I feel like I'm on a roller coaster zipping along at break-neck speed, as I pack and unpack my bag for my business tours, make time for running in the morning, rush home to wash up and attend office to clear the pile of papers on my desk. There is this maelstrom of thoughts whirring in my brain and my heart rate tries to cope with all the psycho-somatic stimuli placed on it. No wonder we age and are afflicted with hypertension and diabetes and coronary heart diseases, in the cess pool of an existence we call, working life.
If I were to transport myself to the serene setting of our house in Goa and visualise myself sitting on the porch, in the rocking chair that used to be my dad' favorite, I can actually "feel" the sudden decelaration in my heart rate, breathing and the rush of thoughts in my mind. I can imagine myself the banks of the river near our village; its placid waters sending an occasional ripple as a leaf gently sways and drops in the water; the branches of the coconut and mango trees nodding as a gentle breeze caresses them and the cheerful tweets of birds that flit from branch to branch, as if sharing with me the cause of their joy.
How nice it would be to wake up at dawn, roused from my slumber by the cacophony of tunes from chirping birds and the periodic cock' crowing, an audible strain evident, in his vocal cords. The cat slinking across the hall in languid strides towards my mat on the floor; mewing aloud as if to tell me, the milk man has delivered the milk at the back door and she ought to check its purity. The cup of black tea with jaggery would wake me up and yet prepare me for my run. The muffled sound of strides as my waffle soles skim the earth as I run thru' the hills and alongside paddy fields. I return sweating and cool down with four large pots of cold water drawn from our well and poured over my head. A nice breakfast follows, of "local" eggs, their yolk the colour of the rising sun, and freshly baked bread delivered by the breadman, blowing a squeaky sounding air-horn, as he cycles around the village.
I would spend the morning writing a book and playing the stock market; the source of my rather generous income:-)) The afternoon would be spent reading a novel and dozing off to a siesta. Come evening and its time to cycle to the town center for provisions and to catch up on gossip. The shadows of dusk would warrant that a mature "feni" be poured into a shot glass that will be nursed whilst nibbling on spare ribs, even as my two strays would sit at my feet with cocked ears and expectant eyes, watchful for that morsel that will surely come their way. A dinner of brown rice with coconut based fish curry and roast beef on the side would ensure that I retire for the night sated. Lights out and its the end of another day in the life of zico, in Goa. Bon nuit.
