This afternoon I was leafing through a sheaf of short stories on Goa by J. P. D’Souza.
The story I chose to read was ‘Back to the Village.’ In it, Jacob D’Costa, unhappy with his life in Bombay, decides to follow his instincts and heads to his village in Goa – we are not told which – with his 4 children in tow.
After vivid descriptions of village life, the story lurches to its inconclusive end with Jacob in between two worlds – his imagined world in Goa, and the world of Bombay, where 2 of his elder children want to head to for further studies.
I myself have always transited beteween Goa and Delhi – sometimes even on weekends. In this dual existence I retain some of the sanity I seek in life.
The Smell of Burnt Leaves
From Santacruz to Matunga the time is about the same
‘Haywire’ Agnihotri steers 255 to Goa
Divya Sandilya serves up the cookies
At 30,000 feet Icarus confers with Ra
Souza meets Souza, the river flows between
From a duck to a dragon, then a royal steed
A field of giant cauliflowers sprouts up in the sky
A little dog running, I can hear the yelps
In the prism of time, space is an illusion
Vasco to Mapusa, Delhi to Goa
A fishnet beckons, poetry by candlelight
School buddies connect 26 years on
The Green house goalie with wife and 2 kids
In the blinding rain, is the sound of the monsoon
Life becomes clearer on a Saligao road
16 A for a seat with a view
The sun sets on your left, ‘Take him safely back to base’
Newton and Nanz sing at the top of the stairs
Beside the hush of the sea, nothing else matters.