A furnished 2bhk for Rs.300 per day.
A glitter stones and squiggles bindi on the right corner of the mirror.
A half used pack of condoms beneath the bed.
Red hued spots on the wall reminiscent of explosively opened wine bottles.
Of long barefoot walks on the beach. In and out of the loopy arcs of the waves.
Smooth flat pebbles and blue-velvety remains of a sea creature waiting to be made into a pair of ear rings.
Of smooth round flat seeds floated in from god knows where, painted on, sitting in the hot humid afternoon, shirtless and in a lungi.
5 liter water bottles and sand which gets into every nook and cranny. Waiting to be discovered a few months later when you are back home.
Old 1940s hollywood fare with headphones on in the evenings.
Mid aged aunties becoming kids again, soaking in the surf.
Gang of drunk marathi boys trying to make a human pyramid in the safety of the crashing waves.
Guys who will ask a white girl for a picture with her. Or use their long zoom lens to take voyeur shots, all day long.
Kids from Mumbai having there bacchanalian break.
The early morning beach cleaners picking up the empty bottles and the half eaten corn on the cobs. The green tea made in the room with a Rs 50 immersion heater named Deepak. And then the hot porridge at the shack for breakfast.
The tattooed and pierced waiters from Himachal, who can speak in 10 languages and who can put on their charm at a moment notice on well heeled white women. And men.
The thin old white man in a g string doing tai chi in the evening in front of the setting sun. The indian families who pretend he is not there.
The barking dogs on the way back from dinner. Who always end up wagging their tails, when they sense an absence of fear.
Goa is good. Always.