In The Mumbai, all over India …………… Part 2

I wake up to a dull, throbbing realization. I’m in Mumbai. Leaned against a large window frame, faced before a sprawl of slum dwellings, buildings and a creek but staring at nothing in particular, it occurs to me that I might be Marty Sheen from Apocalypse Now. Mumbai, shit; I’m still only in Mumbai. Another year has passed and yet again, I have turned up for the monsoon in Mumbai. As I reach for my toothbrush, it begins to pour. From the thirteenth floor, the downpour is a sheet of haze, obscuring everything but the most basic lines supplied by memory. Finding that the complaints and cursing are on the verge of return, I remind myself not to get caught up in the realities of life here. On the way to Chunabhatti Railway Station, it occurs to me that the best way I can let Mumbai warm its way into my heart is through the locals, having been a lifelong train enthusiast.

You will often hear it said that they are a great metaphor for the city itself. Amen. Watching commuters board a local at peak hours is to know a second way of meeting Mumbai head on. I’d not been entirely right about the city requiring soaring ambition and confidence. Here was a certain form of ‘a space in the local is my right, and I shall have it’ brashness that is easily the city in a nutshell. Just as the commuter takes to every approaching local, the migrant takes to Mumbai. Often, it isn’t confidence engendered from within but a blind belief that the city has accommodated scores before and will continue to do so.

Understandably, the rhythms of an MRTS train anywhere in India are different from those of an express. Even to the first time traveler on either, this is immediately apparent. Express trains are operas or westerns: a setting is revealed and along with it, a mood, a thought and an idea. On longer journeys, when the setting changes, there is a new ensemble to go with it. Locals operate differently. To the attentive newbie, they suggest a soap opera or intrusive videography with teeming life on display at very close quarters along the tracks everywhere in Mumbai. The viewer can fashion a narrative out of mere glimpses. To the seasoned commuter, I believe the locals may not register beyond the most basic sensory levels. In that sense, they become the stage for soliloquys.

This breakthrough becomes an obsession soon. I pore over the Suburban Railway Network over the next few days, intent on learning it. With this comes understanding of Mumbai’s network topology and a start at dealing with its massive size. I am not overawed into submission any more. Furthermore, the happy realization that Vikram and Sonal live just a couple of locals away in Powai and a spate of visits endears Mumbai further to me. And yet there’s a feeling that something’s got to give. The missing piece, as it turns out, is South Bombay beginning with Mumbai CST.

That the name is a misnomer unlike any other is apparent only when one exits the place and takes in the most impressive piece of Victorian architecture in India. Even to the uninitiated, it screams Gothic (it is supposedly a celebration of Gothic Revival) with towering obelisks, turrets, grotesques, pointed arches and spires. The figurine on top of the central dome (called Progress) is the most noticeable feature of the structure. Gothic was intended to make man kneel before God. Here, I couldn’t help but feel that it wouldn’t be amiss to kneel irrespective of one’s religious views.

It is a hallmark of this stretch that while the CST/VT is easily the Bellagio amongst all the structures there, it is not the only one that catches the eye. Not in the slightest. In fact, the area may be unparalleled in India for the sheer value it offers to architecture enthusiasts. The BrihanMumbai Municipal Corporation building may well be an institution dispensing justice. Its towering columns are designed to correspond to the highest human ideals. The Times of India is housed in a building whose fortune it is to be stared at more than the CST itself for more people peer at it vapidly while waiting for locals within the CST! And this is only the beginning. Further to the left of the CST as one exits are more and more impressive buildings that have been cornered by banks of every denomination in India. It really must’ve been a fad to own or rent real estate in this prime locality. Such fads exist elsewhere too. Marine Drive inexplicably has offices of airlines like Iran Air, South African Airways etc!

Further down is Flora Fountain, a beautiful piece of sculpture if one can find the time to stand and admire. It is very nearly an incongruous structure in the concrete jungle that is Mumbai, even on this hallowed stretch. On a Sunday afternoon though, when the circle has an epidemic-induced emptiness, the structure might speak to you. Or perhaps, no words beyond those of Niranjan Bhagat (on display in the plaque below) are necessary. Right on cue, I swerve behind to spot a footpath hosting a vestige of olden times fast disappearing today – the old bookstall. Browsing with care can unearth rarities like Eric Newby’s A Short Walk in the Hindukush or Bruce Chatwin’s Blue Highways. My current predilection for travel means that I invariably look for titles of this sort. 


