My Goan Diary

You might have expected another travel blog about Goa—golden beaches, vibrant nightlife, scenic landscapes, water sports, seafood, and breathtaking sunsets. Every year, thousands of people visit Goa to create memories worth cherishing.

Mine wasn't one of them.

While everyone else was busy making memories, I was struggling to preserve my sanity. Goa, for me, wasn't a vacation destination. It was the place where I experienced some of the most frustrating and eye-opening days of my life.

Most people know Goa for its beaches. Few know that it's also one of India's major pharmaceutical manufacturing hubs. Those factories eventually became my workplace.

But Before That, Let's Start From the Beginning

I graduated with distinction in Bachelor of Pharmacy in July 2024. Ironically, on the very last day of college, thanks to an overenthusiastic classmate, I ended up tearing my calf muscle. Surgery followed, and I spent nearly two months recovering at home. Recovery didn't stop me from hunting for jobs.

Like most fresh pharmacy graduates, I dreamed of working in Quality Assurance. Eventually, I received a call from a pharmaceutical company—let's call it Matured Pharma because the real name is better left unsaid. They offered me a position as a Management Trainee in QA with a decent fresher's salary.

Without thinking twice, I accepted. Only one question remained.

"Where would I live?"

I didn't know a single soul in Goa. No relatives. No friends. Not even a hotel booking.

Thankfully, after a bit of convincing, HR arranged temporary accommodation at a nearby hotel, a service they usually provide to employees relocating from other cities. The job also gave me another first.

My first flight.

I landed in Goa during peak monsoon. The rain welcomed me with such enthusiasm that I instantly understood why people either love Goa or absolutely hate it. I belonged to the second category within the first hour.

Both the hotel and the factory were located in Verna Industrial Area, just a short walk apart. The first ten days went surprisingly well. I settled into work quickly. Sampling, IPQC, documentation, filing, reporting—I enjoyed learning every aspect of the department.

Then reality knocked.

The temporary hotel stay was ending; a 2-day stay stretched to 10 days, and now I desperately needed a room. Finding accommodation around Verna was far more difficult than finding the job itself. The industrial belt was packed with employees, and almost every affordable room had already been occupied.

One day, a colleague mentioned that a room nearby would become vacant at the beginning of the following month. We went to inspect it.

It was a single room with an attached bathroom, and five people—including me—were expected to live there. The room looked exhausted. Dust covered almost every surface. The air felt heavy with humidity, and the bathroom looked like it hadn't met a cleaning brush in months. It was easily one of the worst places I had ever seen. But desperation has an incredible ability to lower your standards. With nowhere else to go, I agreed.

Looking back, it was one of the biggest mistakes I could have made.

The next month began, and so did my new life in that room. Three tenants were supposed to move out while two of us—me and another newcomer named Parag—would move in. The room was still in the same miserable condition. After the old tenants packed their belongings, one of them unexpectedly changed his mind and decided to stay. His name was Soman.

Parag and I spent the next several hours cleaning every inch of the room. We scrubbed layers of dust, washed the furniture, and attacked the bathroom floor that had turned green with algae. It took an entire bottle of bathroom cleaner before the original white tiles finally became visible again. Throughout all this...

Soman simply stood in one corner of the room. Watching us.

Not lifting a single finger. By evening, exhausted but relieved, Parag and I decided to visit Madgaon market to buy groceries and other essentials. Since both of us were new to Goa, we invited Soman to accompany us. The moment we asked, his expression changed completely. And that was the first sign that something wasn't quite right.

"Why are you going now?" Soman asked, almost alarmed. "If you leave now, you'll be back around ten at night. Then what about dinner?"

At first, I thought he was genuinely concerned.

"We'll eat outside," Parag replied casually.

The concern instantly disappeared from Soman's face.

"No, no... I don't eat outside. It's too expensive. My monthly budget is fixed."

I smiled and asked, "Then is there any mess or tiffin service nearby? We can manage with that for a month or two."

His expression changed again.

"You... don't cook?"

