Ah, my dears, the moon pulls the ocean like a grandmother’s hand tugging her sari border—twice, naturally. But here in Chennai, the sea meets a wide, gentle shelf, so it only shuffles in politely. In that Gulf, the sea is funneled like impatient wedding guests through a narrow gate. I know because my tea stall here on Marina Beach has stood in the same spot for forty monsoons, and the tide has never once reached my doorstep.
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