The Tree

I don’t know if it was the sleep in my eyes or the December mist that made it difficult for me to see clearly. Well I can’t be blamed for either, it was 8 in the morning.
We parked our bike and got off for a cup of tea and a smoke (for those who did pull a drag or two).
A friend led us to ‘The Tree’ he told us that this is the ultimate Hippie spot in all of Goa.
‘Hippie’--- suddenly my eyes opened wide. I was always very fascinated by them.
And there, the first thing my eyes stopped at were his long blondish dread- locks, almost reaching his waist. He was in a dirty white banyan above Khaki multi-pocketed 3/4th. How is it, that my bones where shivering in this cold even though I was layered in clothes, and this man stood there in minimum clothes as if it’s the middle of march? The answer is the ‘Magical Mix’
As I moved a little closer to the tree, I was amazed to see a circle of Hippies waiting for a whiff of the magical mix.
‘The Magical Mix’, Tobacco and Marijuana, crumbled or roasted in a clay pot called the ‘Chillum’
The transcending music in the background, the smoke mixed with the mist, and the tree…..this seems to be another planet.
A word about this tree…. It’s crazy! Three trees entangled in one- Neem, Peepal, Bud
It is said by the Hindus that when all three trees meet, it creates positive energy. I think it was this positive vibe that energized me at an instance.

From a distance, I could see all of them rhythmically move to trance, and pulling huge drags from the chillum one by one in the circle, I couldn’t stop looking at them.
The bright colored psychedelic clothes the girls wore, the weird tattoos on their bodies, some of them were bald , most of them had dreads, which they tied up artistically, decorated with tiny ghungroos or woven with bright florescent green, acidic pink, eye catching orange and other glowing colored threads. The bald ones got rid of their dreads, my friend informed.
I was stirred out from my reverie, when the cup of tea finally arrived. Around the tree, there was a platform where you could sit and share the spliff or simply sip on the steaming tea. So I plonked up on the platform, still staring awkwardly at everything around, I made my self comfortable by sitting cross-legged.
Hari Om! All of them chanted as one of them kneeled down to shoot the chillum, one of them lit a matchstick and gave light, and thus started another round of charas.
I was still fighting against the cold, with my cup of tea passively; the enchantment somehow dissolved this feeling.
One of them turned around, his cold blue piercing eyes looked at me as if I am the offender, with a smile he pointed to the small temple on the other side of the platform,
‘No Shoes Please’ he said in a weird accent, maybe Russian, maybe German, or was it Israeli? Whatever it was, I quickly took of my chappals and apologized. An apology to him, an apology to the tree and an apology to myself for forgetting my own customs.
It’s funny when someone from another culture reminds you of your own.
I looked at the temple he pointed at, I saw a small Shivling. I smiled to myself.

Hari Om! This tree sheltered the porch and provided solace to the hundreds of Charasees, each leaf tells a tale, of which an echo I will never forget, of the culture I just saw…..an experience that shall remain!