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Panaji or Panjim as it was also known, was welcome end to the `long march of the last few months.

We had been a motley mix - ranging from die-hard environmental activists, affected adivasis and

development workers of all hues. We had just finished the Save the Western Ghats March. Starting

simultaneously from the two tips (Kerela and Pune), two groups had marched through the diversity

rich and mining ravaged mighty mountain chain over months and had confluenced at Panaji to share

experiences and tell the world about the great diversity and human lives being nurtured by this

unique eco-system, which was under attack from development of all sorts mining mafias with

their eyes on the ores she hid under her skin, the power hungry PSUs who wanted to dam her rivers

and flood her valleys to make needed electricity (Silent Valley had been one recent valiantly fought

and won victory though), and the slow but onerous creeping up of the tea, coffee and other

plantations as they ate into the virgin forests of this majestic jewel of the south.

But this is the story about a tryst with a fate of a different type.

Tired, bedraggled and low on money, the lure of the Goas beaches was irresistible. Munna, my close

companion of the march and I, had planned to take the Goa-Mumbai steamer the next morning and

had the night to ourselves. Dinner done, we asked the caf owner about the closest and best beach

in that vicinity. We each hopped on to the uniquely Goan form of transport the yellow motorbikes

and were deposited at the end of the town at the end of the long day and start of the night. Little did

we know about how long the night itself would be.

Our plan was simple, sit it out the night on the beach and then sleep off there and then head back to

the town come morning and take the steamer home. So we sat chatting on the beach about life and

love, with the low moon peeking over the oceans edge. Our past lives, the march and the future

were discussed and analysed bare till the sleep drowned out our consciousness.

But the beach was not as romantic as I had thought it to be. The sand was hard and unyielding, and

got inside the shirt and rubbed the skin raw. The spray from the crashing waves made everything

wet and clammy and some-where in the early morning hours, it got really cold. So cold that I had to

find another shirt and a pyjama in my backpack and wear it over the clothes with the hope of

warmthlittle luck. One drifted in and out of sleep till a harsh `Get up broke the reverie for good.

Munna and I stared into a strong torchlight that blinded us from seeing who was behind it. `What

are you guys doing here. Our story about the `beach experience at night did not seem to get much

traction. `Who does such a thing everybody sleeps in a hotel room was the retort, to which we

had no answer, having assumed that whoever came to Goa did this. Where have you come from

was answered by our story about the march its principles and that did it.

The torch moved and we saw it was two lathi wielding policemen. We were told to show some ID.

Now this was 1988, and terrorism had not created the need to carry ID at all times. Not having any

triggered further action. We were told to pick up our backpacks and were walked back to the distant

road, where a police jeep stood idlying, its exhaust pipe spewing smoggy smelly vapour into the

night. Our protests did not matter and we were herded into the back.

As the jeep moved, the occasional headlight of a passing vehicle shone some light inside and visually

introduced me to my current reality. A huge paunchy stubble bearded character lolled in the corner

against the rod, the head hitting it with a distinct thud, which never broke his drunken stupor. His

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sweaty odour mixed with the strong smell of bad alcohol was enough to have run the jeep without

needing any fuel. I turned to the right and stared into two deadpan eyes on such a hardened face,

that a shiver ran down my spine. This guy looked every bit the quintessential crook, along with a

striped sailor t-shirt. His eyes looked at me, through me, and if there ever was an award for lack of

human connectedness, he would have got the Oscar undisputed. Munna and I looked at each other

and beamed strength to each other. The mix of tiredness, the past sleeplessness on the beach and

the alcohol fumes in that confined cabin put me into a disturbed sleep. The next I knew was when

the jeep came to a screeching halt.

Looking from the back cabin through the windscreen, one could see the tall imposing iron gates that

were familiar from the documentaries on Indias freedom struggle. Any confusion was dispelled by

the inscription on the arch above the gate Goa Jail. We had indeed arrived, and not to a five star

hotel.

The sleepy policeman on duty opened the gate and it creaked shut behind us as we drove in. One

could feel the coldness get more chilly as we drove through the stony passage into a small clearing

where the main police station was.

