01052007149.jpg  Under ÓBUMBLE-BEE series on my blog

If you allow me, I will go back to those walks we took after breakfast. To those words, in our mouths, tumbling out in low,hushed voices. To those walks when we acquired whispers and developed soft feet, a genuine desire to sink down into the calmness around us. To those conversations clad in philosophy at the dinner table. To those brief sweet slumbers that devoured us in the afternoons.   

If you allow me, I will go back to squint at the sun, huh, how intrusive one could be,  bringing in nameless yet rich warmth, crawling over our bodies that seemed living with stillness and stuck with the tail-end of some unknown dreams, bending his way into the crumpled white sheets, parking his glow at the naked shoulders, and gleaming on our lips.

If you allow me, I will go back to stand near the wooden window, 300420070791.jpgwhich opens to the wild and unruly forest, oh! what a respite from our regular days and nights that march with the hands tic-tocking in the clock, from organised frames tucked in semi-formals : I slip into my Levis jeans and Pure white shirts, you strut about Pure whites and Dockers. Remember, I murmured to you, fighting to open my eyes, about the wild development in dense greens, bright chirpy yellows, pinks and rusty browns around the fence, seemed filled with excitement, of different kind , every day, and those birds, so far away from us, like tiny black dots perched on 02052007187.jpgthe topmost branches of the trees, chirp at practically anything that gets their interest pricked. To lean against the walls dripping in dense hum of insects, to the summer woods that are busy with a constant rush of a different traffic. 

If you allow me, I will go back to many moments when we stared, hand-in-hand, from our bike, at  the grandeur of Goan homes painted in solid colours bright yellows, deep blues, pale brownish yellows, mostly vibrant hues of life. To that post-breakfast session we had with the old gentleman, how laboriosuly he moved around, who took us through the interiors in yellow ochres, natural pigment hues, heavy wooden doors that can be folded like windows, windows whose slots are made of fish shells,those huge jars used to store wine, grains etc.

If you allow me, I will go back to those rides on the bike I took with you, my head rested on your back, ran past us those balcaos facing the street  where women sat together on Built-in seats placed – on the steps with each seat on a step or facing back-to-back on the balcão- to gossip, Young men immersed deeply in the games of Carroms, or sitting on the low walls buried under deep-bodied vines. Single-storeyed houses, half-storeyed houses, double-storeyed houses, with tiled-high roofs, allowing Sunlight to play hide-n-seek games. 

If you allow me, I will go back to the afternoons when we followed the road all the time, through the villages, through the villagers with tough, rugged yet pleasant faces, through the dark unflinching bodies of sweat and labor, descending from the mountains, the road curved and curled waving at the natural contours of the shoreline, to introduce us to the evenings and the sea. To those evenings when we walked through the heavy scents of sea, through the white, brown and black bodies gushing over the sea like children, through the little hands and toes laboring over castles in the sand, to those many pleasant interruptions when the sea flooded our limbs, entered us ravenously with its friendly waves, playful gushes, treacherous and schematic games, tell me was it enough for us? how effortlessly, the sea turned everything in us solemn, at times, I moved away from you, you moved away from me, brooding over a melancholic trip, thus I thought of “A heavy surf”….

{{The wind is insufferable. It catches us unprepared; and to keep
up our courage each does what he can – we climb bridges
and stairways and ponder. Then a gust empties our heads
-strange to say- and all of a sudden we feel
Better. Headless, we can talk with the wind….Pablo Neruda}}
30042007139.jpg 

To that brief sleep stretched  languorously on the black rocks with those jig-jagged formations, as if a town is built in stone with criss-crossed pathways, tiny houses with balconies facing the streets, washed up by the sea, the air is crackling with salt, one of those stone houses, dazzled, we checked in for an evening  to  watch the sun setting down, at times my eyes closed  I delivered myself to my loneliness, to my pain, to the impending moment of farewell, gust after gust, like a  wind, I do not know what you were thinking of then. To the moment when my eyes ran after the trail or the fight in great solitude, that black bird indulged against the gusty sea breeze, overhead in the skies, a vagabond whose grievings woud be resolved by the setting sun…{Abhi’s POV about the bird’s great solitude!}

 If you allow me, I will go back to the moody trip over the beaten path, fast-tracking up a forest trail that tucked in many browned and rusted fallen leaves, the sun was peaking through the trees arrogant heads, at us the intruders, meandering to soak our weary bodies in the tingling waters of the falls, hugged by clouds, and then chugged out the train with no human passengers,01052007154.jpg from the black stolid stone cut from the mountains, rambling some song from its snub-nose face, peeking deep down the valley below, we waved at it fervently, am not sure it heard our shouts that were rendered like whistles across the wind. To the long waterfall shrouded in a heavy forest of herbal trees, flied down sky disgorging milky-white water, spreading in the air around the green mountains, the quiet chill of crystal waters murmuring those tales we hear in our dreams and forget when we wake up….

If you allow me, I will go back to the woman in her pale blue top and aqua green colored skirt, who gushed over the boyish-looking man in Pure whites and
Levis, hiding a twinkle behind his Ray ban. To the hands slipped into a silent clasp, after a brief introduction and a shared smile, drove past the village women selling baskets-full of silvery fish on the roadside, the village women carrying woods and bundles down a dirt road….  

{link : Abhi’s version :Life in its own unique way provides an ambience for one to meet someone who she’d stumbled upon, it was almost a pleasant collision just around the corner and all the required variables fell in place in no time, as if they were progammed to work at their best pace to enable a “human interaction’ to happen…… Abhi maintains a low-profile, but certainly is an entertainer with words, which is further fortified with his educational background. Finally, he, the busy-body, wrote his version of our vacation. Yes, it can be agreed that women and men tend to write differently….the  first-person narrator in my case is all about falling in love with the land and the man, while the male narrator had given a full-fledged rendition to the topography. But I would say, his version is a lot more mellifluous and pragmatic than mine….umm, he did touch upon that woman with a payal (anklet), a slender body in a black top and a floral-printed flimsy skirt!}
 

 ….with Abhi, I learnt this insight : Be a Goan when you are in Goa. Be an Italian when you are in Italy. {Link : The Place we stayed, watched movies together, took quite a few walks….Goa Astoria, 400 200yr old family run heritage hotel To taste the truest flavour of a journey, one needs to take genuine desire to succumb to various nuances of the local culture, the local way of living} It would be an empty experience if one moves around a strange place as a tourist.  …..{the images you looking at are captured by my Nokia-N series}

And I recommend at the counter : {link:Frenzy about the windy skies} and  Floyd’s India

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