Thirsty from a long walk and sightseeing, I'm encouraged by my friends to stop over at the now infamous Leopold's Cafe. They reveal no desire to have anything but I'm informed that the Blueberry Cheesecake is a knockout. The first thing one notices about Leopold's is its oddball colonial character. I imagine one would find cafes of this kind at ports of call everywhere in the world. Despite the presence of memorabilia from ages since and the cliched Elvis stamp, there is enough to kindle the senses into believing that this was once a cafe where naval officers, merchants, traders, peddlers and others whose calling called for frequenting Bombay met, had drinks or coffee over conversation. A long poster drawing across the breadth of the room, while confirming what has prompted Ketan to remark that Leopold's would have attracted every manner of clientele, is also the singular attraction here. It packs various stocks of people into its considerable canvas and yet retains a sense of space amidst the bedlam scenes it depicts. I amuse myself at the lengths the artist has gone to impart varying countenances. When the cheesecake comes, my first morsel confirms the legend. It literally melts in my mouth and in the wake of a food orgasm, I finally notice that we have chosen a table right next to the bullet hole from 26/11. In a fit of whimsical impropriety, I see it as one more piece of memorabilia at Leopold's. In making room for the insignia of violence and death, the cafe is only reaffirming its presence in a city where there's always room.


I now see an experience trail from the locals to VT to Flora to Leopold's. A familiar pattern has reinforced itself. Open-mindedness, lending oneself to experience, drinking out of a charming history, being repulsed and intrigued by the city's culture - all of these have led me to this realization: I am taken with Mumbai. It is like no other place in India. It couldn't be. History and commerce alone have ensured that. What I don't realize at this juncture that the final piece isn't this evening in South Bombay. Of all things possible, it is a museum in Byculla. That however, is the subject of another write-up. 

In the Mumbai, all over India …….. Part 1

My first and second visions of Mumbai were through the tinted glass windows of an Indica. During the monsoons, what one sees is a murky, salty city crowded with nameless buildings jostling for space. They were worn-out in a way that seemed specific to Mumbai. Here, even the newest construction seemed fatigued, as if it had sighed wearily at the battle ahead with the elements and settled into a permanent languor. Perhaps, the fatigue was my own. Having to wake up at 2 am, offer oneself to the dank air that prevails in the hills of Lavale (home to Symbiosis) and be driven in a car packed with hopefuls was no way to prepare for an interview later in the day. Any efforts to recall the verve that had mushroomed at the end of my preparation were futile. Sleeping on and off during the journey didn’t help either. In effect, I had nothing remotely close to the soaring ambition and confidence that, I thought, were needed upon encountering this megapolis.

My third tryst with Mumbai involved the onset of the monsoon the year after. I flew into stormy skies on a six-seater Dassault whose insides, so calm and plush while in Gujarat, were transformed into a light and sound show upon descent in Mumbai. Even a pretty girl facing me, looking on with increasing trepidation with the “what is happening!” nod from time to time didn’t help. Uninitiated, I found it easy to blame Mumbai again. Two months of satisfying interning experience, touring and a warm friendship in amiable Gujarat found their denouement in a crazy ride into the cauldron that was Mumbai. I hated it already, looking ahead with dread at the impending doom that was the flight the next morning to Bangalore. Worse was to follow.

A simple meeting with friends in Andheri became a series of misadventures. I took the wrong local from Chunabhatti and ended up in Vashi instead of Wadala. When I doubled back, the train stopped midway near King’s Circle and I dropped my phone into knee-deep water. After more misses, I somehow managed to meet a friend from Wipro. On the way back, things had calmed down in Mumbai but I wouldn’t have it. Unsure of its tenability (or sure of its untenability) I imagined an imminent apocalypse in the making. A childhood fetish for dreaming up large mega-tsunamis at beaches (something that Goa cured) returned.

As a gloating ha-ha counterpoint, I began envisaging idyllic Bangalore. Bangalore wouldn’t throw violent tantrums; she’d welcome you with a genial embrace. The prospective weather alone was enough to send me into the throes of a pastoral fantasy. As if to prove a point, the flight was a breeze after the rough take-off phase. When the captain announced “a pleasant 25 degrees outside” upon landing, I beamed, relieved that I’d escaped Mumbai. Now the krakens beneath could wreak havoc upon the city, the waves could swallow everything in their wake. It wouldn’t matter. I was home.

