Steve finished his exams on the 28th October and come 5am on the 29th and we were in the car headed for Goa. There is nothing quite like a week in Goa, in the welcoming arms of the homestead, to relax and de-stress from the daily rat race of life and living.

Standing at the kitchen window, I can get a sweet smelling fragrance which I am unable to –put my finger on. Peeling a chickoo which I have brought from the farm in Bangalore I stand taking lungs full of the perfume, while a butterfly flutters down to investigate the peel I have thrown out.

The whole garden slumbers in a heat haze, while Steven my son has filled an old kadai ( saucepan) with water under the solitary tree, for the birds. Two Magpies are squawking and diving in and out of the water and a couple of tits on the branches above seem to be saying tch tch at their antics, while flitting among the branches above.

My little notebook omputer balances beautifully on the ledge of the window which has mother of pearl shells on them which date back to the 20’s, when my grandfather built the top part of the house. There are no grills on any of the windows. Just massive inner doors, of large slabs of teak, which groan open and closed whenever we need to go out. And lizards fall with a plop very often on our necks from behind them.

The plumber and the electrician come to check on the repairs, to be done to the old and beloved homestead. All the pipes date back to Dads era and desperately need replacement, as they are clogged with mud, bringing the water down the hill, from Porvorim to us. Bonny, my husband does the boring work of going around the house with the men, checking which pipes and lights need repair. He loves the old home thankfully, as he did the same, even as my Dad aged and we brought our sons down for holidays or when they were babies to magically get rid of their colds and coughs.

The fish tail palm seems to have thumbed its nose at me, having grown at least another two feet in the rain. The roots have made the wall bubble outwards and huge crack has appeared on the compound wall. It has to come down, no matter the cost. If the wall falls, it will cost much more to rebuild it. Sigh! Nature does tend to overtake the house and garden in Goa.

The single lady who lives next door has painted her house a subdued pink. She has had enough of Mumbai and her kids and has come to live here all on her own in the ancestral home. I marvel at her grit to do that, as it is a challenge living alone in the village. Fish, meat, veggies are all available at the door, but not as fresh as we would like. She occasionally asks us to get her some medicines, which have to be brought from far away. Otherwise she catches the ‘porticulo’ which honks once every hour, picking up passengers to take o Porvorim or Mapuca. Portculo means little calf in Portuguese apparently, and was my dads only means of transport when he came to look after the house.

For the first day I cook a yum curry of fresh prawns, finely diced cabbage foogath, dal which is lightly spiced and rice. The men have gone to buy the supplies for the workers --- pipes and electrical things, while I cook on the little single burner gas stove. I use some old surgical gloves when cleaning the prawns as their sharp spikes always cause my palms and hands to itch. A coke zero keeps me company, well chilled in the little fridge and once the cooking is done, I settle down to write and wait for their return.