The Rainman goes to Goa in Monsoons

I don't know if it was me who caught Goa off guard or Goa caught me off guard but when I got down from bus at 7 in the morning, Goa was hardly the place I had thought it would be and seemed to be a distant land from the one I had come here, in time if not in miles.

The perception created by popular media of certain places can be so deceptive. Goa became the perfect example. It's so easy to look at it through the lens of the media and think of it as haven for revellers. That picture isn't too off the mark to be honest. But what often doesn't get talked about is the Goa minus the revellers who flock the tiny little state only for specific periods of time in the year, majorly the winters and the summers. The Goa I met on an early monsoon morning was a place lost in time. And nothing much changed over the course of next two days. The party goes on in the beaches but there's so much more to Goa than just beaches.

Some parts of it are so quiet that you can almost mistake it to be an abandoned town with the most beautiful of houses that hardly extend beyond a floor but have a dog guarding them, as if by rule. The men and women of Goa, with attire and language that seemed right out of the handful of Bollywood movies based in the state, come across as epitome of simple existence. The Portuguese hangover refuses to fade away as the Braganzas, Fonsecas and D'Souzas hold steadfastly to the Portuguese heritage in their daily existence. In fact, quite intriguingly, as I was traversing across the length and breadth of the state, I even saw some Greek on some of the boards.

I know by visiting Goa in the monsoons, I missed out on the sight of sun kissed beaches but on my way back it felt like a huge blessing in disguise. I loved the Goa of monsoons. The monsoons, it seemed had mellowed the place down, as the rain soaked long winding roads guarded by tall lush green trees on both sides presented to me a Goa I hadn't come prepared for but the one I left bewitched.

There is also a small story of this place that will always stay with the solo traveller that I have become off late (A blog post on it is in the pipeline for some time). On one of those roads captured in those photos above, I had a lovely hitchhiking experience. It was the 3km stretch from the 400 year old Aguada Fort to the Senquerin bus stop where I met this old man who was happy to save me the long walk. The uncle who gave me lift on the scooty, popularly known as 'pedal' in the state and available for rent everywhere throughout Goa, was a 61 year old man from somewhere near Bangalore. In the 15 minutes, I sat behind him on the scooty he told me a lot of lovely things about life.

He too, like me, had come alone and it was his birthday a day before our brief little tryst. He told me how it had become almost impossible to travel alone now that he has been with a family for so long. He said now that he is 61, the clock is ticking all the time and he wants to do as much as he can with life. We shared the sentiments about the place. We were both appreciating how beautifully green the place is and how people live their lives without much frill, happy to survive on low income. He was talking so much and, trust me, never for a second was it irritating. 

It was so lovely to hear a man on the other end of the spectrum of age on his own little solo trip. He was willing to take me to the place where he was going next for sightseeing but I had to return to my hotel so he dropped me at the bus stop. Meanwhile, he said he'll travel a bit more on the scooty and will head back to his place by 5 PM flight in the evening. Life and its beautiful little gifts!

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I never have had any special interest in tea. Despite being born in a Bengali family where everyone loves tea, if are not addicted to it, I have always been that member of the family who drinks tea only when it's made in excess. But that happens rarely, ensuring that my tryst with tea is merely occasional. But it all changes when I travel by train. Anyone who meets me during train travel might mistake me for a teaholic. So what changes?

The story goes back to the time few years ago when I started travelling alone in train. Having seen tea being prepared at home the way it is at eveyone's home all my growing up days, i had difficulty in figuring out how people prepare their tea in the train. I would refuse every time I got offered tea, but that refusal was more out of the embarrassment of not knowing how to prepare it than my lack of interest in drinking it.

Then one day I decided enough is enough. I can't confront this embarrassment all the time. As always, curiosity got the better of me and I decided I will teach myself how to do it. And then one day I didn't refuse the pantry guy who offered me tea, sat with the tea kit and the hot water for fifteen minutes and made it eventually, chuckling about how I had been running away from the easiest of tasks.

Since then, I always prepare tea for myself in the train. In fact, it's something I thoroughly enjoy doing because of the sheer sense of accomplishment the task gives me. A lot of people complain about the taste but it doesn't even matter to me. It's a pleasure to know that I successfully taught myself something after some time of running away from it.

I feel there is always something to learn. In everything and everywhere. And if you can learn every time, you'll always have reasons to be happy, no matter how small.