Characters:

Me, Steve 30

Arya, 20

Ok, ready to go? Let’s roll.

I decided to go to Goa for a two-week vacation because I needed to breathe again. Life had been heavy, work stress, emotional burnout, and the lingering ache of a breakup I hadn’t quite processed, and being accused of raping my girlfriends. It was all insane. Yes, she was drunk, probably passed out, but I mean we were a couple ... Rape, my ass.

I wanted somewhere far from the familiar, somewhere warm, colorful, and a little wild.

Goa, with its promise of sun-drenched beaches, vibrant street life, and the hum of waves against the shore, called to me like a gentle escape.

I imagined slow mornings with strong local coffee, barefoot walks through flea markets, and evenings filled with music drifting from beach shacks. I craved the feeling of sand between my toes, the scent of salt and spices in the air, and the sight of endless sunsets melting into the Arabian Sea. Most of all, I wanted to be anonymous, to be somewhere no one knew my name, that didn’t look at me the way people did after the rape allegations hit the news stand, where I could rediscover who I was without pressure or noise.

Booking that flight felt like a small act of courage. I didn’t know exactly what I was looking for in Goa, but I knew I had to go to find it.

The taxi ride from the airport to my hotel resort in North Goa felt like entering a different world.

As we left the bustle of the airport behind, the roads narrowed and twisted through dense coconut groves, sleepy villages, and lush green fields dotted with cows and roadside shrines. The air was warm and fragrant, thick with the scent of damp earth, sea breeze, and occasional bursts of spices wafting in from roadside food stalls.

My driver was friendly, with a quiet smile and a Goan radio station playing soft Konkani songs in the background. He pointed out churches, markets, and stretches of coastline through the window as we passed, his voice calm and steady. Children in school uniforms waved at us as we passed by, and I found myself smiling for no reason at all.

As we neared the resort, I caught my first glimpse of the ocean, a shimmer of turquoise framed by swaying palms. The hotel appeared like something out of a dream: whitewashed bungalow scattered across a gently sloping hill that led straight down to the beach. The sound of the waves grew louder, rhythmic and soothing, as we turned into the palm-lined driveway.

Stepping out of the car, the salty air wrapped around me like a welcome. For the first time in a long while, I felt peace rising up through the noise of my thoughts. I had arrived.

At the reception desk stood a beautiful Indian woman who greeted me with a warm, graceful smile that seemed to erase the fatigue of my journey. She wore a soft pastel saree that shimmered slightly under the overhead lights, its folds draping elegantly over her shoulder and waist. Her dark hair was neatly tied back in a low bun, with a few loose strands framing her delicate face. A small bindi adorned her forehead, and her deep brown eyes held a calm kindness that instantly made me feel welcome.

Her voice, when she spoke, was melodic, gentle, with the lilting cadence of coastal Goa. As she checked me in, her manner was attentive yet unhurried, like she had all the time in the world just for me. There was something serene in the way she moved, each gesture graceful and unforced, as if the tropical rhythm of the place flowed through her veins.

When she handed me the key card and smiled again, I found myself momentarily forgetting what I had traveled so far to leave behind.

My bungalow was tucked beneath a canopy of swaying palm trees, just a short walk from the main path. The structure was simple yet charming, whitewashed walls with dark wooden shutters, a sloping terracotta roof, and a small front porch with two wicker chairs and a hammock that swayed lazily in the breeze.

Inside, the space was cool and inviting, with soft linen curtains fluttering at the windows and the scent of lemongrass lingering in the air. The bed stood beneath a wide mosquito net, and above it, a ceiling fan turned with a quiet rhythm that matched the distant sound of waves.

But it was the view that truly took my breath away.

Through the large glass doors that opened to the veranda, I could see the Arabian Sea stretching endlessly into the horizon, its surface shimmering gold under the late afternoon sun. The beach was peaceful, and the sound of the waves crashing gently against the shore mixed with the distant hum of temple bells soothed my troubled soul.

As I stood there, barefoot on the warm wooden floor, I felt the weight of the world begin to lift. This was exactly where I needed to be.

The beach outside my bungalow was unlike anything I’d experienced before, alive with a rhythm uniquely Goan. Cows wandered lazily along the shore, unbothered by the sun or the tourists, sometimes stopping to rest right on the sand as if they, too, had come for a holiday. Their presence added a surreal, almost sacred calm to the place, blending village life with seaside charm.

Nearby, a young woman with long braids and bangles jingling at her wrists carried a woven basket atop her head, expertly balancing ripe pineapples and mangoes. She smiled warmly as she passed, her voice musical as she called out, “Sweet pineapple! Very sweet, sir!”

Not long after, another woman approached, barefoot and graceful, wearing a bright sari that danced in the breeze. She offered massages with a gentle pitch and an understanding smile, her hands motioning the relief they promised. “Good for back ... you look tired, sir,” she said kindly.

The mixture of coconut oil in the air, the scent of sun-warmed fruit, and the distant incense from a shrine nearby made everything feel dreamlike. It was a place where time moved slowly, and even the smallest moments felt rich and golden.

I accepted the woman’s offer for a massage. What a way to start a two-week-long escape from reality.

