Arambol Beach, Goa

Before my trip, an Indian friend told me not to expect to find anything in particular on my visit to India and not to be bound by any specific expectations. She said I would see vast contradictions and it would be impossible to simplify India into one thing or even a handful of things. The best thing I could do is come with an open mind. 

My first days in India have illustrated this vividly – coming from Chennai to Northern Goa. Chennai was full of hustle – a self-contained chamber of restless activity soothed only by streams of colorful flowing saris and shalwar kameez. And apart from the museums, temples, hotels and tourist places, there was scarcely a white person in sight. 

This part of Goa, by contrast, is covered in Europeans, loads of Russians, techno music, hippies, chic French restaurants, perfectly lithe women in barely there bikinis and shatteringly elegant bohemian garb, beaches littered with sunbathers gleaming with an air of casual importance or undercover celebrity, trendy yoga tourism, and whispers of assorted intoxicants available for the late night party scene.

This is my first leg of the journey, for which I am joined by two travel buddies who are former colleagues from back home. Goa seemed like a good place to decompress before my travel schedule amps up and becomes more grueling. Invariably, I’d been told that Goa would be “strange” and not like any other place I would experience here. More than a few times, my friends and I found ourselves asking “Is this really India?” 

Who can say? Perhaps it is and it isn’t. I am seeing it as the first stop in what will be a chain of meandering complexity.