I have forgotten a lot of things. Nah, I should rather say those memories have slipped past me, sneaked, and stationed themselves behind a mountain range. Settled permanently in a valley I no longer walk to.

I wander, and today, I have wandered off to those very foothills, tucked between majestic snow-laden ranges. Oh! I did not expect it to be crowded here.

It had been easy to lose track of everything I left behind.

24 June flashed in my mind today. I do not remember the year. It was my birthday celebration. It feels like a long time ago, so I should guess probably 2022 or 2023. My family planned the celebration, and I was standing there in a white shirt. Summer heat and dust come to mind, although the night was cooler and more comfortable.

In the present day, I sit here before the computer screen. The article tells me to look back on how far I’ve come because artists often underestimate the progress. The result—I’m taken back to a place and time when my life looked drastically different.

2019, I’m roaming around in a hot town in Nagaland, looking for a meagre job that would help me buy food and afford a place to live. I haven’t eaten for a few days, and my wallet is empty. Fortunately, I get work in a shady place for something that is half the minimum wage. They let me live with two boys from Meghalaya in a place that was clearly subhuman. I have to carry the drink orders to the window.

A beach materialises. Dry sand sits against the hot sea, which sends waves crashing into my feet. I’m hungry again, but the view is breathtaking. It has been some days since I ran off from home with the intention of drowning myself in the sea. That was the easiest way I could think of to end it. Perhaps I was never ready, and every other journey I took to a better end was only a means to postpone it. It’s not easy to kill yourself. You’re hardwired to live, not to die. I was never the one with great courage. The thought of the inevitable pain in those long minutes before my consciousness fades was enough to scare me.

The third-world train takes me to Goa without asking for money. I get off in Vasco da Gama. An aimless walk takes me to a serene park covered in green grass and tall palm trees. They call it the Japanese Garden.

It overlooks the Arabian Sea, which is almost two storeys below in depth. I walk to the park benches and rest against the balcony rails. The beach looks peaceful, deserted, and the sea, spotlessly clear and magnificent, stretches gigantically, never-ending to the far-off horizon. I look for a long while, amazed. It is the most beautiful sight I have yet seen in my life. A white cruiser floats effortlessly in the far distance.

Stairs take me to a fort wall, and out of a doorway, transport me to what I now know they call Grandmother’s Hole Beach in Vasco da Gama. Palm trees dot the whitish sand contrasted by rock cliffs dark in shade, juicy green coconuts dangling. I’m hungry. I get reminded of my time in the Pondicherry boarding school campus. We used to throw stones at the coconuts, and after some time of consistent efforts, they would fall off. Then would follow the meticulous art of cleanly opening up a green coconut with a sharp stone. In the end, it would reward us with sweet water and delicious cream.

I pick up a stone and attempt the feat. A few travellers now walk down the stone stairs to the beach. I’m embarrassed, trying to get some coconuts for free, but I go on. In the end, one falls off the tree, and I’m the happiest person on the planet, for a few minutes, and slightly less hungry.

My chain of thought traces back to 24 June in that uncertain year. I stand with my guitar before my family, asked to perform something on my day. I had stayed at home for a long time now, an invalid. I play a broken piece, scream in a rough voice a song in a foreign language. Something that they can barely understand, and something that sounds like noise even to my ears. I wish I could play that guitar effortlessly. I see the end of my story in the eyes of my family. It is a tragedy.

I do not remember if I met the gypsies in Madgaon or Vasco. I can still picture the wide European-style avenue with bars and hotels lined up. The city was uneven but beautifully laid out. It had rained, and the weather was cool, and the stone paving made sure there was never muddiness but pristine water flowing down the washed city. The blond gypsies were a small Brazilian family of Portuguese descent; a little band of three with the husband and his brother playing congo and another instrument I do not remember now. The wife was probably singing. I chatted with them, and they advised me to visit Gokarna.

A few days in Gokarna offered me a very rich experience. It had 4 to 5 connected beaches, each accessible by trekking a kilometre or two. It was untouched in terms of its serenity and cleanliness, but a few beaches were very crowded by foreign and native tourists. However, Paradise Beach and Half Moon Beach stayed less crowded. The mornings, evenings and nights were a sight to witness there, and it would take a lot of words to pen that down. One evening I sat on the beach with a Scottish middle-aged man and chatted with him; he had stories to tell. Another day, I had a little interaction with a Portuguese man who sat on Half Moon Beach with his wife, playing guitar. He was older than 50 but in remarkable shape. I came to know that he started learning the guitar when he was 20. He told me I could learn it as well, as I was merely 19 and there was a lot of time.

I am now transported to rocky cliffs in the sea, submerged several feet under the water. Restless waves continuously thrash the cliff, showering the boy sitting and gazing into the far depths. The sun is on its way home. The boy sits there for a long time.

Today, I had forgotten it, but the article took me years back. I am in a better place now, far more skilled, and far more ambitious. However, the moments from my struggling time do track me down and haunt me. I am not afraid of them.

I’m afraid of forgetting these adventures. I hold them dear in my heart and the pages of life.

Today I teleported myself to the secluded valley, not to settle there, but just to make sure it still exists.

ni