The fresh catch caused the sub inspector sleeping on the office table to be woken up and he did

not look too happy with this disturbance. While the `sleeping beauty and `poker face were

immediately led away, Munna and I were left with our new lord and master. A repeat mention of

our motives and reasons to be on the beach did not help and our questions about what was wrong

in sleeping on the beach only made the situation worse. Our permanent addresses were inquired

and noted down into a thick register and when we could not tell the phone numbers of the police

station nearest to our homes in our home town, a decision was taken.

We were led inside the building through an open office room where tables were piled with files and

registers and into the back section where prison cells were. Another creaky gate openedpolice

station metal doors and lubrication seemed to have a discordant relationship. We were pushed

inside and it clanged loudly behind. As we took a sullen stock of our latest hospitality in this long

night, one could make out a stone platform in the back wall that looked like `The Bed and we both

went over and huddled there. Our backpacks had been taken away and of course no beddings came

with the new night stay package. A bare bulb hanging from the ceiling donated its harsh yellow light

and I saw scratched on the wall all sorts of identity imprints left by its various past denizens. Our

great Indian Tradition - which I thought was only restricted to leaving our mark on school desks and

the walls and trees in ancient monuments. The identity crisis seemed to find its expression even on

these dreary walls with `Johnny was here and `Lobo bearing textual testimony to all sorts of people

that must have passed through these hallowed portals.

Tiredness and fear make a very exhausting mix and somewhere they colluded to put us out of our

misery. We both nodded off and next thing we know was being shaken up awake by a burly

policeman. Saheb wants to see you was the introduction to the new day.

We were lead into another room, where our sub-inspector friend of the past night stared at us

through wisps of cigarette smoke. `I have decided to let you guys go. But I want you to promise to

come back and meet me before your ferry leaves at 11 am I will then decide if you need to stay for

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some more time or should I let you go for good. Our nodding of acceptance of the condition led to

our release - relief flooded in.

We were given our backpacks and walked out back from the now fully open main archway, sticking

close to the walls and consciously trying to avoid the obvious fact of walking out of the Goa Jail gate.

Though we had never had had any criminal intentions of any type in what we had done, we came

out feeling very much like criminals and needing to hide. As the tea shops and dhabas slowly woke

up to the new day, we had some tea and a much needed omelette and toasts. We did try to go

through motions of normalcy and see if we could but some curios and momentos, but the memory

of the night before and the fact that we could be headed back, not home on the freedom steamer

but maybe back into the jail, put a damper on everything.

Finally we voiced the question before us and it ended in a stalemate. Munna felt that since we had

not committed any crime and had been let off, we should just head for the safety of the steamer and

get out of the place for good. I felt that since we were not guilty and had promised to come back, we

should and then obtain our release and board the steamer. After repeated discussions, the older

Munna reluctantly agreed to my point of view and we trudged back to the imposing Jail gate.

The sub inspector was again called out from the labyrinth to the main hall where we were seated at

that table. He looked at us and his face cracked into a smile, which actually suited his otherwise

strict visage. `You see the jeep there? If you had not come in the next ten minutes, I was sending my

team to look for you in the town or have you picked up from the steamer and then really throw you

into jail good and proper. I now know that you are what you claim to be. Actually there is a very

serious drug smuggling and drug use going on in Goa. Young middle class youth like you are the

carriers and peddlers. They stay out on the beaches and hide the caches in sand. I had to be sure. So

go on home and next time be careful before you think of such adventure. He shook our hand and

signalled to the jeep.

It was a different police jeep ride this time. We were not criminals at the back but respectable

people sitting in the front seat with the police driver, as were chauffeured to the jetty and escorted

up the gangplank. The constable even hugged us as he said his goodbye.

As the steamer sailed out and Panjim disappeared behind the bend the truth about every moment

in our life being a cross-road dawned on me. A cross road where ones decision on which road to

take can radically affect and alter the future to the one s/he has unwittingly or knowingly selected

from a entire spectrum of possible options and multiple realities. The reality of many parallel futuresbeing always available and us choosing our actions and their consequences was the lesson I sailed

home with. Thanks Goa!

Rajeev Ahal

1988