Scenes through a hotel window

“I like hotels because in a hotel room you have no history; you have only essence.”
Doug Coupland

Holiday in a hotel room. I turn this over as a title for a travel story.
A sigh. These Mumbai-weary travelers need an escape from history, a place to reclaim essence.

We take the 5:20 a.m. Indian Airlines flight to Goa, which is not as bad as it sounds. In fact there is something very special about flying into Goa as dawn breaks. High above the clouds we are muted by the sight outside our windows.

Comfortable though it was riding in the Taj Hotels minivan, I missed the early morning breeze on my face. Outside Goa passed us by, a serene lustrous pearl. I understand why everyone wants a piece of this place, wants to buy land and build a house, wants to rent a cottage for six months, wants to open a jungle themed nightclub. Like Goa is a radiant daughter of a Goddess that the king of the Underworld wants to possess eternally.

The Taj Holiday Village on Aguada Bay attempts a microcosmic Goa experience so you never need leave. Every kind of plant native to Goa has been planted on the grounds, authentic Goan cuisine is made available by the talented Chef Urbano Rego, the villas mimic the lovely old houses of Goa and are painted in flamboyant mango, fuschia, cobalt. And the hotel’s location is blessed with superb views.

And this view interrupted by a story of environmental threats Goa faces. Four years ago a ship carrying tons of gravel started drifting down the coast of Goa and is now washed up on a sand bar off the Village. Being so large and moored where it is, it prevents regular deposits of sand on the hotel’s private beach. In fact there is no beach anymore. It is a source of great distress understandably, and there is construction around the clock to carve out a new beach from one side of the hotel grounds.

Sometimes food is just food, not love or respect or care. The sweetly obsequious staff ply us with an endless array of grilled sea animals, Thai specialties, Goan delicacies. Please sir, have some more. Instead of enjoying the food as it deserves, we eye the next meal with trepidation and wonder if we will have place. Meals become a source of worry punctuated only by the sincere encouragements of Chef Preeti, Nitin, and his team of waiters to eat more.

One of the interesting things about hotel-as-escape is the people you meet who cannot escape the hotel. Derek Monteiro, Guest History Manager at the Taj, is one of them. We talk about common links to Bandra. Suddenly a turn in polite conversation when the Guest History Manager disappears and Derek, Fearless Hunter-Downer of Rare Orchids, emerges. With precise details of how to nurture, collect, and manage orchids, Derek dazzles. I am trying to picture him as a rangy toothless Chris Cooper from the movie Adaptation, and think he deserves an intrepid writer enchanted by his orchids.

Suddenly amidst the calm a work crisis. Phones that have been feeling rejected burst back into life. The laptop is whirring. Samir is doing an all-nighter in the lobby to tap into the Wi-Fi and email work across continents. He takes a break at 2:00 a.m. and we stroll through the sleeping Village and kiss in the shade of an ageless banyan tree. Things will get better.

And they do, with thanks in part to Madhe and Anand who treat us to a Balinese massage and foot reflexology at the seductive ‘couple suite’ of the Jiva Spa. I zone out under Madhe’s touch. Samir is making soft happy sounds, clearly enjoying his foot treatment. Relaxed and pampered, he is soon snoring far too loudly for this posh spa. I am turning purple under the warm towels. All attempts to shush him fail. He is far out at sea bobbing on the waves.

We wash up at Coconut Creek, a pretty little hotel on Bogmalo beach. Joet’s bar and restaurant is walking distance from the hotel and spitting distance (literally) from the beach. Arriving at Joets we felt like children on drugs on Christmas morning. It was perfect, except for the curious looks we got being the only natives who were drinking, smoking, and in swimsuits.

Feasting on batter fried mussels and sharp gin and tonics, watching for dolphins, and reading our books. At Joets the simplest things are the most satisfying. Samir spends his days on his back far out in the water hoping for a Discovery Channel-worthy encounter with dolphins. Sadly that didn’t happen.

Walking down the beach early one morning I found a big scaly fish that had washed up, between life and death, breathing in big gill-gulps every time a wave came in, flopping, turning, trying to make its way back home. Anthony, a local fisherman unloading his catch, was scornful of throwing it back in (“it with God”), or making curry of it (“no good eating fish”).

The silent glassy eye quotes Rumi at me: “Do you think I know what I’m doing? / That for one breath or half a breath I belong to myself? / As much as a pen knows what it is writing / It may be the satisfaction I need depends on my going away / So that when I’ve gone and come back, I’ll find it at home.

The story ends. We leave at dusk. Approaching Bombay by night is the best way to do it. We are muted by the sight outside our windows. I look down and find that the sand of Bogmalo has stubbornly clung to my feet, quartz sparkling in the dimmed lights. Like essence.