Tingu Kahaani

The dude got off at the Kadamba Bus station in Panaji.
8 a.m.
Saturday morning in Panaji in November, especially around the bus stand, tends to be a little un-Goan.
Hectic.
Buses and people, yelling and gesticulating, set shoulders and a purposeful walk.
The due was ok with it though. He checked his watch, checked his cell, dashed off a couple of replies, made one phone call, and then strode out of the station in search of a rickshaw.
The dude had come to Goa alone. It was a brief holiday, a break in the routine at work, and he wanted to make the most of it.
Headed off in a rickety rickshaw towards Candolim, a place where he'd always stayed at Goa.
At Corvorim Circle, he took a left, headind down the smooth, narrow, winding road, towards Candolim.
Goa lives in it's villages, and not in the way Gandhi meant it.
Broadly speaking, there are two kinds of villages. The ones that the tourists have discovered, and the ones that they haven't. The discovered ones are busy bustling places, with a bar on every corner, and a Nepali woman selling t-shirts at every block. The second kind of village acts as the supplier to the first.
The dude stayed just beyond the church at the end of the road coming in from NH-17. The first day was spent at the shack on the beach, sipping the odd beer, going for the odd swim, making eyes at every girl that passed by, and in general, doing that which the non-Goan guys in Goa do.
The Goan guys do the same thing, but they're smarter.
One, they do it all year round.
Two, they get the non-Goan guys to pay for it.
On Sunday, it was pretty much the same routine, save a visit to Anjuna beach. There's not much to do at Anjuna beach. It's a rocky outcrop that ends with a beautiful view of the sea, and gets crowded on Wednesdays because of the market.
The dude had a bus to catch in the evening, so he was running on a tight schedule. Having spent the afternoon at Anjuna, he wanted to make sure he'd get back on time.
Having forgotten his cellphone, and wearing no watch, he looked around.
His eyes settled on an old guy sitting in a chair outside what must have been his shop. His shop was fairly ordinary, stocked with beer, cigarettes, and the usual odds and ends that you'd expect to find in a shop such as this. Pencil cells, cheap torches, camera rolls, and other paraphernalia that suddenly becomes irresistible when you're a toursit.
The old guy was sitting on a rickety wooden chair outside the shop, catching the afternoon sun. There was an opened, half-finished bottle of Kings by his side,and a wide-brimmed straw hat drooping over his face. A copy of the local paper was slung over one arm of the chair. The chin was tilted forward, the tummy was moving in a hypnotic slow cadence, and the man was clearly at peace with the world.
But the dude noticed that the old guy had a wrist watch.
He walked up and tapped the old guy gently on the shoulder.
The old guy didn't wake up. Up this close, you could hear the gentle snoring.
The dude shook his shoulder, this time with a little more force. Cleared his throat, and asked "Um... excuse me?"
The old guy stirred. Shook his head slowly, and lifted his head. Cleared his throat. Looked around unhurriedly for a little while, and then, without lookng at the dude, bent down to take a sip of the beer.
And then looked at the dude with a slow smile.
Expectantly, but in no hurry.
The dude smiled in response. Pointing to his own wrist, asked what the time was.
The old guy looked out over the sea. The white clouds, the ships in the far distance, the hesitantly blue sea in pleasing contrast to the azure sky. And the sun, beginning it's downward journey, throwing off a pleasant warmth, tempered by it's imminent descent.
The old guy lookd at the dude and smiled. Yawned, stretched his legs.
Without looking at the watch on his wrist, said "Why son, it's evening time."
Tipping his hat graciously, the old guy fell asleep again.
Ah, Goa.