Notes on Culture & Antique Art, Ethnic Decor & Vintage Fashion | Wovensouls Art Gallery
Arrived in Goa, to the sounds of news channels whining about the railway traffic disruption in the region caused by the monsoon downpour.
Rains in Goa are so dense that even thoughts get trapped and can’t find their way to our minds.
My first evening here. Miramar beach. A dark cloudy dusk. Ferocious waves. Roaring constantly. Over and over again. Waves higher than me that could swallow me and gulp me in without even noticing me. Water that’s red with the iron ore rich soil gifted to the sea by the Mandovi river. Every wave seething and foaming with rough passionate energy. I walked for an hour – with my mind totally in sync with the mood of the ocean. Anticipating rain – which didn’t come while I walked along the waves.
I left. Stopped for a bite – some hot omlettes from a small shanty cart. And as the chef was making my extra-chilli eggs, the attack came. Unexpected.
I could have shielded myself by standing behind his well equipped cart and avoided it all – like most people do. But I was secretly longing for a battle, a war, an outburst of wild innermost energy. So I stood and fought the rain. Open armed. Facing it without any shield. The wind joined hands with the rain and twice I was pushed back so strong that I needed to hold on to the cart to retain balance. My eyes fought and struggled desperately to stay open and watch as a detached observer. The sea – about 300 metres away – couldn’t be seen anymore. Coconut trees just 10 metres away were blurry.
The uncontrollable frantic devouring of everything in its path continued for minutes that stretched into timelessness. Storming my naked face and my senses and my mind – nullifying them, rendering them dysfunctional – with the relentless waterfall avatar. Alone – but unified with the swollen dark sky. One with the rain, that was wetter than ever before. One with the monsoon, like the helpless gazelle under the capture of the powerful lioness. Struggling would be futile. The only option was to surrender – and to allow myself to be consumed by ravaging energy of the rain.
No people around to restrain me.
No awaiting tasks to inhibit me from flowing with the passion of the rain.
No Gulliver’s pegs at all to stop me.
Just me, alone, giving myself to the attack of the rain gods.
And then the burst subsided. I survived.
Fulfilled. Twinkling. Refreshed. Unified with the skies. Free.
Monsoon. At Miramar beach. Goa.