Puri Beach, circa 2006(and shades of Blytonia)

I was returning to Puri, the famous beachfront town of Orissa, after what seemed an eternity.The last time I was there seemed to be now in a previous life.It was then the mid-1970's, and I was still a child in the second standard.1975 was the beginning of Mrs Gandhi's Emergency, trains happened to be running dot on time and I remember my father, then a junior officer with the Indian Railways, always tense about work standards and punctuality being maintained by his underlings(he of course has always been a paragon of Puritan and Confucian work ethics, and not even a Damocles Sword of the Emergency could frighten him on a personal note).
Anyhow, going back to the lazy hazy and not so crazy days of fun-filled childhood, Puri then was an oasis of shimmering blue, with a golden sandy beach, and a vast sweep of coastal firmament, where all fantasies culled from Enid Blyton's memorable descriptions of beaches, seaside frolic, lip-smacking food, indeed the whole paraphernalia of trying to be a Famous Five or Five Find-Outer were lived to the hilt...
Days started early back the. A la Julian, Dick , George and Anne, my sister and I would gobble as many sausages and fried eggs as our stomachs would allow, courtesy, the B.N.R hotel, a very colonial mansion, replete with potted palms, rattan chairs, cummerbunded old bearers and all the paraphernalia of the British Raj.Then, we would be off to the beach, with our sun-shades, buckets and slippers to spend glorious hours alternating between jumping over waves, attempting a few brave swim-strokes and making odd little sand castles.We would be patiently watched over by mummy and grandmother, and somehow the whole day would race past, in a haze of delight, energetic abandon and the sheer release of being a child let loose on a grand and lovely beach...
And Puri, 2006?Well, this is a view formed through mature, cynical and adult eyes.Try as I might, I just couldnot ignore the mounds of rubbish on the beach, which made a walk through the sands hazardous in the extreme, the relegation of vast stretches of sand into a public toilet, the abandon with which all and sundry happened to defecate, piss and carry out all their daily ablutions at all times of the day with sang-froid.
On the flip-side, the mushrooming of barred and gated posh "resorts" all along the beach, where prosperous looking persons sat nonchalantly on beach chairs, sipping beer and being watched over by a posse of armed guards with a battery of guns and menacing expressions.
This time, no attempt to walk over to the side of the beach where the B.N.R hotel stood.For one thing, it was reputed to have finally laid the ghosts of the sahibs to rest.No more bacon and eggs terrain, it was now the remnant of a crumbling government hotel infrastructure, hanging on through invocations of its splendid past.of course, even trying to cross over to that side of the ebach would have meant splashing around in a drainage channel awash with sewage and filth as it disgorged into the sea.Back in 1976, I recall, I had tried to imitate yet another Enid Blyton character, in paddling in that channel, imagining it to be a stream rushing into the sea, bereft then, of loads of rubbish...
Where do I situate myself? Among the citizenry squatters of the great Indian public lavatory or the fat-cats giving custom to the men in khaki...Among the denizens of a brave new emerged superpower or the hopeless and haplessly unconcerned bold footsoldiers of the vibrant Indian democracy, no longer threatened by imperium in popular cloak......

Its an existential question I am still trying to come to grips with.Meanwhile, three cheers for Enid Blyton, who can still inspire me to make a sand castle on the beach, without thinking of the muck which goes into the grainy particles.....