Written by Nandini Sethi
My car windows tinted with moisture, I outlined the shape of a heart on them,
The low rumble of the engine faded to a background hum as heavy drops of rain pattered against humid panes.
Every minute we were jolted from our seats, the unforeseen speed bumps and dips in roads catching us off guard;
There was something about these streets, maybe it was the way they were made, or how lazily they were planned, but there was a charm; a sense of humanness in them.
The roads weren’t perfect, neither were the people who set out to make them,
And neither am I.
The trees scattered on both sides lolled, swaying lethargically along with the brisk wind,
As if they were talking to me, telling me that unless I sit up straight and stop my yawning at midday, they will snap in half and crumble to the floor.
The tiny houses, to me they didn’t make any sense,
They were disorderedly and almost hideous,
But the little kids scampering about, jumping in puddles as they ran back to doorless little homes,
Ran back to parents that didn’t know of a better life, and didn’t want to know of one,
Making me question if I ever loved my two-bedroom apartment in the city as much as they did their unstable, yet happy home in the middle of nowhere.
The journey to Goa was an experience,
Where I asked myself existential questions,
To which I never knew the answers,
And like the parents of the unknowing little kids, I didn’t go looking for them.
Even ten years later,
As crumbly, gravel-packed roads have become swift lanes and impeccable highways,
The charm of Old Goa never fades;
The roads will keep asking me questions, and I will keep looking for them.
