“Babes in bikinis orange and bright,
Too flimsy to quite hold on tight.
Glasses of wine all around the pool,
Aromas delicious and worthy of drool.
A reckless sea cracking the shore,
Unleashing the waviest from its store.
A dark tan clingy and brown,
Festive nightlights all over the town.
Bikes on rent and a baby soft lane,
Tattoo parlours that claim ‘no pain’.
English hats to shade from the sun,
Summer dresses to flaunt for fun.
Beach shacks with karaoke bars,
Quiet tables to look at the stars.
The rumbling shore to sit quietly by,
To hold on tight as the good times fly.
The sun and sand in memories to lock,
For a smile later… for dreams to stock.”
P.S.: Child (ish?). That’s how Goa makes me feel. Like I can fly. Like I can pluck a star for my Christmas basket. And there’s this voice in my head which says all I prayed for at the little church near Candolim Beach is going to come true. And when it does, I am going back.