Aarav Mehta The rain had already begun its ritual when Aarav stepped out of the rickety taxi, his leather bag soaked on one side, his shirt clinging to his back as if Goa itself had wrapped its humid arms around him. It was not the Goa he remembered from his childhood vacations—the postcard beaches, the neon lights of shacks, the loud laughter of tourists spilling beer into the sand. This was an older Goa, a quieter stretch where the sea met the land in whispers rather than shouts, where the narrow roads curled around forgotten Portuguese villas with cracked shutters…
