A farewell monsoon tryst in the Western Ghats of Goa

Valerie D’Silva, Goa

There are days when you find yourself waiting behind closed doors, as the sky murmurs in a way only the heart can truly hear — a melange of wonder and wild beauty. That’s when you know an adventure beckons.

It was then that a message arrived in the inbox, a whisper timed to the inner moment and the mood. “Anyone game?” is all it said. That was it. No location pin. No plan. Just a blurry photo of water tumbling over stone into a green pool.

My closest friend was leaving the country soon, and we knew we had time for just one last trip into nature — something unscripted, something purely us. It would be the two of us, and my dog, Kay, on a monsoon road trip across Goa.

It was one of those rare invitations that pull you out of routine and into something unexpected. An uncharted monsoon trek in the Western Ghats can only hold the promise of wondrous surprises. There’s a particular kind of magic in saying yes to the unknown. It is the randomness of the idea that makes it irresistible.

Though it wasn’t stated, on offer were the kind of moments that lead you straight into the heart of a drenched, windswept, frog-croaking Goa — the Goa that few folks get to see, and even fewer take the time to truly appreciate.

 

The monsoon in Goa transforms everything — a banyan tree draped in mist, rain-slicked roads winding through fields that shimmer like mirrors. Nature hums with renewal, a tender reminder to be grateful for life’s simple, breathtaking joys. If there is a to-do list, these are the things that truly matter. Nothing feels better. Nothing feels more real.

I’ve come to love this season in Goa for how effortlessly it seeps into your spirit and begins to mend what life has worn thin. The way it slows everything down, leaves the land lush and alive, and gives locals a rare pause to breathe. It’s during this time that real treasures reveal themselves: hidden trails waiting to be explored, steaming cups of chai shared under sheltering trees, hot Maggi and bhaji pao served with a view that makes silence feel sacred. And so, we went — chasing that monsoon feeling. Chasing what can’t be planned, only discovered.

 

Chai, samosa, bhaji pao

Then, through the curtain of trees, we saw a waterfall

The day began under a corrugated tin roof at a roadside stall still shaking off sleep. Despite the mist clinging to the hills, the inside glowed golden with the warmth of the stove.

Tea brewed strong with ginger and cardamom released its distinctive aroma all around. Samosas crackled in hot oil, and bhaji pao was served fresh, pillowy, steaming and heartwarming.

There’s something profound about a monsoon breakfast. Perhaps it has something to do with the contrast of hot food with cold raindrops. Or maybe it’s the humble satisfaction of nourishment. Perhaps it is the knot of anticipation in your belly before setting out into the wild.

We sat on red plastic chairs, sipping the warmth, quietly sharing our hopes — our eyes lost in the fog, our hearts stirred by the gentle pull of what lay ahead.

 

The local compass

The drive itself was akin to meditation. Our wheels turned inland from Reis Magos, winding through Bicholim and Sanquelim, before the road narrowed and led us deep into the forested interiors near Valpoi. Monsoon Goa peels itself open in slow, deliberate layers. Forests breathe in gusts of wind. The trees bow, whisper, toss their leaves like old stories.

Each curve of the road brought us deeper into that green embrace with the forest. “Famous sights or something wild?” a local asked, eyes twinkling. Our answer was immediate: Wild. He smiled and scribbled directions on a napkin — “After the big mango tree, right where the road bends like a spoon.” Directions more poem than map. We folded it like a talisman and pressed onward.

We parked where the road simply disappeared into mud. From there, it was instinct and trust. The path was barely visible—slick stone, tangled root, water underfoot — but the air pulled us forward. Kay led the way, nose twitching, tail high. There’s something deeply ancestral about walking into forest mist without knowing what awaits beyond.

The monsoon is for wandering and listening. Beautifully unscripted, you don’t follow a marked path; you make your own trail, guided by instinct, distant thunder, or the quiet tips of a passing villager.

Kay led the way, nose twitching, tail high

The sound came first — a deep, growing rumble. Every step on the trail seemed drawn toward it. And then, through the curtain of trees, we saw it, a waterfall. We stood transfixed. There was no need for words. In that moment, the world stilled and roared at once. It was a baptism of sorts — echoing the sacred rites of São João, where the faithful dive into rivers to wash away the past and embrace renewal.

It was a moment of letting go, of being fully present, surrendering to nature’s wild and untamed rhythm. Cold water, pure silence, raw beauty. We swam until our bones ached and our hearts felt clean. The waterfall near Valpoi became more than a destination: a farewell gift for my friend and a quiet reminder that the wild still knows how to hold us gently.

 

A baby elephant

And then — just as we paused to catch our breath near the riverbank — a splash. A baby elephant, no bigger than a jeep, emerged from the underbrush and waded playfully into the river. Kay’s ears perked up, her tail wagging in curious delight as she watched the little giant splash about. Its ears flapping, trunk curling, it turned and — delightfully — splashed water right at us. A joyful arc, like a blessing. No guide, no enclosure. Just a brief, perfect communion with the wild.

A gentle nudge that magic still thrives beyond the beaten path, and wonder waits patiently for those willing to wander. It whispers that the best adventures are the ones where you get lost, where you follow stories scribbled on napkins. You meet people who have nothing to sell you, only stories to share. And when you return, you bring back something you didn’t leave with — not just photographs or tales, but a quiet sense that somewhere along the way, you remembered how to listen. How to be present. How to be.

As we drove towards the coast, the sky pulled off one final trick. Purple bled into orange. Pink swirled across slate grey. The ocean met the horizon like a long exhale. By the time we reached the beach near Benaulim, the sand was still wet, the waves rising in slow rhythm. We kicked off our shoes and walked, silent, grateful. The clouds parted just enough to let the colours through. The sea seemed softer, fuller, breathing with us. We watched until the sky dimmed, the colours fading like a dream we didn’t want to wake from.

By night, we were back. Shoes muddy, hearts full. The day had washed something clean in us. That WhatsApp message — Anyone game? — had become a doorway. Into nature. Into stillness. Into ourselves. On days like this — when your heart leads, when the sky opens, when the earth sings — you don’t just travel through the monsoon. You allow it to travel through you. That waterfall near Valpoi wasn’t just a hidden gem — it became a quiet monument to our friendship, a place where goodbye softened into gratitude. ν

 

Valerie D’Silva, singer and songwriter, is the creator of Hue Know Me, a wellness programme.