It’s 5.30 am and pitch dark outside; Madhur is up earlier than usual. Mrs Coutinho is already puttering about in the kitchen. Madhur enters the kitchen and greets her. “Get four poes and five pãos today. I’m making chicken xacuti for lunch,” Mrs Coutinho says, handing the bread bag to Madhur.

“Oh wow! Then I won’t eat breakfast, Auntyji!'“

“How you’ll not eat? Of course, you will. After walking so much, you’ll eat me also,” Mrs Coutinho laughs. Madhur rolls her eyes and leaves.

Every morning she walks 3 kilometres to the village bakery, in spite of its doorstep delivery service. She’s been advised to take morning walks by Dr Fernandes. Previously, Madhur would step out this early only if she had to shoot videos or take pictures, but now she’s happy to be of assistance to Mrs Coutinho.

Madhur buys the bread and starts walking back, alternating between a slow jog and a fast walk down the Parra-Assagão Road. Near the Assagão junction, a middle-aged gentleman jogging past, stops and says hello. Madhur is now accustomed to strangers smiling and waving at her – she’s a Parra celebrity.

She mostly feels uncomfortable with the attention. Any conversation with these fans invariably leads to them asking her why she isn’t vlogging or posting on her social media accounts anymore. To that, Madhur has no answer. So, she does the customary slow wave and puts her head down.

The middle-aged gentleman continues walking beside her, even after the initial acknowledgement nods are exchanged. Thankfully, Madhur no longer panics when something like this happens; the post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) induced by Delhi streets is now a distant memory.

“I’m Karl Mascarenhas, Mrs Coutinho’s nephew. You were supposed to call me,” he says.

“Oh! Auntyji told me, but I forgot. I’m so sorry.”

“No problem, Madhur, but I need your help urgently,” he says. “My event is on 31October, and only four days are left.”

“Karlji, I don’t vlog anymore.”

“Just call me Karl, no ‘ji’!” he says and smiles.

“Madhur, I need a stage design, no vlogging or influencing.”

“Oh … it’s been a long time since I did any set or stage design,” she hesitates.

“I’ll pay Rs 10,000,” Karl says. “And a couple more, if you help with organising – we always need extra hands on the show day.” He waits for her to respond. That amount is Madhur’s one month’s rent. She has been dipping into her savings for the past two months. “What’s your event concept?” she asks.

“I’m going to the venue – come along, I’ll explain.” Madhur hesitates, “I’ve to drop this home,” she says, showing him the bread bag. “Coutinho Auntyji will be waiting,” she says. “Can I join you later?”

“We’ll pass Casa Coutinho on the way – the venue’s close to it.” Karl explains.

They jog side by side and cover the remaining distance to Casa Coutinho. Karl follows Madhur inside and greets his aunt cheerily. While aunt and nephew are exchanging pleasantries, Madhur goes to her room and changes out of her sweaty exercise clothes. Karl and Madhur walk to the venue – a large wedding garden-type place, off the Parra-Saligão Road.

One set of labourers is busy polishing a wooden stage and another set is clearing the overgrown garden area. A metal truss to hold light fittings is being erected by technicians. “I’m organising a Halloween Night,” Karl tells her. ‘For almost a year all events in Goa were cancelled, but my show will be the first big show. I want something totally different.”

“Haan, something out-of-the-box, na?” Madhur asks sarcastically.

“No, out-of-the-pumpkin,” Karl says and guffaws.

“Is Halloween celebrated by Goans?” she asks.

“Not really, it’s an American thing. We celebrate All Souls Day on 2 November, two days later – that’s big with us Goan Catholics. But clubs and restaurants organise Halloween-themed parties for youngsters like you,” Karl explains.

“Oh! So, Diwali this year is on the same day as All Souls Day!” Madhur exclaims.

“Ya, it’s a bit odd this year – I mean, Diwali is the festival of lights, a celebration of life, while All Souls Day is a celebration of death. In fact, in Mexico, it’s called the ‘Day of the Dead’ – Día de Muertos,” explains Karl.

“Really? What happens on this day?”

“Don’t know about the Mexican tradition – I’m told they have elaborate rituals. But in Goa, we go to the cemetery and clean up all the overgrown grass around the graves of our relatives, place fresh flowers and pray for their souls,” Karl explains.

“Accha! That’s why ‘All Souls Day’.”

“It’s great for us, if the two festivals are on the same day – we’ll get a bigger crowd, more people will be in Goa. We’ll follow all COVID-19 protocols though – masks and hand sanitisers.”

“Chalo, I’ll go home and start designing. Please can you drop me back to Casa Coutinho? I already had enough of walking for today.”

“Sure,” he says, and goes to his parked car. “But before that, I’ll treat you to something interesting – actually, I want to eat it and you are my excuse! Jacinta, my wife, gets mad when I eat breakfast outside,” he says, as Madhur sits in his car.

“Even Coutinho Auntyji will get mad at me,” she says. “What are we going to eat?”

“The best Ros omelette in Goa.”

“Oh no, no,” Madhur says, as Karl drives down the ParraSaligão Road, in the opposite direction of Casa Coutinho. It’s 9.30 am, and they arrive just in time to be served the last order. Madhur quickly dons her sunglasses and her mask. As Karl chats animatedly in Konkani with the gaado guy, Madhur falls back slowly, trying to put sufficient distance between the cart and herself. Karl turns to her and says, “Maddie, this is my school friend, Peter.” Turning to Peter he says, “She’s a famous designer from Delhi, she’s doing my event design.”

“Oh, very good, very good. She’s doing real work,” Peter says, not taking his eyes off the skillet. Madhur detects a hint of sarcasm in his tone and wants the earth to swallow her. She takes her plate of Ros omelette and walks away from the cart, stands at a distance with her back to Karl and Peter, lowers her mask, and starts eating it. Karl joins her, wondering why she’s eating so furtively.

“Not used to eating on the road?” he enquires.

“I prefer sitting at a table,” she lies.

“Aye, Peter! You must put some tables and chairs here, men!”

“For what? People will not leave only! They’ll sit here, play cards – or they’ll put plates on the table and take pictures … naka re! This is only good. With a plate in their hands, they have to eat and leave.”

Excerpted with permission from Goagram: Misadventures of an Influencer, Bina Nayak, HarperCollins India.