Many years ago my friend had a home where this road ends on the banks of a large river.
Once in a while, on early mornings or quiet afternoons, I would find myself on this road, riding the silence while coconut palms converged over me even as others parted to allow me a ride through the stillness, breaching the quiet of a Goan countryside.
I never looked back to see the tall coconut palms close behind me as they surely must, letting silence hang in the air once more.
Their shadows marked my passing in neat intervals and I might as well have been making a river crossing by train over a truss bridge, the struts casting their shadows in the window at periodic intervals.
Like a bubble travelling through stillness, my presence on the road was only tolerated for its transience, opening a path for my passing before closing behind me; the quiet once again restoring stillness and sanity to the country.
My friend no longer lives there, having made his home elsewhere, and I hardly take this road anymore.
My memories however have found a home where this road ends on the banks of the river.
And they’re fine memories of a time long gone.