Two histories

Amma’s impression of Bhama Chitti’s frequent intone, vaikkyathukku variya nee (why don’t you come to Vaikkyam), is marked by a tension between emphasis and nonchalance at the moment of utterance of the kkya syllable. The taut coupling is a mark of the Palakkad dialect. It is infectious; I soon find myself saying Vaikkyam at every opportunity. She is happy to note that I have nailed the pronunciation. I’m thrilled at rare success in this department. Appa is bemused at these bouts of madness. The reason for this Kerala town being the subject of linguistic amusement – I am to escort my octogenarian Ammamma to her cousin’s place there.

On the eve of departure, I am given separate doses of two histories. Amma’s is a lecture on lineage and relations peppered with how the Vaikkyam dwelling is an imminent enchantment for me. Appa drops the slightest of hints, a mere wisp as to how the place is connected to Periyar, the eponymous Vaikkyam Veerar, he informs me. It is enough to leave me clutching at straws.

En route to Trichy, our first stop on the way, I am less concerned with familial history as I am with the historical imprint Vaikkyam has left. A Satyagraha in the mid twenties against a Travancore administration fanatically obsessed with class distinctions and the manner of their imposition upon the Avarnas (literally those without a caste) is recorded as having had nation-wide repercussions. A fifty-year old ordinance that had established different approach routes to the Vaikom Mahadeva Temple was being resented deeply as early as the turn of the 20^th century. Various attempts at changing the existing order appear to have been made but they were either suppressed with force or failed to gather sufficient momentum. With the involvement of the Congress under the moral tutelage of Mahatma Gandhi, the movement got the attention it deserved. Periyar’s involvement (along with his wife) led to his imprisonment. Eventually, in 1936, Travancore announced its new Temple Entry Proclamation that abolished caste distinctions, a successful culmination of events. This day is marked as Social Reformation Day in Kerala. So much history to a small town, I muse.

At Trichy, we wait for the Karaikal – Ernakulam Express, the newest incarnation of the delightful anachronism that is the name Tea Garden Express. In its original avatar, it was primarily used to transport tea from Mettupalaiyam to the Cochin Port and hence the name. Now, Appa’s dry remark that the extensions from Trichy to Nagore to Karaikal will probably result in its departure from Andaman one day is an apt exaggeration. The train is an hour away. I wonder about the wide chasms that exist between the English spellings of Kerala towns and their actual pronunciations. Vaikkyam is spelt Vaikom, invitation for potential resolution of the tension into two disparate syllables.  

Just as I veer towards Vaikkyam’s history again, Ammamma revisits her cousinry. I listen as she mentions habits, likes, dislikes and so on. Every now and then, she expresses gratitude to the powers that govern her worldview for the relative ease with which our journey has been conducted so far. Just to reinforce her point, the train arrives on time and halts for a good half hour before leaving. In the train, she is in the grip of a controlled anxiety. I wake up at Aluva (Alwaye), thirty minutes before Ernakulam, to learn that she has been up since Thrissur.

An hour and a half later, we are at Vaikkyam. Upon alighting at the bus stand, I receive the strangest set of directions from Bhama Chitti. Autokkaaran kitta Dineshan kadai nu chollu, avanukku theriyum (Tell the autowallah to drop you near Dinesh Stores, he will know). Small town directions can be dizzyingly simple, something people with urban upbringings in my generation are oblivious to. I am disappointed when the autokkaaran doesn’t know. Not so small after all.

Their home is off a lane on the road that leaves from the East of the Mahadev Temple. As such, it is called Kizhakke Nada. Upon reaching, I find that it is not the throwback to olden times that I have been promised but a quiet, unassuming home nevertheless. A preliminary walk around the area tells of a town dotted with kshetrams, kolams and plantain gardens, apart from the usual Kairali abundance of coconut trees, streams and small, winding roads. Some of the newer homes that are a sign of changing times in Kerala appear tastefully done from the outside. As I walk through smaller lanes rarely trod upon, I realize that I am being gazed at. The first look is cursory followed by a short-lived glance away. The registering of an unknown face takes root and there is the double back within moments. Creeping unfamiliarity is writ on the face followed by the realization that one is being watched in return. Turn away again. It dawns on me that one of the satisfactions of small town life is in knowing its rhythms. An unknown stimulus can produce consternation.

