Monsoon Magic in Goa

There is always magic in Goa. Its the lure of its unending white sand beaches,necklaced by swaying palms, clear blue skies swooping to meet chiffon green waves, its hushed dense forests hiding the majestic Dudh Sagar falls, inviting even the most self-possessed purist to strip, and dive in. Atleast these are its irresistable attractions for me. The food, vibrant markets, baroque churches, colorful architecture, its music, its people, are added charms that beckon even the most jaded traveller. Look a little harder, and one runs into a strong undercurrent of the bohemian, a sense of the hedonistic just below its surface that seduces and destabilises many enough that they never ever return to their old entrenched values and common place life styles; they return home transformed-and sometimes they never go home.

All this I knew. I always approached Goa with excited caution, desiring to falter-but wary of fall.



This monsoon, I stumbled into a Goa, so hidden, so secret that I might have suspected its existence had I not myself experienced it-an old lover revealing a new self- a prussian blue, Payne grey Goa of multitude layers, monsoon clouds overhanging excited, thrashing waves, endless beaches devoid of most except the most solitary-a dog, an abandoned jellyfish, me. The sands below me were polka dotted with raindrops and the water's edge a series of frothy, wavy lines. Sand pipers ran back and forth always keeping a few feet ahead of me, brahmi kites circled overhead. I sang Raag Ahir Bahirav and Todi during the morning hours, and invariably Raag Megh during the evenings that were rain drenched-in its air, liquid light, misty horizons, dripping trees-water all over, everywhere.

Now I know, Goa is here to stay, in me.