This is my debut post for #MondayMusings. Our dearest Corrine Rodriguez from Everyday Gyaan hosts #MondayMusings and she has set few rules that I am listing below:

• Write a post sharing your thoughts with us – happy, sad, philosophical, ‘silly’ even. Make it as personal as possible.
• Use the hashtag #MondayMusings.
• Add your link to the linky below
• Use our #MondayMusings badge to encourage other bloggers join in too.
• Visit and comment on the posts of other bloggers linked here.
• Share the love.

I love reading #MondayMusings posts by my favourite bloggers however never gathered myself to write one. Corinne wants us to make it ‘as personal as possible’ and I would grab this opportunity to write about few beautiful memories. When I started this blog in January 2017 my initial plan was to make a blog where I would share my memories. I wrote quite a few of them like Sandesh Churi, Lost Movie Ticket, Bhaang Khaiyo, My Unique Valentine, Dead Body on the Terrace  The Terrace- Our Childhood Hideout and When Sachin Smiled. However few months down the line I started writing more of fictions and flash fictions. I love writing fiction and often I weave in my memories into those fictions. I was delighted when my lovely readers appreciated my short stories and encouraged to write more but due to that memoirs took a backseat. Nevertheless, I have decided that now onward once a week I will write a memoir and remaining days I will stick to fiction.

Let me start my #MondayMusings with a remarkable but somewhat ‘silly’ memory from my carefree days. I honestly miss those days, when I had basically nothing to worry about. Hope you like the memory. Please leave your comment; I would love to read them.

3 Gone Girls in Goa

Never in my wildest dreams had I thought of celebrating New Year at a famous advertising Guru’s Goa cottage without his knowledge, forget consent. Thanks to A for dragging us into this wild, whacky endeavour.

It was the thirtieth day of December, and after a night of heavy partying three of us were lying in our beds when K suddenly popped the idea.

“Let’s go to Goa for the new year” she said enthusiastically.

Reeling with vodka hangover me and G incredulously looked at her. Going to Goa during new years without prior booking is like reaching Beverly Hills to get married to George Clooney. We assumed it was barely K’s hangover induced delirium. Hangover, hunger and sleeplessness had by now metamorphosed us into mini zombies, thus ignoring K seemed a better idea. We turned in the bed and tried to fall asleep. But K was persistent; she took out the Mumbai Mirror and started looking for hotels and guest houses in Goa. She made few quick calls and actually managed to book a B&B. After which there was no stopping her. She forcefully dragged us out of our slumber and bundled us and our back packs into an auto.

One hour later, we found ourselves boarding a bus to Goa.  This is exactly when A joined us. Three of us were initially hesitant to include a boy in our group of three girls, especially when A had a reputation of secretly nursing a crush on G, however we allowed. The non-AC rickety bus stopped literally at every stop, every corner, and every dhaba on its way. The twelve hour journey took twenty hours. By the time we reached Margao we were suffering from an equivalent of sea-sickness. Our home-stay was another 45 minutes bus ride which we desperately wanted to escape.

The home-stay was in a small village, far from the main city. It was shabby with no furniture other than two mattresses. Ten minutes and a glass of yucky roohafza(welcome drink) and unbuttered untoasted bread (breakfast) later we were contemplating ‘check out’. The owner triumphantly flashed an impish grin alike Prem Chopra when we reluctantly had to pay room rent worth two days for barely 30 minutes of stay.

This was my first trip to Goa and first ever trip with friends minus helicoptering family members. An ecstatic concoction of Goa, 31^st December and friends, and I transformed into a protagonist of Dil Chahta Hain. After escaping the B&B, instead of searching hotels we opted for city tour. Apart from visiting the various churches and beaches we tried out Pork Vindaloo and Mussels for lunch.

During sunset, sitting inside a small shack, at the backdrop of the setting sun on Calangute beach, enjoying cold beer and “sugar sprinkled” chicken sandwich, we were discussing night stay options. My adrenaline was still rushing as we had just concluded a speed boat ride, screaming our lungs out. G suggested night time river cruise on Mandavi. Being the eve of New Year, there was going to be special programme on the cruise. Couple of hours later we were dancing on the upper deck of the ship gulping pints. I had never danced so crazily before. I don’t know if it was Goa or the beer that made me so feral. We crossed from one year to another aboard the boat partying wildly.

After disembarking from the cruise we dreadfully felt the need to rest. We had not slept for over 24 hours. Search for hotels proved futile. We were mentally preparing a footpath pyjama party when A swiftly went somewhere. He came back within half an hour and announced that he had managed a place. After a short walk, we were standing in front of a lavish bungalow gawking at it. From the look, we knew it was no ordinary abode. We enquiringly looked at A. He raised his hands and declared with certain indignation “This is not a hotel”. That was no rocket science and we knew. A continued “This is the bungalow of Pr****d Ka***r” after a small pause he said sheepishly “I bribed the watchman”. Our gaping mouths could have given the poster of Jaws a run for its money. A threw his hands despairingly and said “we have no choice; this is the only option available”. Three of us agreed secretly however pretended disgust. We entered the bungalow. The watchman warned us to stay restricted to only one room in the ground floor. We did oblige. As is this man was doing us a favour.

After relaxing and relieving ourselves we went for our final sightseeing to the calm and enthralling Vagatore Beach. We sat quietly on a beach rock enjoying the serenity. The calmness was broken by the rendition of flute by a jeans clad guy with a body capable of putting John Abraham to shame. A combo of John Abraham and Hariprasad Chaurasia was enough to keep us staring, sorry staring is understatement, eye balls popping out seems appropriate. I don’t remember how long we kept ogling him. That precise moment, I realised that was the best trip of my life so far.