An Imagined Memory

I lived in Goa seven years. In those seven years, I planned on walking from Panjim to Old Goa a zillion times.

A zillion times I imagined myself walk across the Ribandar Causeway at sunrise, sometimes in my maroon gumboots and umbrella, sometimes barefoot and with a sketchbook.

I imagined many detours into the narrow paths entering the world of mangroves, hoping to know more about those birds - their individual sounds and colours, hoping to one day be able to differentiate between the many mangrove species - their leaves' size and textures.

I imagined tip-toeing along the edge of the road, careful that there is a thin line between the road and the backwaters. I imagined pausing to sit on the partially white-washed laterite walls, perfect for a breather and taking pictures of the salt pans.

I imagined meeting with a sea-salt farmer with the hope to make a few salt heeps myself - perhaps even pack them in pouches and together sell them to passer-by along the highway.

I imagined balancing along the foot wide bunds, getting carried away in my imaginary maze and looking into the horizon as the sun set - forgetting that my original plan was to get to Old Goa; and if that were to happen, I imagined doing this walk another day and another day.

But seven years went by, hoping to walk from Panjim to Old Goa. Hoping to touch what is remaining of those pastel lime-plastered houses and dogging rash bus drivers. Hoping to befriend a grandma who will share stories of when the car garage was a boat garage.

I hoped that eventually, I'd walk the moss-green steps up to the Church of Our Lady of Mount and look back down to the journey of my imagination and then, I'd lie down - smiling through the starry night.

I imagined, the next day I'd walk back home to reality, hoping to share this story as a lived-memory.