Goa, once the land of susegaad—that blissful, hammock-swaying, afternoon-snoozing, Kingfisher beer -sipping contentment—has gone through quite the personality crisis. My wife and I hoped for a nostalgic dip into coconut curries, quiet beaches, and maybe even a church bell or two ringing softly in the distance. Instead, I found myself in a DJ's fever dream—Goa, remixed. Calangute and Baga felt like Las Vegas had a glitter overdose. EDM beats pulsed louder than my heartbeat, and the only thing more neon than the signage were the flaming shots being served at every third shack. Taxi drivers offer "spiritual tours" which involve not temples but a pub crawl ending at a secret rave (that seemed rather well-publicised). The susegaad of old Goa—where conversations stretched longer than siestas—seemed to be hiding behind overpriced organic cafes selling avocado toast and turmeric lattes. We did try to find peace. But the closest we came was watching a group of North India...
I’m a Catholic, but I’m not religious. Or maybe I am—just in a way that would make both a priest and a pandit shake their heads in confusion. I kneel and pray to Jesus with the same sincerity as when I press my palms together and bow before Ganapati. I’ve stood in churches with tears in my eyes and sat through pujas with the same devotion. If there’s a God listening, I’m making sure He, She, or They get my message. Around my neck, I wear a golden cross on a chain and a brown scapular. A symbol of faith, tradition, and, in my case, a little bit of superstition. If layering faiths worked for my ancestors—who probably had a rosary in one pocket and a coconut for an offering in the other—then why should I be any different? But faith is a funny thing. It’s easy to believe in miracles when you’re praying for a job, a house, or a good monsoon. But what about when you’re praying for something bigger? What about when you’re kneeling on the cold floor at 3 a.m., whispering, “God, are you ...
I was born in Hamzoo Terrace, Dadar. Hamzoo Terrace wasn’t just a building; it was a living, breathing carnival of cultures, where smells of overflowing common toilets and garbage harmonised with aromas of fish being fried or dal being tadka-fied, a miniature world where no religion, caste, or creed could ever outshine the sheer chaos of our community. It was a utopia packed into 39 houses stacked across two floors, a ground floor, and, most importantly, the terrace. The terrace divided in two parts wasn’t just a social space—it was a stadium, a stage, and a battleground. Football and cricket matches and tournaments on the terrace were legendary. Neighbours would remove their drying papads and kurdais, shaking off any lingering flour dust, to clear space for the games. The tournaments were grand affairs, with the umpire often doubling as the commentator and the scorekeeper. After the matches, the same terrace transformed into a cultural hub, hosting everything from Ganpati dance p...
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