Lying on my sun bed, I felt the tension begin to melt from my body even before the massage began. The sound of waves lapping gently against the shore created a soothing rhythm, accompanied by the distant calls of beach vendors and the soft rustle of the wind through the leaves.

The masseuse, a graceful woman with kind eyes and sun-browned skin, asked softly if the pressure was okay as she began working fragrant coconut oil into my shoulders.

Her hands were firm but gentle, moving with practiced ease over my back, kneading the knots and easing away the strain of travel. The scent of the coconut oil mingled with the salty sea air, and I could feel the grains of sand beneath the mat pressing lightly against my skin, earthy and grounding. Occasionally, I opened my eyes to see wisps of clouds drifting lazily across the sky, birds gliding overhead.

She moved with care and respect, never rushing, always attentive to how my muscles responded.

By the time she reached my arms and neck, I was nearly asleep, drifting between awareness and peace. The massage wasn’t just relaxing; it felt healing, almost sacred, like a moment carved out just for stillness and breath. When she finally stepped back and offered me a soft towel, I sat up slowly, feeling lighter, looser, as if the sea itself had washed away something I didn’t know I was carrying.

My expression shifted the moment he stepped into the bar. Seated quietly at the end of the counter was perhaps the least likely person he expected to see in a place like this, a young woman who radiated quiet intellect more than flair. She wore oversized glasses that magnified her thoughtful eyes, her long, dark hair tumbling carelessly over one side of her face.

She wore a lovely yellow sari edged with delicate red trim, paired with a flowing blue scarf that fluttered in the breeze. Beneath the folds of fabric, a fitted saffron blouse hugged her frame, adding a touch of bold color to her look. Though she seemed slightly unsure of herself in the traditional outfit, her oversized glasses perched on her nose gave her a charming, bookish air. There was something endearingly out of place about her, graceful and shy all at once.

She was completely absorbed in the pages of a tech magazine clutched in her hands. There was something unmistakably Indian about her, her features, her poise, the soft accent in the few words she exchanged with the bartender. She didn’t try to stand out, yet somehow, she did.

I decided I had nothing to lose, so I sat down beside her. For a moment, I just listened to the soft hum of the beach breeze and the rustle of pages as she flipped through her magazine. Then I turned slightly toward her.

“Hi,” I said gently. “I’m sorry to disturb you, but ... can I ask you something?”

She looked up, startled at first, then nodded with a polite smile. “Sure,” she replied, her Indian accent soft and melodic.

“I’m only here for two weeks,” I continued, returning her smile. “What’s the one thing I absolutely can’t miss while I’m in Goa?”

She tilted her head thoughtfully, and for the first time, I noticed how lovely she was behind those oversized glasses. There was a quiet intelligence in her eyes, and a warmth in her expression that made her seem even more beautiful.

She smiled back at me, the corners of her eyes crinkling. “Just one thing?” she asked playfully.

I laughed. “Okay, maybe two.”

She set the magazine down and leaned in slightly, lowering her voice as if letting me in on a secret. “Watch the sunrise at Arambol beach. Most people chase sunsets here, but that sunrise ... It’s magic. And second, try the local fish curry from the beach shacks. If you want, I could show you my favorite spot.”

For a moment, the air seemed lighter. The sound of the waves, the scent of sea salt and roasted spices drifting from the kitchen behind us—it all seemed to pause around her words.

“I’d like that,” I said, genuinely.

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, smiling again. “Then it’s a date.”

“By the way,” I said with a smile, “what’s your name?”

“Arya, sir,” she replied, her eyes bright behind her glasses.

“Arya?” I repeated. “That’s a beautiful name. What does it mean?”

“It’s Sanskrit, and it means ‘noble and respected’,” she answered, her voice warm with pride. “Do you like it?”

I grinned, genuinely charmed. “Noble ... that’s lovely. Arya is a delightful name. It suits you.”

Her cheeks flushed slightly at the compliment. Encouraged by my interest, Arya began sharing more about herself, where she was from, how she’d come to work here, and a little about her family. There was something sweet and open about the way she spoke that made it easy to listen.

“That’s a beautiful outfit you’re wearing,” I said, curious. “What’s it called?”

“Thank you, sir,” she said, smiling. “It’s a sari. It’s one long piece of fabric that I wrap around myself, over the shoulder and tucked at the waist. And this top is called a choli. It’s very traditional where I’m from. Do you like it?”

He nodded sincerely. “Very much. It’s elegant, and you wear it well.”

Arya beamed, clearly delighted by his attention. Her sari flowed gracefully to her ankles, the fabric catching the light with every movement. The soft, earthy tone of her skin and her gentle poise made her look like she had stepped out of a painting.

Two days later, Arya told me that tomorrow we would watch the sunrise together.

The early morning air was cool as we found a quiet spot on the beach to watch the sunrise.

Arya wore a light cotton sari in soft peach, the kind worn at home, comfortable and simple.

Her blouse had short sleeves, and her long hair was tied in a loose braid down her back. She had taken off her sandals and sat barefoot in the sand, smiling gently as the breeze played with the edge of her sari.

I wore a loose shirt and shorts, feeling relaxed next to her. We didn’t speak much, just sat there, side by side, watching the sun rise slowly over the ocean. She looked peaceful and lovely in that moment, like she belonged there. And for the first time in a long while, I felt like I did too.