Having traveled all over the world, in many years of journey and finally getting a resting place in India is simply wonderful. While there are many more modern countries to go to, I felt that I needed the speed that this country provides, as soon as you immigrate. Mostly the speed is manually controlled and therefore still more exciting and challenging. There was no need to queue up as the Internet had already done away with everything that’s socially controlled, right from banking to home deliveries. 

So where was the hurry anyway?

My destination was a quaint village of some 15,000 people in the South of Goa, just a 12 hour road trip away from Mumbai, India's economic capital. But in those twelve hours, as the terrain changes, so do the people and their lifestyle and values. Benaulim, was as similar to any Latin American country as you could imagine. One small road ran right through it. On a good day you could have a nice walk from one end of the village to the other and still have time to stop for some Feni. Its boundaries led to the beach, providing two access points. The village lay parallel to the main highway that connected the north and south of India. Shaded by coconut trees and forest, it was a traveler’s delight. Most house were single storied structures, made of the native Laterite stone and all had a small garden patch, which housed a few coconut trees, three pigs and one dog.

I rented space in a shack on the beach that belonged to a restaurant. When the owner found out that I was a blogger, he requested me to write about his shack whenever I could and stated a rent that was hard to resist. So my residence was on the beach, in a shack, just fifteen feet from the first wave. My bedroom, which consisted of a simple bedroll and two pillows, was near Table # 9 and was converted into a bedroom when the last customer left. This could be not before 1 am. So I devised an agenda, where I had enough things to do, so that I would return to my bedroom rather than a shack. Since the shack opened at breakfast, I had to be out of bed at 7 am. This meant that officially I had a bed for just a few hours. The meagre belongings I possessed were kept in the kitchen pantry. My feet faced the ocean and my head pointed at the village that lay behind me. I had planned to spend six months here to recharge my soul in a carefree way and then head back to destiny. My clothes were washed by the waiters in turns, who also stayed at the shack and they were happy with the money I paid for the wash.

I have been a writer by profession now turning into a full-time blogger and I needed a hideout to write from. Just recovering from some business bad deals and their attendant issues, I needed a place to rest my weary bones and the accompanying tissue. This looked quite adequate. My daily breakfast consisted of a sandwich with fresh juice of the day. I ate lunch and dinner on the street, as I walked all over the village, day after day. I met the barber and the shopkeepers, the money exchange people and the policemen. Everyone expected me to greet them and when I did, they replied most graciously. I had lunch at the Church too. When the Pastor heard my story, he invited me to his table. He told me the history of the village, which surprisingly, was very Hindu-ish. About how an Indian God shot an arrow in the Ocean and this village was where the arrow fell. Of course, he fast forwarded to the Portuguese and then to modern India. I knew all that anyway, but it was nice to hear it in his sing song routine, interspersed with blessings.

I once had tea at the Post Office that was near the Panchayat building. The Panchayat system is the administrative body of the village and has its roots in ancient India. The Post Master was on his way home and I was trying to shove an envelope in the box, when he offered to help. Hearing about me, he offered some tea at the local tea shop and we chatted some more about the village mail, which gave me a lovely picture of the way things happened here. People liked to go the Post Office and many neighbors met each other there. It was a small talk cafe, where everyone knew everyone. The people came here for three reasons. One was to conduct their mail business. The second was to send some money out of the village, like a bank transfer. The third was to get their small savings booklet updated after depositing some money. Not too far was a building called Maria Hall. It was their banquet place and the most visible and old landmark that brought you to Benaulim from the highway. I never saw any banquet there. It was mostly used for meetings and I think, it must have lost its glory and use, with the coming in of better locations and scenarios. 

I would wake up at 7 am and loiter around the shack till 9 am and stay on the beach till noon. During the day, I researched the village, quarter by quarter. Ahead of it to the South lay Varca and Colva to the North. Most tourists that do get to go to Goa, flock to the popular beaches in the Northern parts. Calangute, Baga and Aguada are its most well-known beach properties and there it’s a festival zone that doesn’t die with the season. Few get to come to the Southern part of Goa, that I believe has been handcrafted by the laziest stroke of the Master's brush. A gentle paint of sub tropics in a clear blue sea, along silver powdery sand. The only noise that you hear in Benaulim, is what you make. There is none. I had planned to spend my six months’ worth of human time to cover up the spiritual space of a few lifetimes. But I forgot to get back to destiny.

I still live here.