.this strip of shimmering sands is amazingly framed by gigantic rocks on both sides. tourists have named it ‘‘Butterfly Beach’’. As one steps on the grass, one is bound to rouse tiny butterflies who look like a shower of petals in flight. I SKIMMED the few sentences downloaded from the Internet standing in the airport check in queue for Goa. It was an unearthly 5.30 am on my 30th birthday, and the words were like water off a duck’s back for all the effect they had on me. Shower of petals, bah. I hadn’t had a wink of sleep, the smses of Happy 30th Birthday (does that prefix fit?) hadn’t stopped all night, I was going to be working all day and part of my itinerary was to go find the Butterfly beach. The Panjim weather was decadent. As everyone in the hotel headed for the beach, I hit the road in battle gear sitting pillion behind my photographer Manoj Patil on a bike. From Baga in north Goa to Panjim to Margao to south Goa. Zipping on the black ribbon of a highway for over three hours, the density of tourists lessened with each passing mile. And so did the jumbo billboards. The stoned people from the Bacardi Blast party, the Idea coverage on some remote beach and another five-star with a molten sunset seductively beckoning that your time has come—they distracted from the march of ugly brick and cement. But had the decency to vanish when the undulating land turned into a shiny sea of coconut palms, red earth and emerald fields of paddy. Past a perfect soccer field, we turned right towards the sea. At the bus stop, Manoj yelled: ‘‘Butterfly beach?” They pointed ahead. The PoA was: seafood lunch and then lie on the beach for a few hours. At the pink house of Caitan Fernandes, we stopped for water and further directions. The 60-year-old retired seaman, with a tan leather face and not a single grey hair, smiled: ‘‘Go up to the Urgan bush and turn right, cross the jungle, then there will be a paddy field, more jungle, and a paddy field, another jungle, keep walking straight, a field and a few huts. Take a right from there.’’ We thanked him, could not find the Urgan bush, and came right back. He hopped on to his scooter to guide us. His ‘‘bush’’ was a 30-foot-tall palm tree. As the dirt track collapsed into no track and six branches swatted on our faces, he stopped and pointed to a tiny dried rivulet path cutting through woods. ‘‘Just 45 minutes,’’ he reassured and left. The noise from his scooter faded and thick silence descended on us. It was late afternoon and this did not look good. The last time I had done anything remotely outdoorsy was 15 years ago. Without hesitating once, I charged past forked paths and crossed the forest, field, forest, field, forest. In 40 minutes, we had crossed 10 fields. We stopped to catch our breath, nowhere near the shore. Pack your hiking shoes, I made a mental note for the travelogue I was to write. I looked at a long scratch on my arm. and a first aid kit too. This time Manoj led, and I huffed and puffed after him trying to dial friends on the cellphone for an SOS. No network, the billboards had lied. After a particularly steep jump where I almost twisted my foot, I looked up to the shimmering sea. We ran. It was a cove of big black oily rocks on which sat three fishermen with mean-looking sea-animals drying by their side. My tired mind thought, maybe, like Shangri La, the Butterfly beach does not exist. Did someone post it on the Net after a particularly good rave? One of the fishermen, who seemed particularly bored with his catch, leapt at the chance of guiding us. There are four guys from Delhi who come here for a week every new year’s, he told us. We backtracked four fields and in 15 minutes we were there. As I pushed a branch from my face, my heart stopped. It’s the sort of place where you would spend your two days before the world comes to an end. A tiny 100-feet stretch of perfect white sand and translucent waters. I stomped on the grass, not a single butterfly. We had company—a couple and a kid—but first I had to sit and catch my breath. I was hot, thirsty and very, very hungry. No shack with aroma of prawn vindaloo here. I picked myself up and trudged on the sand to meet the couple. Introductions, and she turned out to be Sue Carpenter, a writer with The Guardian, and he, a photographer. We all grinned. As I took out my card, Karoki Lewis clicked. ‘‘This is bizarre,’’ he smiled. Both the photographers climbed a rock perch to check if the beach was really shaped like butterfly wings. It wasn’t and they instead clicked Sue’s adopted Nepalese daughter Simi who played in her white suit with a sequinned rose. ‘‘I found this beach six years ago and refuse to write about it.’’ She explained why it was called Butterfly beach. In two weeks, those trees on the hillside bloom a red flower and then the butterflies come. ‘‘Don’t tell Bombay about this.’’ I looked at the crushed shells on sand, the water in which Simi was playing and I remembered last night on Baga beach. I had trod on a plastic bottle under my foot. No, I wasn’t going to tell Bombay about it. ‘‘We came on the boat, it’s just a 20-minute ride away from the beach where we are staying,’’ smiled Sue, offering us water. Murder, not travelogue, Sonu wrote. PSST. MORE SECRETS
