I arrived in Goa at the tail-end of October, when the rest of India was glittering under Diwali lights, and my phone flickered with invitations, chai, mithai, house-hopping. Instead, I was rolling a suitcase across Dabolim Airport for the fifth time in the past two years. Ordinarily, familiarity risks dulling a place. But this time, something felt different before the journey even began.
A BMW was waiting outside—with cold towels, Wi-Fi, a bottle of water placed exactly where you’d reach for it, and that tiny bit of quiet luxury set the tone while we made our way to the St. Regis Goa Resort. Outside, the skies over South Goa shifted between brooding grey and sudden brightness. Inside the car, something in me loosened. The rhythm of the road, the glint of the river through gaps in the trees, a gentle playlist humming in the background, it felt like the prelude to slipping out of the world’s bustle for a bit.