Goa is a slice of tourist heaven, an accessible escape from the smog, stress and searing discord of Pune. A former Portuguese and later Dutch colony, it hugs miles of west India’s coastline as if searching for the escape it offers its Russian, Australian, Swedish, and American guests. Palms trees are generously spread along it’s landscape, sharing space with rice fields, sand, and the occasional church - a interesting change from dominance of the temples elsewhere in India. The sun is an insistent charmer, and if you are not careful, it can make your skin painfully blush for days on end. 

Portuguese Ingreja (Church)

The two brief days we spend there were marked by a haze induced by sleep exhaustion from 10 hours on an unsleepable sleeper bus - a vehicle make you feels like you are a ragdoll as it throws your body up, down, left, right - and giddiness at having arrived at India’s Ocean City. After grabbing some deliciously safe fresh fruit and oatmeal for breakfast, we changed and walked over to the dazzling Arabian Sea. This is where began to Goa showed some of its less appealing nature, however. The ratio of men to women on the beach was about 7-1 and many of the former are looking to ‘click,’ or take a photo of young female tourists. Getting past this awkward speed-bump is challenging, but not altogether impossible if you are in the right company.

That evening we went to an absolutely gorgeous open-air restaurant right near out hotel. Fiesta in Baga Beach is all elegance and finesse, with details that keep you continuously entertained and engaged by its beauty. We ate under the canopy of coconut trees, sitting in dugout canoes filled with soft scarlet pillows. Each bite of food and sip of wine teased my senses and they in turn begged me to stay. The whole experience was exquisite and surprisingly affordable. 

We spent the next day wandering around, shopping at the small stalls along the road, and relishing in the gastronomy (highly recommend: Lila’s Cafe and Infantaria) and the simple pleasure of being able to dress according to climate rather than culture. 

The sleeper bus back was equally as ‘exciting,’ as the one there. We arrived soon enough at 6 am, giving us just enough time to come home, shower, and prepare for another week of classes, coursework, and internship preparation.

On Wednesday my parents, my brother, my sister-in-law and my nephew came to visit. Having the small delegation here, only a fraction of my family if you can believe it, was a surreal experience. I was especially excited to finally meeting my nephew Vivaan. It is always a funny feeling when you introduce close acquaintances to the pieces of your life you have come to know apart from them. It was with this mindset that I showed them around Fergusson College, the Japanese Tea Garden, Laxmi Road and the Ganpati Temple. We also went to Koregean Park for lunch at a Middle Eastern/India restaurant at ABC farms adorned in the likes of a tree house.  The next day I went to class and then met up with them to go to the Kelkar Museum, a private art collection that includes century old artwork, wooden and marble statues of Hindu gods and goddesses, massive dowry chests, and colorfully decorated palanquins. My nephew certainly enjoyed running around the building as he tried to catch daddy and aunty (me!). We went to a traditional Maharastrian restaurant on Tilak road for lunch, a veritable hole in the wall that served all you can chapattis, rice, dal, and other local dishes eat for less than 70 rupees a person. After we finished, Vivaan was getting restless him and his parents headed back to their hotel while my parents and I caught up over had ice cream at Shaviree. 

Wooden Vishnu

Old School Durga

That afternoon I visited my first slum in Pune to conduct some preliminary research for my internship. My interpreter and I were greeted into a remarkably small room as we waited for the micro-finance orientation meeting to begin. During the small pocket of time I was entertained by a one-and-a-half year old girl, dressed up in a delightfully bright green dress. She engaged me a game of peekaboo and my efforts at entertaining her were occasionally rewarded by a soft giggle or a shy smile from her mother. The time passed quickly and the room filled with women and a couple of men. The former were welcomed to sit on a thin cloth on the floor, while the latter took their place on the benches behind. The ratio of the former to the latter was about 3-1, indicative of the demographics of the loans that are usually paid out. As the lecture began, the Marathi and heat began to seriously jeopardized my focus so that I had to constatle move around to try and stay awake. Around 4 pm we caught a rickshaw back so I could go play with Hindi devanagri letters.

After class, I took a rickshaw to my family’s hotel and had dinner at the all vegetarian Italian restaurant right behind their quarters. The mouthwatering display of desserts as we walked in along with three pages of fresh salads in the menu were accurate harbingers of feast that we were to have. Halfway through dinner, courtesy of my brother Frank and his wife Isha, we took a break and were all treated to an impromptu magic show in the hotel lobby. The three men’s antics had impressed them earlier that day and my brother cajoled the hotel to let them in to perform. The main magician, a reedy man of roughly 50 with a grin that revealed a line of blackened lowered teeth, used over 10 languages including German, Kenyan, and French. By the time he was done with his final act, an impressive levitation of his fellow magician, we were dizzy and daft from charade.

Family at dinner

Italian Indian Dinner

Amidst all these occurrences, Pune has been bubbling with festivities yet again, this time in honor of the goddess Durga who is an embodiment of feminine energy or shakti. I cannot help but note that the goddess’ image has become more demure in modern depictions. Durga the fierce warrior goddess riding an equally ferocious mount, a snarling tiger, is mostly absent; the idols at the mandals show an elegant figure wrapped in a becoming sari. This could perhaps be an indication of a change in preferences, marketing, culture or a mixture of all three. Somehow I cannot see the same happening to Kali, however. Feminists around the world would surely be outraged. 

To celebrate the holiday, there have been garbas around the city. A garba is a Gujarati tradition. It involves hundreds of people gathering to dance in dazzling costumes. The high of twirling, swinging, and twisting my limbs in sync with those of dozens of welcoming strangers made me feel like I was accessing the culture in a way that words often prevent. It was liberating to be able to rely on steady, meaningful glances and hearty grins as complete means of communication.

Dancing in the Moonlight

Garba Dancers

On Sunday we were invited over to Priya Tai’s house for an aarti and dinner. A parade of girls from the program wandered into the apartment, each one dressed to the nines in embroidered kurtis, tailored salwar kameezs, and tastefully patterned saris. After we mingled, gushed over each other, and the ceremony was performed the gracefully hosts - Priya, Abouli, Amy, and Hannah- invited us to not just eat, but consume. A coma inducing brunch four-hour brunch earlier that day had my body begging for a rest from everything eatable, but the family insisted I try the carefully prepared homemade gulab jamun, sirope soaked fried balls of sin, and idli sambar. Unable, and admittedly somewhat unwilling to resist, I gave in. Sometimes you just have to bite the bait for pleasure and propriety’s sake.

Bonus: Flower Market and Fresh Idli for Breakfast with Swapna Tai

Idlii Chatani