When I first moved from the cemented chaos of Mumbai to a tiny red mud house in the Goan village of Benaulim, I signed up for peace, palm trees, and the slow, poetic hum of the sea. My house, on rent with the lease renewed recently, has a storybook aura to it. It is nestled between a row of cheerful, colourful Goan homes, each brighter than the next. Blue, yellow, green — and mine fiery red.
Together, we stand under a cathedral of swaying palms, like crayons forgotten in a tropical jungle. Fisherfolk live next door, their laughter rising with the smell of fried mackerel at dawn. It’s a postcard come alive, with a soundtrack of roosters, radio Konkani hits, and the distant caw of crows eyeing breakfast scraps.