Solo Trips, Serial Killers and Goa

And just like that, once again we are under the power of Covid-19, the virus that has been screwing up our lives for the past couple of years. Can someone tell me why China has no cases of coronavirus? Or are people dropping dead but nobody is allowed to tell?

So here I am, once again spending most of my time indoors. Thankfully last year I finally went ahead and indulged in some home improvements, so at least my apartment is a nicer place to hang out in. The plan is to make some additional improvements but I no longer have faith in plans.

This morning I was going through some old pictures and came across a bunch from my solo trip to Goa in August 2015. On an impulse, I had booked myself an Airbnb in South Goa, not completely remote but still very serene. It’s a part of South Goa that has mostly 5 star hotels and I was most definitely not in one of them. Instead I had an entire apartment to myself. A fairly large, almost spooky place on a quiet residential street, surrounded by trees and about a 5 minute walk from the pristine beach. 

Landing into Goa late afternoon, by the time I reached my living quarters for the next few days, after an almost 2 hour scenic cab ride, the sun was starting to go down. I quickly changed into my shorts and rushed to make sure I wouldn’t have a single ‘beach-free’ day. The white sand and the golden sunset was a sight to behold. There were a few couples walking around and as always I ended up playing photographer at their request. 

The gold and ....

The silver of Goa

As it started to get dark, I began heading back to my apartment, took a quick shower and walked over to a little restaurant across the street. The plan was to drink a couple of beers, have a fish dinner and turn in early, after having had a long day. 

The restaurant turned out to be larger than it looked from the outside, was nicer than I expected with some al fresco seating. I picked a small table in the outside section for myself, the sea breeze feeling good on my face and ordered a chilled beer. Just a few minutes later, a man, probably in his mid 30s came and sat at the table in front of me. We nodded at each other and I began looking at the menu. 

“I recommend the calamari,” he said. 

I smiled, put the menu away and responded that I would take him up on his recommendation. 

“I quit my job a few minutes ago,” he said out of the blue. He put his hands behind his head and stretched out his back, like he was trying to relieve all the stress from his body. “Oh man it feels so good to say that. I almost can’t believe I finally quit!”

“Sounds like I should be saying congratulations,” I replied.

“You’re the first person I’ve said this to,” he laughed. 

Now I was even more intrigued, invited him to my table and offered to buy him a beer to celebrate his recent state of being unemployed. 

So apparently he had been working at one of the big hotels close by as a sous chef, absolutely hated the management and had been thinking about leaving for a while. After exchanging some unpleasant words with the Executive Chef, he just wrote out his resignation and walked out of the place.

“Sounds very dramatic,” I said.

He laughed, harder and longer than I would have expected. “It totally was!”

The laughter continued for a bit and he was wiping tears and nodding his head. I figured it was the relief, the finality of something he had been wanting to do for a while, but didn’t have the courage to, until now. 

After about an hour of discussing life, food (especially sea food), travel and being free spirits, he asked if I would be interested in getting out of the place we were at and visiting some of his favourite restaurants. Clearly, I didn’t need to be asked a second time. 

So instead of having dinner by myself and going to bed early, I now had a chef guide who was introducing me to places I would never know about. We went to 3 different restaurants, all charming, small, local hideouts, places that were big on taste and small on hype. The delicious tiger prawns, the king fish and even some lobster that I would never have tried if I hadn’t made a solo trip to Goa, run into someone who became a friend and took a leap of faith that this friend in actuality wasn’t a serial killer.

Photographs aren’t just about sceneries and people. They’re also reminders of stories that are behind them. Stories that make our lives a little more special and interesting. 

I’ve always believed that friendships can be lifelong or just for a day. That was the only time I met Rajat. Although we did exchange numbers and a few texts the next couple of days, neither one of us made any effort to meet again. Six years later, I can barely even remember what he looked like. I had almost forgotten about that evening until I came across the photos from the trip. 

This third viral wave has made me extremely restless. I want to be out there, adding more stories to my life, without having to worry about infectious diseases and social distancing. While I probably have a repository of stories to tell from my life, I am greedy for more. 

This is a poem I wrote that some of you may have seen already. It's about the serial killer that has been hovering around our lives the past couple of years and seems appropriate to end the piece with. 

Live in joy or live in fear

Omicron why did you come here?

The choice to stay at home

Should be made by us alone

Not by an annoying bug

Who disapproves when people hug

Twenty twenty two please set us free

Covid nineteen go climb a tree