The last of summer in Panaji, Goa

A lot of realities in Mumbai exist thanks to the public transport system. Among them - measuring distance between two stations in minutes instead of kilometers, shifting backpacks from the back to front the moment you cross over from the metro section to Central Railway at Ghatkopar, planning the day according to bus timings and consciously accounting for the given 10-minute delay, praying that you won't have to wait long for a share rickshaw. 

The aggressiveness of this hustle is so completely absent in Panaji that you can discern it. That's not to say that Panaji is a slow city. Sure, it wakes up a little after sunrise - only when the birds' chirping gets too loud to sleep to. And sure, people only hurry inside their own homes, not once they step out - they don't need to; they simply drive for 15 minutes on non-congested roads and reach their offices. Crowds don't break out in fights, even in peak summer, because crowds don't gather anywhere except in churches! 

So you come to believe that Panaji is a Cool Girl, what with being the state capital of the Chill Dude, Goa. But the truth is - time is malleable in Panaji, whereas in Mumbai you must let it mould you. Panaji moves as you move. Alleys where you can aimlessly loiter, busy highways where you can speed and smaller roads for when you want to drive to the supermarket. The best part is - even though the weather is a lot like Mumbai, the sun is kinder. It doesn't burn, sicken, or leave you dehydrated. Instead, it'll remind you that you better leave the house soon if you want to catch the sunset at Miramar. 

Pre-monsoon clouds linger, unsure if you will welcome them for making the heat a little more bearable or bad-mouth them for ruining the sunset. More often than not, both of those things happen one after the other, the former sadly short-lived. So when you start to curse those dark grey clouds, your otherwise coarse Marathi will start sounding soft like Konkani after as little as 24 hours among Goans. And you can swear in Konkani, but you can't stay angry in Konkani nor sulk in Konkani. In the end, it's a win-win situation - everyone is happy.

Perhaps the next time I'm visiting, I will stay for longer just to see if we get along even when either of us is moody and unpleasant; perhaps in the monsoon, perhaps in the winter.