The waves care. Agelessly they break along the Worli shore. On a calm day, with the nearest tiny collapse of water, each lace-edged apron of the sea flairs fondly out across the parched beach in the merciless sun. Blessing is metaphor. The water pushes a shadow before it over the sand toward those worn hulks of denial. Then, like caresses withdrawn, the aprons retreat into the fullness of the ocean's skirts leaving their lace rustling in the heat for only a moment. The waves return. Suddenly all the caring begins again. The rocks keep saying no. Compassion wins.