In hindsight, the samosas in Goa are as good as, and at times better than the ones one gets in North India, mostly because the stuffing is more interesting: vegetables appear out of thin air, sometimes even tomatoes turn up.
A pond or two, a hazardous step or two and a wearisome series of stone steps finally brought us to the summit where is situated an old temple dedicated to the deity Shiva.
मुनासिब है तुम भी अपना खज़ाना छिपा लो
तुमने करते नहीं देखा फ़रियाद मुझे
The dotard tried to preach us every now and then and would say things in the cadence of a priest high on verses from the ‘Geeta’.
ज़्यादा रौशनी भी आपको खतरे में डाल सकती है,
मेरे जुगनू मुझसे ये राज़ कहते हैं
I took out the old battered hand-drawn map again and set out again to explore what a flood had forbidden me to.
A herd of goats it was, that had gotten on the habit of invading and sabotaging our garden during afternoon siestas.
When finally the door was opened, the room was peppered all over with goat-shit pellets. Finally, we realized it was a losing proposition after all, to hold the mischievous goat captive.
It was on the day of ‘Maha-Shiva-Ratri’ , the night of Shiva the hermit, that I left with a group in the morning, to scale the fort of Sinhagarh, translated as ‘fort
of the lion’, which was inhabited years ago by the Chatra-pati Shivaji Maharaj Bhosle.