In a Goan village, happily

Valerie D’Silva, Goa

When I first moved from the cemented chaos of Mumbai to a tiny red mud house in the Goan village of Benaulim, I signed up for peace, palm trees, and the slow, poetic hum of the sea. My house, on rent with the lease renewed recently, has a storybook aura to it. It is nestled between a row of cheerful, colourful Goan homes, each brighter than the next. Blue, yellow, green — and mine fiery red.      

Together, we stand under a cathedral of swaying palms, like crayons forgotten in a tropical jungle. Fisherfolk live next door, their laughter rising with the smell of fried mackerel at dawn. It’s a postcard come alive, with a soundtrack of roosters, radio Konkani hits, and the distant caw of crows eyeing breakfast scraps.

Inside, the living room is simple: cane chairs that creak when the humidity rises, and a sofa that my dog, Kay, has long claimed as her personal throne. The bedroom opens to a small kitchen that smells permanently of filter coffee and wet earth. Behind it, a little storeroom that I’ve turned into my art and music nook, where paintbrushes, guitar strings, and sea air mingle like old friends.

The bathroom, though, deserves its own story. It’s attached to the house, but not entirely convinced it wants to be. Gaps between the tiled roof and the mud walls serve as an open invitation to frogs, geckos, and occasionally, the guest of honour — snakes.

My first encounter with a snake was almost poetic. I was rinsing a plate one afternoon, the monsoon whispering outside, when I noticed a curve, too elegant to be a wire, behind the metal drying rack. There she was: a sleek, glistening coil of nature, watching me with the calm of a creature who knows the house is hers as much as mine. I froze, plate mid-air, caught between awe and alarm.

The next time was less dignified. Picture this: morning shower, facewash in hand, lather ready, when my fingers brushed against something cool and smooth. A snake. Right there, beside the soap dish. She looked at me as if to say, “Well, you’re the one in my bathroom.” I screamed, of course. Kay, my loyal dog and partner in chaos, ran to the doorway, took one look, and plonked herself on the sofa with that familiar “Not my circus, not my monkeys” expression. Well, it’s funny — until it’s venomous.

Thankfully, every village has a hero, and ours is Franco. The man is part auto-rickshaw driver, part snake-catcher, part carnival organizer, and full-time problem solver. You’ll find him rescuing stranded tourists one day and removing cobras from kitchens the next, all with a grin that says, “Soglem zalea, baba, it’s all sorted.” Village life has a cadence that grows on you. Gossip travels faster than wi-fi, but so does kindness. Someone is always there when you need them.

Kay, meanwhile, has her own Goan routine. Breakfast at home, a quick trot in the garden, and then off she goes to Marie’s house next door. Every morning, without fail, Marie feeds her a pav. Only after devouring it, tail wagging like a metronome, does Kay saunter back home, proud and butter-breathed, to nap on her sofa. It’s their little ritual, their cross-species love story, sealed with bread.

Even the landscape around me is alive with purpose. My landlord collects fallen palm fronds to sell for shack roofs. The coconuts become oil, milk, and sometimes, cups for toddy. Nothing here goes to waste. It’s like living in a treasure chest, each day unwrapping a new reminder of how self-sustained life can be.

The sea is a short walk away, its scent carried by the morning breeze. Fisherfolk haul their nets as the sun stretches awake. Hens and pigs wander lazily through backyards, cows blink at passers-by, and somewhere, a radio hums an old Lorna tune. Wet waste goes to the neighbour’s animals, and what comes from the land goes back to it.

There’s a calm here, a kind of gentle surrender to the rhythm of life. You stop fighting for control and start listening to the world breathing around you. Yes, sometimes that breath hisses from under the bathroom door, but even that becomes part of the charm.

So, from a city girl who once shrieked at cockroaches to a village woman who showers with snakes and sips coffee under coconut palms, I can only say this: Goa doesn’t just change your pace. It changes your pulse.

And if you listen closely, between the rustle of palms and the ripple of scales, you’ll hear it — life, laughing softly, as it always does in Goa. ν