A PLACE CALLED love

Trisha browsed at Margao market, a smile on her face. Goa hadn’t changed a whole lot, thank god! Being here brought back memories, some sweet, some bitter.

- by Swagata Soumyanarayan

She preferred leaving the latter aside. In mid-morning, Margao bustled with energy and activity as Trisha roamed aimlessly. Dressed in a pair of beige linen pants with a printed lemon coloured shirt, she felt like a tourist. She touched the vivid fabrics on display that tried to outdo each other. A light breeze blew her wavy hair on her face, and she tucked it behind her ears, uncaring about the streaks of grey in them. Ahead, brightly hued vegetables lined the pavement in rows, and a few feet away the aroma of street food wafted, and she reminded herself of the ‘window shopping’ mode.

Trisha kept the sling bag across her body clutched firmly and her large eyes widened at the sight of an old used books stall near shops selling spices, and dried fish. She hurried onto the cool floor of the store taking her footwear off. The old man inside gave her a brief nod. The place was packed with books with just bits of the white wall showing. Trisha skimmed book titles and recalled meeting her ex-husband, Paritosh at a bookstore in Goa too. Her heart hurt and she shook off the memory.

It felt odd to think she lived here. It had been a month since she moved to Goa after her 46th birthday, the move a chance to start afresh before she chickened out. The February weather was still pleasant. In a few hours, she was meeting Ayan, her first crush from college. She whiled time away at a café thinking about why Ayan never left her heart, perhaps a reason her marriage failed.