Invisible

Three weeks ago, I came to Goa for a meeting. It could’ve been over a Zoom call, but the client was paying, so I didn’t argue much. I hate traveling. If it were any other city, I would have said no. But it was Goa. It had been ten years since I last visited. Back in the day, I used to jokingly say that the name Goa has both go and aa (come) in it, and maybe that’s why I keep coming back to this city again and again. So funny. Nobody ever laughed. Once I figured Phuket was cheaper, I promised myself never to come back to Goa. Little did I know that, for the next ten years, I would forget about the existence of this place. Never say things out loud, the Milky Way hears them. Eavesdropper.

Anyway, we had a good meeting, and my flight back to normalcy was scheduled for two days later. On my last day, around 4:30 pm, I stepped out of the hotel to wander around the beach. It was one of those private beaches the hotel acquires so that guests don’t have to mingle with the other tourists in Goa. It makes you feel elite. Too bad they can’t do anything about the water, though. Or the sunsets. That’s shared with everyone. I wish I could have a private sunset, one that only I could see. Maybe then I would start appreciating it. I went and sat on one of those beach beds. The sun had already set. I sat there for another hour. Thinking. Thinking.

I am 12. Everyone is saying that the winter is harsher than last year. I believe them, even though I’m wearing the same sweater I wore last year. And it seems to be blocking the cold breeze just fine. I think people find some satisfaction in shared misery. If everyone is feeling cold, at least we’re not alone. We’ll embrace it together. That might also be the reason every year feels colder than the last. Or maybe it’s just global warming. I don’t know. I don’t care. And I’m out playing in the park, with the same friends, in that same sweater. The sun has set. I should go home. I don’t. I play with my last remaining friend for another hour until it’s pitch dark. Now, his mother has come to pick him up. She’s scolding him for not coming home before sunset. My friend leaves with her. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says. I smile. It seems I’m invisible to his mother. Everyone else has left by now. It’s just me and the gardener. And some old uncles and aunties, jogging their way to gain a few more years. I sit on the bench for another hour. Thinking. Thinking.

“Goa has changed in the last ten years, no?” I ask the waiter. He says he came to Goa only three years ago. “Do you like it?” I ask. “No, I miss winters. It’s too hot here for me,” he replies. We chat some more. He’s from a small village in Himachal and came here to make a living. “So you’re a beach person then,” I tell him. He didn’t get me. I explained that some people identify as either beach people or mountain people. “But why can’t you enjoy both?” he asked me. I don’t know. You can’t. “Where’s my food?” He goes back inside. I sit there. Far, far away into the ocean, a big cruise is passing by. I can sense it’s huge just by the number of bulbs it’s showing off. It’s as if Bhansali himself is the captain of the ship.

I’ve never been on a cruise. I don’t want to. I go toward the beach to get a closer look at the cruise. It looks the same. “I’ve kept your order on the table,” the waiter tells me. He’s now standing near me, watching the cruise go by. “Do you want to follow it?” I ask him. “I always follow it until it disappears,” he replies. “Not like that,” I tell him. I start walking along the shore. Walking. I’ve been walking for an hour now. I must have walked at least five kilometers. It’s completely dark now. The hotel is long gone. Nobody is in sight. Except the cruise. The waiter comes back again. “Your food is getting cold,” he says. I don’t want it. I’m following the cruise now. Following. Following.

I come back home around 8 pm. My mom scolds me. She says she was worried. “Why were you sitting alone on the bench?” I make some excuses. The aunty next door must have told her. She can’t keep anything to herself. I go to my room to study. I take out the novel from my bag and start reading. I have to finish it, or the library will fine me tomorrow. I read the damn thing all night. I didn’t sleep for a single minute. Fourth night in a row. Good morning. I go to the school library, return the book, and pick up another one. I bunk the entire day. I’m just standing outside the class, reading this book. Nobody seems to care. All the teachers must think someone gave me a punishment. Or maybe I’m invisible to them too. The school is over, and I’m walking back home. I’ve decided to take the longer route. I feel good. I stood the entire day today. Reading. Reading.

Five days have passed now. I’m walking along the shore. There’s no cruise in sight. The waiter is back. “Sir, you forgot to check out,” he says. I know. Why is he following me? I don’t answer. I don’t look back. I keep walking. I’ve already checked out. I sometimes go for long walks. It’s not a strange concept. Everyone should do it. Be with yourself until you start enjoying it. Thoreau once said, “I never found a companion that was so companionable as solitude.” I remember this habit of mine, cultivated when I was coming back home from school one day and decided to take the longer route. Then I kept changing paths until I found myself in a place I had never been or seen before. It was joyous. I started doing it more often. Sometimes, on holidays, I’d take it up a notch. It’s in the chaos that you find yourself. And each time, when I solved the puzzle I’d created for myself, the journey back home felt even sweeter. Now, I wonder, does anyone ever want to find themselves? Solitude. Solitude.

“Are you going to walk all the way?” the waiter asks me. “Maybe,” I reply. I’ve been walking for seven days now. What’s “all the way,” anyway? I sense the waiter disappearing. I’m all alone now. I don’t know where I’m going. The cruise I was following is returning to Goa. Is it the same one? I have no clue. Is it even the same sea? It’s pouring now. I feel like I’m invisible. I keep walking for another three days. And then I take a left. I’ll walk all the way some other day. For now, it’s enough. It’s time to find my way back home. Invisible. Invisible.