Under the bridge

Off the highway and on a local road somewhere between Palolem and Panaji in Goa. Cruising from one fishing village to the next, finally away from the tourist malls disguised as beaches, I thank Divya silently for telling me about this road. The last three days have been great in terms of riding, but the beaches are the same old Israeli Mexican Italian story. Enter Divya with a good suggestion over the telephone and here I am crossing a little bridge over some backwaters. I look below and see some boys frolicking in the water and a fisherman sorting out his catch. I ask Cockroach to stop and go down to have a chat with him. He speaks Konkani and I speak some mix of Marathi and Hindi and we manage alright for about ten minutes. Eventually I take a photograph. He takes a look and asks if I can send him a copy. Sure, I tell him, what's your address? Address. That stops him dead. Address, he repeats and scratches his chin. Half a minute of silence while he looks at the sky and thinks about it. Then he gives me an address which is so ambiguous I know nothing I sent there could reach him. But I note it down anyway. It takes me two minutes to pronounce his name. Fogu Bhikanpagi. From somewhere his friend shows up. Drunk? Mad? Something. Starts talking about good intentions, bad intentions, god and all. Money. Some people die for the stuff. Ask god for the stuff. Bad bad bad. The afternoon sun is making me dizzy. He's asking me questions. Do you ask god for money? No, I tell him, he gives me enough. Good. So are you in control of your destiny? Yes, I answer without thinking. Hah! He points at me, turns around, and walks away laughing. No, wait, what did I say - "No wait, sorry I'm not in control of my destiny", I shout out behind him but it's too late, he gaaan.