Back home, I am treated to the first of the culinary revelations on the trip. Chutney made out of manga and thenga is accompaniment to puttu. It has a fine sourness that reminds me that my taste buds are rarely privy to this sort of sensation. Chittappa duly asks me to leave with him for a darshan at the temple. The Mahadevar Lingam is part of the Vaikkyam-Kaduthuruthi-Ettumanoor triumvirate that must be visited on the same day, legend has it. To my eye, Vaikkyam is any other Kerala temple with one telling difference. The sanctum sanctorum has eye-catching murals on rectangular slabs the size of windows around it. They are leaf paintings that have been restored recently, Chittappa tells me.

When we exit, he takes me to the customary Kerala boat jetty at the end of the Padinjaru Nada (West Approach). This road seems the commercial hub of the town with shops galore. The clock is nearing twelve and the strapping humidity adds to the heat. Standing in the shade of a Banyan, I am content to corroborate the zoomed in image of Vaikkyam on Google Maps with the local geography that is staring at me. We trudge back slowly in merciless heat and cool ourselves. Soon, it is time for lunch. After lunch, I am in the thick of conversation about impending arrivals for the rendezvous at Vaikkyam, the arrangements to be made, how events are to play out and so on. Already, the unmistakable patterns of this kind of life are on display - walk, eat, talk, rest, walk, eat, talk, rest.

My interest in what Bhama Chitti might concoct for our meals if I were to stay longer is further piqued over lunch due to the presence of Thair Molagai and a dry curry made out of Payaru and Vazhaikkya, the closest phonetic equivalent to Vaikkyam itself. After lunch, I am pulled out a siesta prematurely by Ammamma asking me to take a look at the resident thottam. Reluctant, I walk out of the back door to find Chitti’s wiry frame standing in mock indignation near one of her plants. I offer an expression of tiredness that is quickly swatted away. Sadly, it leaves its mark on Ammamma who persists in asking, over the next five minutes, if everything is alright with me.

The thottam is the true highlight of the trip for me. Chitti is more animated than I have seen her the entire day as she reels off names. I can discern a Kathrikkai (Brinjal) myself. The plenitude of Vazhai ilagal suggests that their lunch every day is had over plantain leaves. She even replaces one for Ammamma muttering that it is too large for her! Vazhaipoo and Vazhaikkya feature next in the collection. Thenga grows at a height that lends itself to convenient picking, something that evokes admiration from Ammamma. She calls our own coconut tree in Iyer Bungalow, Madurai a behemoth. There are behemoths here too and they have tendril growth around them. This, I am told, is black pepper. Vendaikkya, Payaru, Mullangi and Pavaikkya complete this, a veritable garden of earthly delights. The walls of the newly erected compound even enclose a pond the size of two car parking spaces. It is covered with plant overgrowth now but was once filled with water, I am informed. Chitti is quick to follow it up with anecdotal seasoning. Idhukkula Moorthyiyum Venu-um chaadittundu orukka.

In the lead-up to my departure that afternoon, Chitti gives me adequate portions of marchini appalam and chakka varatti. Recalling my fondness for the manga chutney, she leads me to the terrace where we try to dislodge manga clusters from the safety of their twigs and branches whilst dealing with the red ants that are crawling all over. This is the third produce that I am to take to Madurai.

On the bus back to Ernakulam from Vaikkyam, I notice a Thandhai Periyar Memorial hardly a kilometre from the bus stand. I have all but forgotten. Two histories. For eight hours, the lesser has dwarfed out the more momentous.

Bron-Y-Aur Stomp

Personal touring ambitions begin as susurrations in some corner of our minds. A group draws upon bell chimes in the collective consciousness; distant at first and reaching a fever pitch soon. In ours, one word began to resound more often than any other since November ‘11. Goa.

I shrug it off early on but come to accept that it is something everyone wants more than anything else. In the four years since graduation, I’ve been putting off the inevitable. I tell myself that a return is warranted say ten years later when I could return as a different man; or perhaps return as a faithful, bearing the acknowledgment that four pivotal years in Goa is not something that can be shrugged off with ease. I am worried that this, in the here and now, might not amount to either.

