Saavira Gungali-pramod Maravanthe-joe Costa-pri... Official
The waves slapped the rocks. Pramod placed the conch in Joe’s hands. “Then it’s yours,” he said. “Family honor.”
Pramod Maravanthe, a local with salt in his veins and stories on his tongue, laughed. “Saavira, you worry like the tide. The Gungali —the conch—it’s been waiting for seventy years. It can wait one more afternoon.”
Pri pointed at the conch. “That ship wasn’t lost in a storm. It was scuttled. Your great-grandfather sank it on purpose to keep the conch from being smuggled out by a corrupt temple priest. He died a thief in the records, but he died honest.”
Pri darted ahead, her camera rolling. Joe grabbed her fin. Wait, he signaled. But she shook him off and slipped through a gap in the hull. Saavira Gungali-Pramod Maravanthe-Joe Costa-Pri...
Pramod nodded, though his eyes lingered on her. “She’s right. I’ve fished these waters since I was a boy. The wreck is in the trench near the Gungali Rock—the one that looks like a twisted conch from above.”
Joe stared. “What truth?”
They surfaced near the estuary mouth, gasping, pulling each other onto the slick rocks. Pramod held the conch like a newborn. Joe took off his mask, breathing the sweet, rain-washed air. The waves slapped the rocks
And then he saw it: a broken mast, encrusted with barnacles, leaning like a cross. The Nossa Senhora .
They descended in borrowed gear, the green water closing over them like a memory. Visibility was poor—shifting curtains of silt and plankton. Saavira led, her hand signals sharp and economical. Pramod followed, a knife strapped to his calf, more for cutting nets than defense. Joe’s heart hammered as his flashlight cut through the murk.
Inside, the darkness was absolute. Joe’s light found wooden ribs, shattered barrels, and a small, iron-bound chest wedged beneath a collapsed beam. Pri was already prying it open. Inside, nestled in blackened velvet, lay the conch—pale as bone, its silver scrollwork tarnished but intact. It was smaller than Joe had imagined. More fragile. “Family honor
Joe shook his head, and handed it to Saavira. “No. It was always meant for the temple. You finish the journey.”
“It’s not just about finding it,” she said, tapping a weathered map. “It’s about not drowning before we do.”
And then there was Pri. No last name, no explanation, just a fierce intelligence and a waterproof camera. She’d joined them three days ago, claiming to be a documentary filmmaker. But the way she studied the wreck coordinates made Saavira uneasy.
Pri wrung out her hair. “No. I’m a historian. My grandmother was Afonso Costa’s daughter—Joe’s great-aunt. She never knew her father. I wanted to see his grave before anyone else.” She looked at Joe. “And I wanted to see if you deserved to know the truth.”
“You’re not a filmmaker,” Saavira said to Pri, not a question.
