Going Goa

Twice or more, recently, for different reasons and at different times, I said that I hate Goa. Wrong choice of a word. I don’t.

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I’ve spent a better part of my life living there, I have many good friends in Goa, and most of all, I have some of the best memories of my life that have been made in Goa. Perhaps, that is the problem. The eyes that had seen Goa and loved it in the most unconditional way are innocent no more. At least not like they were many years ago. For a person who has been rooted and uprooted many times, this seemed to be one place that seemed perfect to finally root yourself permanently, eventually.

But like most things in this world change, and so did this place, and I wasn’t around to experience that change. There’s something about being in a change that makes us unmindful to the change. There’s familiarity. Perhaps, if I was in the environment, experiencing, and even causing the change, it wouldn’t have felt this enormous, when I looked at it years later. That very warm hug as you entered the realm was missing, that sense of being lost in time wasn’t there and the obliviousness to the busy world around it didn’t exist. In fact, it was quite the opposite. Everything seemed hurried, connected and synchronised.

It’s only a disconnect, when I think hard about it. A disconnect between the perception of many years ago, and now, my asking that it remains the same the way I remembered it.

It’s not fair.

I haven’t remained the same.

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