Where Love blossoms and ripens

Goa is indeed a romantic place. Love blossoms and ripens at Goa.

Love blossoms. On a recliner sofa in a pub, two of them look deep into each others' eyes. Lost in thoughts that seem to be running parallel in their minds without any expression. In fact, words are immaterial and unnecessary when the rhythm of breath speaks in co-ordination that is more musical than a complete orchestra. He takes a spoon and pushes it into a slab of ice cream placed in a bowl neatly on the glass table. He then brings the spoon close to her mouth.

Her lips open and a slender pink tongue comes out. He feeds her the ice cream. A minute later, ice cream is melting in this mouth. The spoon is on the floor. She is moving her slender long fingers over his lips and chin. She is wiping the ice cream that spilled on his chin while she was feeding her the ice cream the way he did.

Look elsewhere and you see a long road.

Love ripens. As they walk together holding a heavy rexin bag, his silver hair shining in the hot sun. She has pulled up an end of the pallu of her sari over her head. The two are carrying the burden of their duties in the scorching heat. They are walking down the long road. Together, they share whatever they have. There's no 'one', it's only 'two'.

Love is when the age disappears, the place disappears. When love blossoms and ripens, love appears. When love appears, everything else vanishes…