Lisa and Phil, a short story from India.

Lisa and Phil , a short story from India.

In March 2004 I was 25 years old. With not a care in the world, no particular place to be and zero commitments to speak of, I packed up a rucksack and headed off to India. The future lay sparkling and I thought it would last forever.

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‘‘I was thinking of going to Panjim’’ I said, slurping on a fruit shake. ‘‘You know, just to mix things up. I think I’m getting a bit twitchy’’. Allan and I had been in the Goan village of Benaulim for around ten days. Actually it may have been longer, I’d lost count. Our stay had been the ultimate chill out, just what the doctor ordered. But now I’d finished my book, swam as much as I could swim and put away enough sleep for a lifetime. I really had to get away for a night or two for a change of scenery. Above all, I just needed to do something.

‘‘Wanna come?’’ I asked. Allan was scribbling away in his secret notebook, as he often did. When at long last he looked up at me with one of his placid smiles, I already knew the answer. ‘‘Think I’ll pass’’ he said, turning back to his journal. ‘‘Honestly, I could stay here indefinitely’’.

A few hours thereafter we rose for lunch and set off for the local beach bar. Settling down at a free table, facing the waves, I spotted a blonde girl lying under a nearby parasol. She had her head in a book, a glass of beer and a plate of calamari set before her. Straining to pick out the title, I realised she was working her way through Donna Tartt’s The Secret History. The very novel I’d finished myself just the day before. ‘‘Brilliant isn’t it?’’ I exclaimed, as she looked up. And that’s how I met Lisa.

Lisa and Phil, a short story from India.

“I’d be up for coming to Panjim if that’s ok’’ she said, her lilting Scottish accent somehow already familiar. Allan had retreated back to Rosario’s, hence it was just the two of us. We were both nursing beers, the early evening light fading as the sun sank into the pink-orange horizon. “Of course!’’ I replied. 

‘‘I was gonna get the first morning bus, you ok with an early start?’’

“Absolutely!’’ she confirmed, and it was as simple as that.

The journey to Goa’s capital took a merciful ninety minutes. This was by far the shortest bus trip I took throughout my Indian travels. Along the way Lisa told me her story. About how she was on a gap year before university. That she’d been ‘‘packed off’’ to India by her encouraging father. ‘‘He said it would be good for me!’’ she laughed, ‘‘and I guess it has’’.

Panjim (also known as Panaji) turned out to be livelier than expected. It was a compact city with scattered markets and endless streams of scooters darting expertly between the smoky traffic. Woefully ill prepared, we decided to simplify things by checking into one of the hotels on the main road, just across from The Mandovi River.

To this day I can’t for the life of me recall the hotel’s name. What’s more, an entire evening of online research left me none the wiser. Its blue and white facade had been so distinctive. But of course Panjim was a city stuffed full of blue and white buildings. 

Lisa and Phil, a short story from India.

Venturing out into the humid evening, we went straight for dinner and beers at a nearby restaurant. Afterwards, we took a stroll along the crumbly riverside promenade. Out on The Mandovi a number of boats chugged by, casting neon reflections across the water. ‘‘Yes please, river cruise for you!’’ announced an advancing tout. But rather than wave him off, Lisa and I found ourselves exchanging glances.

‘‘Shall we?’’ she grinned.

‘Sure, why not?’’ I replied, blissfully ignorant of why not. 

Mr. Tout gleefully wrote out our tickets and a short while later we boarded a sizeable boat kitted out in dark-stained wood and gaudy neon. There were no more than a dozen passengers onboard. Instead of sitting inside with a stern looking family, we escaped onto the outside deck to breathe in the cool night air. Soon, we were whizzing away from the city and had just gotten comfortable when the stereo exploded into life. The music, for want of a better word, was some disco-trance monstrosity played at such a blistering volume I felt my ear drums might implode.

‘‘This is bloody awful!’’ I shouted, at a dismayed Lisa. ‘‘What??’’ she yelled back. ‘‘I SAID… THIS. IS. AWFUL’’. “I can’t hear you!!!’’ she bellowed, with an exaggerated shrug. The beats were so vociferous they rendered any other activity pointless.

So we just sat staring wistfully back at the city lights, waiting for it all to end. At some point I caught sight of a young Indian boy, who appeared to work on the boat in some capacity. Screaming directly into his ear, I asked if he could turn the music down. Smiling at me benignly, he shook his head, confirming that no, he could not.

Lisa and Phil, a short story from India.

Back on dry land, Lisa and I had been reduced to laughing hyenas, our ears ringing as we searched for a night shop to buy some much-needed alcohol. ‘‘What the hell was that?!?’’ she asked, giggling in disbelief. ‘‘I don’t know’’ I chuckled, wondering how many brain cells I’d lost, ‘‘I just don’t know’’.

By the time we got back to the hotel we’d armed ourselves with a bottle of gin and a pack of playing cards. Still reeling from the boat debacle, there was plenty of laughter and joshing, though the atmosphere swiftly descended into awkwardness once bedtime came. Scrambling under the blankets in our PJs, we comically stationed ourselves at opposite ends of the bed, a continent-sized gulf between us. And there we lay in uncomfortable silence until one of us finally cracked a joke and we returned to manic laughing.