The trip nearly happens in February but is called off at the eleventh hour. Another month passes. March finds me unwell and tied to my bed. A strange case of flu takes its toll on me over a week or so. I am left prone to bouts of debilitating fatigue. Oddly, this experience provides me with the mental make-up that I desire. Instead of trying to confront, I trudge along in the company of people I’ve come to love over two years. I substitute flippancy for decisiveness. I work up a meandrous mindset in place of the direction I am expected to provide.

D-Day finally arrives in the end of March after our exams. Yet there is very little afoot in terms of plans or pre-tour talk. Unsure of my own energy levels, I leave early for a seat in the bus from our hilltop in Lavale to SB Road. Goodbyes are being said. More time passes before the others arrive. Soon, it is time to leave. The bus ride gives us a concern we hadn’t really considered - the possibility of an assumptive person joining us. We engage in dialectic as to how this eventuality might be parried. Some of the more inventive plans involve chloroform and the rolling waves of the Arabian Sea. Happily, it doesn’t come to pass and we turn our attention to what has to be the single most defining aspect of our group dynamic – where to eat. We decide on an old faithful, Casa Lolo, a Lebanese inspired haunt with a tagline that speaks to our hearts – where you can eat a lot. Simple enough.

Before we can settle down, Sonal announces that she has misplaced her phone in an auto-rickshaw. Despite the concern that wells up, Pranay, JD, Atul, Vikram and I share a chuckle. Yes! Our first misadventure. How appropriate that it is Sathe! Also ironic in that hardly an hour has passed since Yash had considered giving two reliable phone numbers to his parents as back-ups, one of them - Sathe’s.

Soon, we are in the bus to Goa. In the first few hours, I wake up to the realization that AC sleepers can be great places to yap away in the company of friends. Sana alternates between sleep and semi-sleep out of tiredness. Sonal does Avinas’ nails and as barter, has her palm read. Pranay, with Bad Lyrics Christina for company, has us in splits. Some nights can have a lasting impact. Henceforth, Smells Like Teen Spirit will hold but one dominant refrain for us - here we are now, in containers. Or better still – cut my cake into pieces, this is my last dessert. At some point, we contemplate the effect our boisterous behaviour might have on our co-passengers. Finding the thought strain contrary to our credo, we abandon it.

Come morning and we embark at Panjim. Renting a pair of compacts takes longer than expected. One of them turns out to be the veritable embodiment of Hyundai’s campaign for Santro. Coated with lemon yellow, it also makes for easy tailing. With Atul and Avinas at the wheels, we set off for Baga in North Goa. We find the place that has been Vikram’s stay in Goa for three years without too much difficulty. As we settle down and grapple with the incumbent Goan weather, shirts off and daubing water over ourselves, there is an innocent query from the girls over the phone. What do we wear? Vikram, as is his wont, deadpans - clothes.

The proximity of our rooms to the beach helps. It is noon by now. While the others head to the beach, Yash and I try to find slip-ons in Baga’s Bazaar area. We stop at the first display. In hindsight, I can only describe my buying behaviour as over-thinking a convenience buy. It is sad enough that the image-defining Albert Korda photograph of a defiant Che has become a mass-produced symbol. But on slip-ons! I cannot bring myself to stomp on Che, I tell Yash. He gives me one of his enigmatic smiles and a gesture of hands that I believe translates to – God help such people! Soon, we are compiling a list of entities I cannot stomp on – AC Milan, MK Gandhi and so on. Finally, we decide on a pair of ManUs. I remain unconvinced. While the rest of the group is cooling their heels off at one of the innumerable Fisherman’s Bars in Goa, we stop at Harry’s Corner. A French and Spanish omelet apiece mark the beginning of what is to be a mixed affair for us on the tour as far as culinary delights are concerned.

When we get back, a familiar sight greets us. Hands outstretched, munching away at starters. A single memory or instance is often representative of its class. The frenzy that ensues upon the arrival of starters will always be reminiscent of the night at Mezza 9, an eatery in Hinjewadi. The group leaves for the waters while JD and I stay back. As I cover the action for posterity, I cannot help but notice the sheer amount of Cyrillic signage. Nearly every sign has a Cyrillic equivalent. Menu cards are full of it. It is symbolic of a Goa increasingly tailoring itself to suit the firangs.

The water at Baga isn’t the best in Goa but that first swim is always hard to walk away from. The sting of salt water in the eyes is the only thing that works against longer sessions. For the moment though, it is the twin abstinences - one forced and the other a precaution - that sting more. I try not to think of it. Pranay and Yash are the first to be back. The pictures on my cam speak of greater camaraderie between them than either would care to admit.

