I had ambitious plans of blogging through the month. How hard could it be, I reasoned. You can access the internet everywhere in this day and age.
It's true that most places we went to had atleast one cabin sized dingy room somewhere that offered a portal into the Wonderful World Wide Web, but I simply found myself unable to convey any coherent thoughts. I wrote every now and then, interspersed with sporadic picture-taking; but I think I have only just begun to see form in the jumble of myriad experiences.
Which means I must, with immediate efficacy, find a beginning. Sort through entangled dreams conversations hills oceans stars smoky skies...oh yes. I think that's where it all began.
Smoky Skies:
Through the haze of smoke - blue black traffic smoke and blue grey smoke curling from our lips, we looked at the city spread out before us. It had it's days. Days when the rain would scrub it clean and the people would seem inane yet endearing in their familiarity. Simple, rather than stupid.
But today, Delhi was at it's snarling best. The heat had turned the people into a pack of wild dogs. They snapped and foamed at each other with bared teeth at every traffic intersection. Sped past vehicles a hair's breadth away just to see who would dare to try and stop them. A raging sun tore through blinds, vents, curtains, skulls and plunged it's burning hands inside everyone.
But we didn't care. We were getting out of here. My backpack felt like a ton of bricks but I felt stronger than I really was.
Looking back, I think my mother considered the trip an elopement of sorts. Everyone gave us knowing smiles and snidely muttered "honeymoon" when they heard the plan. Ma always looked especially disbelieving when I told her about all the other people we would meet at various points of our journey. Of course we were excited about being together...but rather than making a romantic getaway, I think we were both setting ourselves up for a test of endurance.
How would we hold up under the intense pressure of being alone together in previously unexplored parts of the country, across the language barrier, away from our music, our computers, our dogs, our friends and our comfort zones? How would it change us?
I couldn't wait to find out.
(All pictures courtesy Kshitij Bal, Magician Extraordinaire)
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" First Stop. Anjuna.
The air buzzes with excitement here. Non stop. A futile attempt to reach Lonely Planet's highly recommended White Negro, we decide to stay at the Sonic Guesthouse. The room hovers on the thin line between quaint and plain weird. The bathroom however, decisively crosses that line into weird. The view is fantastic. We check in."
At this point, our land weary eyes are seduced by the ocean and we choose to ignore what are quite evidently bloodstains on the wall above the bed. Yep, welcome to Junkie Heaven.
"The food is tolerable to begin with but progressively becomes worse. Maybe the management is expressing it's disgust at having to serve two relatively innocent and unexciting guests from Delhi, rather than Russian men with cold blue eyes and pale women aglow with intrigue. Although I'm uncertain if these people would favour the Sonic even in peak season.
[Note - "Management", at any hotel off season here usually refers to a maximum of five waiters (the young turks) and the eldest thus most experienced of them all, who heads the show.]
The "eldest and most experienced" turk(ey) at the Sonic is a senile man of about eighty. Kshitij believes he is permanently attached to an LSD drip, but I am of the opinion he is in need of no drug except the television. Watching the last few overs of the IPL semi-final with him is like watching someone's needle induced moment of epiphany. His eyes shine, glazed. A toothless grin gapes at the centre of his face and his eyes well up with tears as the ball flies over the boundary. He throws up his hands and mutters a prayer to God. He nods fondly at the actors in advertisements. I cannot stop watching him watch T.V. I feel unbelievably sad and suddenly irrationally annoyed.
And then I realise, I'm the one being watched. It's past midnight and while we were playing Sinbad the sailor and his Ship-wrecked wench, watching the old man and the sea...we failed to pay attention to a local drinking session that had begun to fester beside us. There's something about the insolent leer in those bloodshot eyes. I don't want to play anymore. Even the old man begins to seem sinister all of a sudden. It's time to close this day shut. Back in room. Goodnight."
The Sea:
The ocean breeze carried echoes of spells cast at a time when you and I were mere dreams in the creator's mind. It drew us close with a voice so ancient we felt it in our bones. At night, the ocean is a primal temptress. Thirsty. A giant mouth slavering to swallow the world. The rhythm of the waves caressing land lulls you into senselessness, until all you want is to be one with that sound.
As if the intense natural beauty weren't enough, the Goan flavour is made unique by a population of natives and tourists whose culture is centered around having a good time,whatever the cost. Even in off season, there isn't a day when the booze doesn't flow, or when someone with dilated pupils isn't watching the sky turn into a mixing palette of neon colours.
It's also easy to see the point where things can start going wrong. Everyone seems nice and friendly when you're high. I start wondering if they're being nice and friendly because they know I'm high. Paranoid, much? Nothing a walk on the beach can't cure. On the way back to the guesthouse a man with greasy hair sings us a tune which I later learn is Goa's favourite song:
"You like hashish? acid? ecstasy? Some co-caine may-be?!"
We step over a syringe in the sand and walk into the molten sunset.
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