Sea And Me – Part II

I was not hit by the Goa craze when I visited the state. It was just another vacation and Goa was merely a part of a hectic schedule.

We took the Goa Express from Delhi’s Nizamuddin railway station. The most exciting train ride ever taken as it passed through the deadly dacoit infested Chambal ki Ghaati (the ravines of Chambal valley). The train slowed it’s speed as it neared  the rugged upward terrain. I kept my fingers crossed till we passed the Ghaati. Never knew when there was a sudden attack by the dacoits.  I could even their horses’ hooves echoing in the desolate,  labyranthine, rock hard Ghaati!! The piercing sound of the bullets speeding out of the rifles announcing their unwelcome arrival. Was my imagination running riot???

It was way into the night. The steep rise of the Ghaati which was impossible to  navigate even by the police force looked mysterious, formidable and true to the legends surrounding it. Dreaded names like that of  Phoolan Devi and others came to mind who had ruled Chambal  for a considerable time till their  surrender. A prey to unspeakable feudal oppression Phoolan had chosen to become a dacoit to take revenge on her oppressors. Sounds filmy? Yes, it is  nothing short of that. Eventually, though she tried to lead a ‘respectable’ life but met an untimely end allegedly in the hands of her trusted partner.

We got down at a station near Aurangabad. Took a tour of Daulatabad Fort, Ajanta, Ellora and then found our way to Goa. We also visited Pune but I don’t remember how we landed in that city. But I do remember I liked it very much – it’s eateries, girls on two wheelers and the fresh morning breeze.

In Goa I had booked my office holiday home which was far away from the capital city of Panjim. The holiday home was situated behind a five star hotel with a private beach which we could access. It was a nice spot. The hotel guests sun bathed while we walked along the shore wetting our feet at times in the careening blue waters

We were lucky to have been in Goa during Christmas which is the most enjoyable time there. Goans are a festive lot. They love to sing and dance. I guess every Goan boy knows how to play the guitar. It was fun watching boys and girls singing and dancing on the beach while an appreciative crowd encouraged them clapping and swaying with the rhythm of the music. Goan music has a unique foot tapping quality.

At that point of time in life my idea of knowing a place was through conducted tours. We did take one but I don’t remember whether it was the Northern or Southern part of Goa. We visited many Churches including the one which had the encased body of St. Francis. We also visited the Mangesh temple which supposedly belonged to the famous (Lata) Mangeshkar family.

As far as beaches are concerned I remember the Miramar beach which had the statue of Dona Paula at the far end. It was called the Suicide Point from where the starstruck lovers had given up their lives.

Travelling with kids one ends up doing what they enjoy the most. I believe we were subsequently hit by the Goan mood and bought quite a number of skirts, shorts and T shirts. We splashed a lot in the waters, clicked ourselves in shorts and Ts, had sea fish Goan style sold at seaside kiosks and boarded the bus to Bombay after a week’s stay.

Goa did not make much of an impression on me. However, I liked walking down its streets and admiring the beautiful architecture of Goan houses decorated on Christmas. I liked the clear blue star studded night sky and the light blue waves during daytime. After a certain time in the evening commuting back to the holiday home was problematic because of lack of transport. But getting bike rides to and fro beaches during the day was novel.

I am talking of early 1990s. Now Goa must have changed a lot. It was a family outing – me, mother, sister, brother in law and their two kids. I don’t think we ever got together again after this visit. As the vacation came to an end I took the Geetanjali Express from Mumbai back to Calcutta where I worked at that time. The train was inordinately delayed reaching Howrah station. Poor Poritosh Kaku, my paternal uncle’s friend, whose duty it was to pick me up from the station, had to spend the wintry night on the platform.

Although I do not recall what my exact feelings were while staying in Goa I positively remember not wanting to come back alone to my workplace. I hated everything about Calcutta ironically called the City Of Joy after Dominique Lapierre’s eponymous book. Calcutta was also close to the sea. But I never got a chance to experience it being there. Life’s fiascoes drowned the sea song.  It’s chaotic cacophony too loud for the percussion of the waves. It’s only after leaving Calcutta that I felt the city growing on me. Another irony of fate probably.