I
stood knee deep in surf a few days back,taking a conference call on my mobile phone. I jabbered, glancing at nearbybikinis and faraway fishing boats. Nine to five. Five to nine. Whatever.When I power up my notebook a little after dawn, to work undisturbed for a fewhours and to check mail, I also check to see if the young fish hawk in thegulmohur tree across our house is well. Would the crow-couple chase it offagain? Or would the kingfisher, woodpecker and hawk bond in irritation and trashthe crows? Hell, I’d pay to watch.
Work is good these days. I’ve had friends tell me I’m nuts to walk from ajob and profile in Delhi and traipse to Goa and lessness. Then I’ve had themsay they would kill to do it. Funny, I’ve felt similar ambivalence.
After 25 years in the NCR, 14 months ago I put my family on a plane and drovefrom our condominium in Gurgaon to a hillside place in Panjim overlooking theMandovi River. We had checked out for the foreseeable future: A decade, Ifigured. Visits? Once a year, kicking and screaming.
Fat chance, as my seven year-old has learnt to say. I’ve been back five timesthis past year. In April, it was with family to visit old friends, wateringholes, and to reacquaint my daughter with malls. It was a relief too, fromGoa’s culinary triumvirate: with masala, rawa masala, or garlic-butter. But wewere glad to leave after a week, deafened by noise, stunned with rudeness, andappalled by the increased crush of traffic. We did the right thing.
September and October was a blur. Three solo visits for book promos, arguingwith my accountant, absorbing "Jew are so lucky-ya", and to run—walk—theHalf Marathon. I couldn’t wait to leave. But my daughter scolded me forfrequenting the city of her birth and mallship. My wife dreamily tracked seasonsin her mind—"Is there a nip in the air?" and when I nodded, "What thef*** are we going to do with all these woollies in Goa?"
Heck, I told them, who wants to leave Goa? Then I stepped in it. Telling them offlowers on the roundabouts, the exhibitions at the Habitat Centre, soothing LodiGar- den, the bustle of Khan Market, and the biryani. God, the biryani.
I was back a couple of weeks ago to attend a conference. A CEO shook the hand ofa Congress tsar, both looking past each other; within seconds, they were withother plastic smiles and dead eyes. Everybody is everybody’s best friend. HowI hated that—hate that. I turned to the affable investment banker on my left."Leaving already?" he queried. "Can’t stay away from Goa, eh?" Yes, Ireplied. Time to slip the jacket and tie; wear Bermudas and tee. Dammit, yes.
Last night, my wife and I stood sipping wine at a breeze-basted seafrontrestaurant at the foot of Aguada Hill, live jazz in the background, watching thenecklace of light along the miles of beach all the way to the headland at Baga."Delhi in March?" I suggested. "The evenings will still be lovely."
What can I tell you? We’re happy schizoids, content to commute.