We spend the night at St Anthony’s, a beach restaurant at Baga. It boasts of an enviable setting, a karaoke arrangement and a dance floor that would last for all of fifteen minutes that night. Sadly, item after item of food proves a disappointment, something that works against teetotalers. The night unveils different moods. Sonal seems to waltz in and out of frolic and trance. Yash, of few words at the best of times, has none to offer tonight. Sana finds herself having to deal with external issues. We are a splintered group that night. I find that my own concerns about Goa have been replaced by one persistent thought – hope everyone has their own brand of fun. That night, I am not so sure.

Back in our rooms, we stock up with water and prepare for a sultry night. I have a strange urge on tours to fight sleep and wake up early. The blur, the half delirium, the sense of seeing things as they would appear on an impressionist painting and the act of picking up one’s bearings on the go are things I love. What registers at such moments and what is missed is strange! The ManU insignia on my slip-ons forms a vivid imprint. The rest is a whirl of early morning grey blue and sand. I haul myself down to the beach. The quietude is an uncomplaining companion on the road to full consciousness and the time, ripe for whimsical musing. What if much could be said about people by their choice of the time of the day when they would like to be on a beach!

After what seems like an eternity, life stirs in our rooms. Over chai, we deliberate on what to do next and take a decision that changes the complexion of the trip. We’re going south. A fabulous brunch at Carvalho’s Café, Calangute (always a safe choice in North Goa) is a harbinger of things to come. Avinas’ distaste for the food there is a reminder that the rarest thing on a trip is unanimous approval. We set off on a journey that would take us through the Goan coast, all the way south along NH17 to Agonda, clocking a distance of 100 kms. Sana’s speakers enliven the drive. We reach Agonda minutes before sunset. Pranay, Yash and I look for a place to stay. On the first detour, we find makeshift units barely 100 metres from the shore enclosing coconut trees within four walls. The proprietor of the place, Mr Happy or Heppy or Hippy (?!), tells us that they are dismantled before the onset of monsoons. Thrilled at having found so novel an accommodation, we rush into an agreement.

Doubling back, we find Agonda quietly slipping away into sunset. The scene seems to play out like a flirtation. Hush now. If you should stay here longer, there might be more in the offing. The immediate urge is to stroll. South Goan beaches are characterized by solitude but Agonda goes a step further. The glitter of central Goa is eschewed in favour of Chinese lamps that form dull specks of light in the canvas of the night. Likewise, dinner is a less rambunctious affair with dancing and loud music or noise of any kind strictly prohibited. Much of this derives from the fact that this is turtle territory. Olive Ridleys frequent the beach during breeding season. There are none to be found now but their reluctant nocturnal visitations leave a mark during the rest of the year as well. Naturally, this attracts naturalists, marine biologists, nature enthusiasts and other firangs who subscribe to an Om Shanti weltanschauung. That is my surmise atleast. The majority of them are firangs and I don’t feel like approaching them with a conversation during our brief stay. Naturally, this means I am given to anything between wild conjecture and reasoned approximation.

At night, we engage in sand sculpture. We make a mermaid out of Avinas’ bodily form. Rounds of ribaldry later, we discover that Agonda has more delights to offer. The lane adjoining Agonda is dotted with shops selling curios, artifacts, knickknacks and the like. It wears a cloak of seeming self-sufficiency due to the presence of every facility and amenity one can think of on a holiday, even a really long one. Travel agents, bike and car rentals, restaurants, saloons, beauty parlors, provisions, even vegetables. Sana is led into wistfulness, remarking how life would be simpler and easy-paced here, with everything that one could conceivably desire. It is an exercise she has conducted with fuller involvement with her beau Niranjan. Yash and I can’t help but acquiesce.

Later that night, Vikram, Pranay and Sana are off to scout for a place to eat, perhaps born out of greater regard for due diligence. The humidity leads them to seek comfort in the air conditioning of an ATM vestibule. Their glee in recounting Vikram’s deliberate slowness in operating the machine to prolong their stay in the ATM is something I can relate to. For four years at BITS, there were two places on campus where one could avoid the summer heat and humidity. Classrooms were air conditioned but they were against ingrained principle. After all, one had to maintain 0% attendance. The next best option was the sole SBI ATM vestibule. I am not exaggerating when I say that three of us have once spent close to an hour and a half inside it.