The next day Lisa and I explored the city on foot and were thoroughly charmed by what we saw. Framed by a skyline of terraced hills, we wandered through Panjim’s quaint cobbled streets and tree-lined avenues. Many of the buildings carried a Portuguese flavour. Some of these were grand, colourful villas with iron-railed balconies and red-tiled roofs. I recall taking lots of photos, but lord only knows what happened to them. 

At one point we arrived at a large primary school overlooking a spacious roundabout square. Spotting us from above, a group of excitable schoolboys came skipping down the stone steps to greet us and pose for a photograph. ‘‘London cool!’’ cooed one of the boys, kissing the 20p coin I’d given him. 

‘‘But Panjim very boring!’’ hissed another boy, face screwed up, thumbs down. 

Breaking for lunch at a café, I did a bit of reading from some complimentary second hand guide books. “Apparently there’s a colossal night market in the town of Vagator” I told Lisa. “Oh, I’ve heard good things about Vagator “ chipped in a tall hairy Englishman sat at a nearby table. “Oh, sorry, I don’t want to impose on your romantic lunch’’ he said earnestly. This got us sniggering. ‘‘You’re not imposing and this is not romantic’’ grinned Lisa. ‘‘I see’’ the man replied, removing his Indiana Jones hat, running his hand through his bushy hair.

With a devious sense of humour and an eccentricity that meant you never quite knew what he was gonna say next, Phil turned out to be great company. Moreover, he was a nature enthusiast with a talent for photographing flowers and plants. Luckily for him, India had had enough of those to keep him occupied for several months.

“Best way ever to get over a divorce”. “Plus, you know, I’m finding myself’’ he drawled, sarcastically. ‘‘Maybe you can find yourself at Vagator Night Market’’ suggested Lisa, ‘‘fancy coming?’’ ‘‘Sure thing T.C.!’’ he squealed, in his best Benny the Ball impression. It was the first of many Top Cat references Phil would make while we were travel mates. For some, these quips would’ve been baffling. But I’d grown up with Top Cat on TV, so it was always a fun time with Phil. 

Lisa and Phil, a short story from India.

Lisa, Phil and I decided to make a proper field trip out of Vagator. We booked rooms at Jolly Jolly Roma, a guesthouse within walking distance of the market. Hailing a taxi from central Panaji, the journey should have taken an uncomplicated forty minutes. However, once again our driver didn’t know where he was going and before long he’d gotten us completely lost. 

Crawling hesitantly down yet another ambiguous country road, we rumbled to a stop outside a decrepit looking building with greyed-out windows. As our driver performed a clumsy u-turn, I caught sight of some graffiti sprayed onto one of the building’s walls: What Do You Think of Love? I simply couldn’t believe it! I mean what were the odds? Had Romeo from Delhi embarked on a cross country trip spreading the good word of Leighton following our conversation at The Red Fort?

“Well, it’s all quite lovely!’’ observed Phil, camera in hand, bending over a sprouting bush of yellow wild flowers. At last we’d checked into Jolly Jolly Roma and were now chilling out in its pretty garden, working through a tasty brunch.

Keen to unveil the delights of Vagator Night Market, we left early to get there for opening time. Then ended up staying the whole night. With the three of us promptly wandering off in different directions, I found myself quickly swallowed up by its vast, labyrinthine network of stalls, food courts and makeshift tent-bars. It was certainly a sight to behold, a giddy assault on the senses that enchanted me so much I succumbed to several impulse purchases along the way.

Lisa and Phil, a short story from India.

Three T-shirts, a wooden elephant and a hand-woven rug later, I bumped into Phil at a seafood joint. He was gorging on a bowl of calamari, beer in hand, feet up on a chair, a mad doctor grin on his face. ‘‘Dr. Phil’’ I nodded, dumping my bags down on the table. ‘‘Officer Dibble!” he cried, “pull up a chair!’’

We all returned to Panjim the next morning and, after breakfast, began shaping up for the return leg to Benaulim. I was looking forward to seeing Allan again and cobbling together the next leg of our adventure. Much to our surprise Phil announced he would join us, keen to experience the relaxing Goan beach oasis we’d both raved about.

While Lisa and I took the bus directly, Phil had already planned a day trip somewhere and would be catching up with us in a day or two. He was in fine spirits when we dropped him off at the bus station. An infectious ball of energy as he danced down the platform kicking his legs and singing at the top of his lungs.

‘‘Top Cat, da da da da da… the most effectual Top cat, da da da da da.

The indisputable leader of the gang! He’s the boss, he’s the VIP he’s the championship… he’s the most tip-top… Top Cat!!!”

‘Lisa & Phil’ is the eleventh chapter of my short story series Incidents In India.

I’ve been living, working and traveling all over the world since 2001. So why not check out my huge library of travel reports from over 30 countries.