This past week, dear reader, I went to what I thought was Goa.
Goa, for me and so many other like (not to mention right) minded people, is a spiritual pilgrimage of sorts.
One goes there to rest and recuperate, to imbibe startling quantities of Kings beer and feni, and to look at the waves at sunset and ask why one should go back to whence one came from.
There being no satisfactory answer to this question, one returns to the consumption of Kings and feni, and so the evening passes into late night.
Repeat for five days at least for optimal spiritual recovery, as the doctor says.
The thing is, I was going back to Goa after a hiatus of three years. A busy schedule and a life partner whose middle name is fiscal austerity had combined to keep me away from heaven, and so it was with a manly tear in my eye that I drove back into the promised land of Candolim and Calangute…
… only to find that Goa had been thoroughly Indianized.
About fifteen years ago, I had ridden down to Goa with some friends, one of whom happened to be vegetarian. Said friend gamely put up with the chorizos, the vindaloos, the sorpotels and the ox tongues for the first four days, but hoisted the flag of revolt on the fourth night.
He would, he said, eat at a vegetarian restaurant that night, or not at all. And so we sallied forth at night to find for our friend a restaurant that would serve plant based victuals alone.
All I’m saying is, had we equipped ourselves with a time machine that night and magically appeared in Calangute in 2018, we’d have had a far easier time of it. Because in today’s day and age, it might actually be harder to find a restaurant in Goa serving Goan food. Udupi joints, Indian joints and thali joints have sprung up like a rash in every available nook and cranny in Candolim and Calangute. Sambar has sorpotel on the mat, and in the battle between the chutney and the chorizo, the former is a winner by a country mile.
This is not, I said to myself as I rode around what used to be familiar roads, the Goa of yesteryear. And it really and truly isn’t, dear reader.
The shacks serve tandoori chicken, which I could just about wrap my head around, but the last straw was the night I went for dinner to Souza Lobo. The shack outside, and I swear by all that is holy, this is true – it was playing Yo Yo Honey Singh songs.
Now, I’ll make my peace with idlis in Goa. I’ll tolerate paneer butter masala being served at Britto’s. I’ll grit my teeth and accept vegetarian thalis. But Yo Yo Honey Singh, modern Goa, is taking things too far.
I was this close to thinking the unthinkable, as I gloomily reflected on all of these developments. Perhaps it makes sense, I guiltily thought, to maybe drop Goa and go someplace else next time. I mean, what’s the point anyways, my brain asked, emboldened by how I seemed to be ok with this sacrilegious line of thought.
But at that very moment, dear reader, the waiter stepped up with another short stubby bottle of Kings, and what can I say?
So the evening passed into the night.
~~
#All views expressed in this article are those of the Author and Pune365 does not necessarily subscribe to them.
##The Consumption of alcohol is injurious to health. Pune365 strongly discourages the consumption of tobacco and alcohol.
He doesn't expect the paradox to be resolved in his lifetime
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