed the graduate program and started working.

One of the fellow-graduate students, Shahab, who was also a colleague for a brief time, had an easy going manner that attracted women but never seemed to in a relationship with any.  

He surprised me one day with an announcement that he was going to marry an Ukrainian. Shahab and Olga came by one day.  She was from the Black Sea region of Ukraine.

A few years ago, a visiting Ukrainian came home to to have dinner.  I showed her the gift that Kumar gave me when he visited with me at the godawful college.  

She confirmed that it was, indeed, Ukrainian.  Perhaps from the Black Sea region.