Digital art print of the original artwork. 
Media: Giclée print on archival paper.
Size: 8 X  12" + 1.5" margin 
 
After the 1964 cyclone, Dhanushkodi became a ghost town. But not entirely. Some 200 fishing families still call it home, wedged between the Arabian Sea on one side and the Bay of Bengal on the other. Life here? Brutal. But for the fishermen, this land is in their blood—they wouldn’t trade it for anything.
 
I met Muruga and his wife, Parvati, in their modest hut, built from dried coconut fronds. "Only these huts survive here," Muruga tells me. The wind is relentless, dumping mounds of fine white sand into everything—food, floors, even skin.
 
And survival means constant adaptation. For six months, they battle sandy winds from the Bay of Bengal. Then, for the next six, it’s the Arabian Sea’s turn. Every six months, they rebuild their huts with a new door facing away from the wind—because here, even homes must shift with the tides.
At first glance, the Arabian Sea is wild and untamed, waves crashing in a frothy rage. The Bay of Bengal, on the other hand? Deceptively calm. But Muruga warns, “The wild sea throws you back to shore. The silent one drags you to your death.” More drownings happen on the Bay of Bengal side, pulled under by its deadly undercurrents.
 
The fishermen of Dhanushkodi are expert swimmers and often the first responders in rescue operations. But for Muruga, failure stings. "I get angry when people offer me money after a futile rescue," he says. "How can I take money for my duty? It hurts my pride. Especially when all I bring back is a lifeless body."
 
The police, however, know the drill. After a retrieval, they keep a raw egg ready. Muruga crosses it over his head thrice before smashing it on the ground, then takes a ritual bath before stepping into his home. "It’s a mark of respect for the dead," he explains. "And protection—from the weight of all that sorrow."