A Letter from Goa

It’s been a while since I wrote, since I even had the time to sit down and reflect on my thoughts. Work has been occupying most of my mental space, and by the time I get home I am sleepy, exhausted, and barely have the energy to think.

Dealing with people, endless requirements, documentation, tummy aches, GERD, everything has slowly chipped away at my headspace.

Our family has been going through a difficult time, but the last few weeks have also felt like home, in the truest sense of the word. My grandparents came back from the US. Not under the happiest of circumstances, but they were here. After such a long time, our family was together under one roof again. I only wish it had happened for happier reasons, but sometimes having your family around exactly when you need them is what makes their presence even more meaningful.

Today I am sitting in Goa, meeting my husband after spending the last couple of weeks apart. As I sit on the beach reading a book for the first time in what is probably five months, reflecting on how the last few months have unfolded, I had intentionally picked something lighter to read. I have always loved anthologies, stories rooted in different cultures and places.

The last time I came here, I read a collection of Goan stories and fell in love with it so much that I went back home and bought collections of Marathi, Telugu, Malayalam and Tamil short stories. Somewhere along the way, they became my comfort books. I made it a point to only reach for them when life felt slightly unmanageable, almost as though they had become a quiet reward for surviving difficult seasons. This trip, I brought along the Tamil collection that had been sitting on my shelf. Smaller stories somehow felt gentler to return to after such a long reading slump.

Whilst my husband was busy at work, I did feel a tiny bit guilty about spending the afternoon on my own at the resort.

But then something shifted.

The relentless monsoon waves, the dogs darting across the shoreline playfully, the crows patiently waiting beside fishermen pulling in their nets, and the white bellied eagles gliding effortlessly against the wind made me stop and simply observe.

Here were dogs running around without a care in the world. Crows waiting for an opportunity. Eagles soaring despite the unforgiving gusts. And I found myself wondering where I fit into all of this. What was my place in this vast little ecosystem that seemed to function so effortlessly without overthinking every next step?

All these years, and all the years ahead, we strive to work, worry about our health, pay medical bills, earn money, pay taxes, and continue chasing one milestone after another. But for what? What is the ultimate goal? Tangible or intangible, where exactly are we all trying to get to?

As much as I love this slower rhythm here, I know there are responsibilities waiting for me back home. That is the thing about responsibility. It travels with you. Even when your body has escaped somewhere beautiful, your mind quietly reminds you of everything waiting on the other side.

For a moment, I wondered what life would feel like if it were as uncomplicated as the scene unfolding before me.

I watched a white bellied eagle as I lay on the beach with my book. Grey clouds hung low, the waves crashed endlessly, and the wind refused to settle. Yet the eagle simply glided from one end of the sky to the other, over and over again. It did not resist the wind. It used it.

What looked so peaceful from where I sat was probably the result of tremendous effort. It harnessed the force of the monsoon winds so gracefully that all I could see was calm. I would never know how difficult that flight actually was because the eagle never made it look difficult.

Maybe people are like that too.

We rarely know what someone has weathered before they arrive at a place that looks effortless.

And perhaps that is all life really is.

Here I was convincing myself that life had become unbearably difficult, while this eagle simply moved through the storm with patience, adjusting instead of resisting, allowing the wind to carry it rather than fighting every gust.

What a sight it was.

Watching it, I realised my problems were not insignificant, but they were far more manageable than I had allowed myself to believe.

Then another thought quietly found its way into my mind.

Almost every burden we carry begins with us.

The stories we tell ourselves. The urgency we create. The expectations we place on our own shoulders. Somewhere along the way we end up running a race that never seems to have a finish line.

Until that moment, I had been worrying about unanswered emails, the strange feeling in my throat, my stomach hurting no matter what I ate, a client escalation waiting for me, and everything else that had slowly consumed my attention.

Then I put my phone on personal mode.

I stopped checking emails.

I stopped analysing every little symptom.

I gave myself permission to simply exist.

For the first time in a long time, I genuinely relaxed.

I read for over an hour without my mind drifting back to work. I packed up my things, wandered along the beach for nearly forty minutes, watched tiny crabs patiently rolling sand into perfect little balls, stood there watching the sea arrive and retreat in its own unpredictable rhythm, welcomed the light drizzle on my skin, let the wet sand sink beneath my feet, and slowly made my way back to my room.

I took a long, hot shower.

It struck me that so much of the urgency I carried had been created by me, for me.

I took my medicines, made myself a hot cup of tea, ordered room service, and finally exhaled.

For the first time in weeks, my mind felt still.

And for now, that is enough.

For now, I am going to enjoy where I am, eat well, put on a face mask, curl up in bed, and watch Cape Fear.