CH 04: Way to Here
"Ah! Feels great to touch down once more".
A man clad in a long black coat stood opposite of the Marmagao airport entrance, gazing at the crimson-hued morning sky approaching the horizon, illuminated by the brilliant dawn sun. His severe eye wrinkles and overgrown, patchy beard revealed his purported demeanor, despite his laid-back response. His face was dimmed by the serious expression of an overworked corporate employee, making him appear even more forlorn.
Ring....Ring.
"Yes?"
The communication device rang with a quick, oddly happy voice.
"I've reached the place, sir. Immediately in front of Gateway One".
Shree searched his surroundings until he came across the taxi a short distance ahead.
He approached the cab quickly but gracefully, waving his left hand to indicate his whereabouts to the searching driver.
The cabbie was a cheerful individual who seemed to be in his early thirties, as Shree had previously inferred from his speech. He was grinning peculiarly, his face contorted with smile lines.
He refused to let the quiet take him.
"Sir, your OTP?"
"Ahm... Wha..? Oh! It is 6969".
With his chin resting on his palm, Shree gazed out at the breathtaking building that blended modern and traditional European designs as the code verification quickly finished and the vehicle began to run. With its calm shades of scarlet light, the Sun had risen from the horizon, searing the white clouds and the building.
"Wow...."
Shree was unable to look away as the ethereal rise burned into his eyes.
The driver fixed his gaze on the inner mirror. The face of a rather taciturn traveler who had only spoken about work was reflected on its surface.
"Where are you from?"
Shree was startled out of his stupor by the unexpected questioning, but he concealed his dismay.
"Well, I took the flight from NDLS."
"New Delhi?"
Shree merely nodded in agreement.
"Sir, you have excellent taste. People typically come for the beach parties throughout November to February, and some come post monsoon to take advantage of the wet dunes. However March is conceivably the finest time of year to visit beaches! Not to mention the stunning contrast between the shining sun and the aquamarine ocean. Moreover, beaches are less congested than usual. Truly a chef kiss!"
Undoubtedly, Cabbie was a chatterbox. Until Shree was rescued from his sorry position, he continued to say things. His attitude seemed to change, irrespective of whether at first he seemed more annoyed than pleased.
Along with some ground information, Shree had received a lot of unimportant chatter. He went on to zero in on that. Here, he first learned about the state of taxis. The local taxi drivers refused to reduce the outrageous fares they charged visitors. When private businesses entered the market, they struggled with prejudice and confronted difficulties. As such, the government launched its own taxi service, although it will suffer a similar fate to that of the private firms. In light of all of this, tourists are now actively prejudiced against those who use private or government-based cabs.
That leads to the second point; he was asked by the middle-aged cabbie to not disclose him as a private travelling service but as a friend. The tax collectors and stops of traffic police were biased as well.
'No wonder why the terror of these stupid locals still hasn't stopped.'
The third point was more related to the customs of Goa and Portuguese settlements in Goa. Though it didn't give much or do so in a straightforward manner, it was crucial to understand the societal structure of Goa.
The Portuguese who remained in Goa after its independence from colonial rule accumulated considerable wealth and influence by retaining the assets they had acquired during the colonial era. Over time, this influence gave rise to numerous accounts of these groups discriminating against native Goans—the very people whose kindness, labor, and wealth had sustained them.
'This much is to be expected. After all, we are humans, not horses.
"Sir, it's them!"
The car was stopped in the vicinity of the post-check as the heavy iron barrier of yellow and black strips blocked the path in front.
A police officer pulled the car out of the post. Nothing struck about him except that he had a dark skin complexion and a hanging stomach held tight by his ill-suited white upper.
"ID?"
A series of unimportant and suspicious questions followed. Shree could immediately tell that the officer was being overly pushy, such that he was desperately trying to find reasons to punish.
He was leaving, as the cabbie himself seemed to be experienced and well-versed to handle such enquiries.
However, as the batch was lifting and the driver had pulled his gear, he suddenly turned, waving his hand to stop the car.
Knock. Knock.
The officer stopped at the window next to Shree, knocking tenaciously to make him glide open the window...