Meanwhile, Atul, Sonal, and Yash scour the lane, preparing for a long night. Atul, as always, is in his element in the various calculations and guesstimates. I chance upon a map that has me in hoots internally. My reticence and general lassitude prevents me from baring my joy completely. It is an attempt at something more than the usual tourist road map. At 25 rupees, it is a blessing. Soon, we receive word to come to a beach shack that is spread over a larger area than I’ve come to expect from Goa. We are ensconced in a cabana a stone’s throw from the sea. To the left of our lit compartment is a vast darkness only broken by the faint shimmer of moonlight on the sea. There are dark shapes I can barely discern, resembling remnants of pillars. In a flight of fancy, I liken them to the Roman Forum. Clearly, magic realism is the order of the day. To me, the resulting ambience is unmistakable. How Gibbon must have felt when he stood at the ruins that spoke of a long lost grandeur!

The dinner is a triumph for some and disastrously bad for others, fittingly Roman. Atul and Sonal have entirely forgettable dinners by their own admissions while many of us have food portions that define our first real culinary hoorah in Goa. JD, Atul and I, with our birthdays in the coming week, are treating the group. Arians, the lot of us. My sister’s interest in sun signs and particularly Linda Goodman means that I find myself trying to make inferences from such situations. Finding nothing concrete, I let it pass. The night wears on and thought requires effort. It is easier to wallow in fine company.

We skip along the beach back to our shacks and perch around the recliners. Within moments there are multiple conversations going, like many small fires instead of a bonfire. As the night wears on, fatigue gets the better of some and priorities change. Sana is asleep within moments. Avinas hasn’t had a holiday in the truest sense of detachment from the devices that dictate our daily lives. He’s the first to retire. Vikram follows, then Sana and I. When I wake up, I’m amazed to hear voices from the beach that sound very much like Sonal and Atul. The others are still at it!

Having had sufficient rest, Avinas, Vikram, Sana and I venture Palolem Beach, about 9 kms from Agonda. I’m happy to find that Palolem has managed to remain pristine and relatively unspoiled even in the wake of newfound stardom courtesy The Bourne Supremacy. The hues are confident yet muted enough to avoid postcard descriptions. The water shows myriad variants of greenish-blue. The shoreline is a crescent, its boundaries marked by hills and islets. All of these contribute to a more picturesque affair. Once again, that question … What can one infer about a person based on whether he or she would prefer Agonda or Palolem? Most modern answers would adopt a diplomatic approach that would acknowledge the relative merits of the two. I am thankful that a short trip such as ours has featured two beaches that, between themselves, explain why people throng to Goa.

We breakfast at a beach shack called Dropadi (!!) that has a sumptuous cheese omelet on offer. The sweet languor of the past few days has given way to a listless ennui that seems to drive Vikram, Sana and Avinas. We must DO something. A boatswain offers to take us on one of the customary dolphin sighting trips and an island halt to go with it. We haggle and at 250 per head, are aboard a powered boat. Minutes later, we are in love with Palolem. The water is addictively fresh and soft-textured, a rare quality in sea water. A dolphin is hopping away and we spot it every now and then. It proves elusive to capture on camera.

The island hillock is straight out of a dream. Dramatic rock features, covered with mussels and barnacles, jut out of the water. Those on the periphery are home to crabs with exotic patterns, a red-bodied specimen with blue pincers being a case in point. The shore is tiny; the water is held in a tight embrace by the land. Beaches may vary in degrees between gentle courtship and unbridled passion. Small islets are generally passionate affairs. The other three are abuzz with activity while I allow myself more leeway than I previously have on the trip. Despite overstaying our welcome (another group characteristic), we are reluctant to leave.

Canoeing at Palolem is charged at 100 per hour per canoe. It is called kayaking despite the contraption looking nothing like a kayak. Vikram and Sana take up the offer and sail out while Avinas and I cool our heels in a shack called Café Del Mar. I doze off while trying to keep abreast of where they are. Avinas follows the cheese omelet (his order) up with a riveting shark dish with fish fingers as accompaniment. His repeated expressions of delight are echoed by those of the canoeing duo when they return. The fatigue returns. Oddly, in the throes of a weakness, I find contentment too. And closure.