"I do," I replied. "But I've just shifted here. Until I settle down, a tiffin service sounds much easier."

Parag nodded in agreement. Soman looked as if we had just informed him of a national emergency.

Oh God... what am I supposed to do now? My previous roommates cooked. We shared groceries, and my expenses stayed low. If both of you join a mess, then each of you will have to give me ₹500 every month apart from the rent.

Parag frowned. "Why should we pay you ₹500 if we're not eating your food?"

"I don't know," Soman shrugged. "Either give me the money or find another room."

That was enough. Parag walked straight out of the room without saying another word. I stayed back. Maybe it was curiosity. Maybe sympathy. I asked Soman why he was behaving like this.

Within minutes, he narrated what sounded like the saddest story imaginable. He spoke about his family's poor financial condition, how every rupee he earned went back home, and how he survived by saving every possible penny.

I believed him. Looking back, I realise how easily emotions can cloud judgment. Cooking wasn't a problem for me anyway. I enjoy cooking, so I thought helping him wouldn't hurt. About half an hour later, Parag returned.

"I'm leaving tomorrow morning," he said.

I was surprised. I tried convincing him to reconsider and even told him about Soman's financial struggles. He looked at me and smiled.

"Don't fall for it." He pulled out his phone.

"I spoke to one of the previous roommates."

He played the recording. The voice on the other side laughed before saying, "That's his oldest trick. Every new roommate gets the same emotional speech. He demands ₹500 from anyone who doesn't agree with his rules. Don't believe his tears."

Then came the sentence that completely shattered every bit of sympathy I had.

"And one more thing…He's a drug addict."

I sat there speechless. Just a few minutes earlier, I had been defending him. Now nothing made sense. If he was struggling financially, where was the money for drugs coming from? Was his entire story fake? Or was his old roommate lying? My head became a courtroom where every possibility was arguing against another.

Right then, my phone rang. It was Nidhi—my junior from college. Without even checking why she had called, I blurted out, "Nidhi, I'm busy right now. I'll call you tomorrow." I disconnected. Barely a minute later, another thought struck me.

Nidhi was from Goa. I immediately called her back. This time I actually let her speak. After hearing my situation, she didn't waste any time. She gave me the contact number of a local estate agent in Madgaon. I explained everything to him—the job, the room, the urgency, and my budget.

He asked me to wait. Twenty minutes later, my phone rang again.

"I have a studio apartment in Colva," he said. "It's vacant. If you're interested, decide quickly."

He sent me a few photographs. It wasn't luxurious. It wasn't fancy. But it was clean. And most importantly... I wouldn't have to share it with four strangers. I transferred the advance immediately. The agreement would be completed after work the next day.

Decision made. (‘A bad one again’ to be honest)

I walked back into the room. Parag was already packing. I looked at Soman and simply said, "I'm leaving too."

For the first time since I'd met him, the confidence vanished from his face. His eyes widened. He suddenly realized that both of his new roommates were walking away before even moving in properly. The rent that was supposed to be divided among three people would now fall entirely on him. His grocery calculations. His monthly budget. His carefully planned ₹500 collections. Everything collapsed in front of him. Within moments, tears replaced arrogance. He folded his hands. He apologized repeatedly. He begged us not to leave. Not because he wanted us there... But because he couldn't afford us leaving.

This time, neither of us believed a single word. That evening, things felt strangely peaceful.

It was around nine, and Parag and I decided to have dinner outside before beginning the next day's moving chaos. Out of basic courtesy, we invited Soman as well. To our surprise, he agreed without a single complaint.

No lectures about budgets.

No emotional speeches.

No ₹500 negotiations.

It almost felt like meeting a completely different person. We had dinner at a decent restaurant nearby. Soman finished his meal unusually quickly and quietly walked out before us. I assumed he was avoiding the bill. Honestly, after everything that had happened, I didn't even care. We paid for his dinner and casually made our way back to the room.

When we reached it, we froze. The room was locked. From the inside.

We rang the doorbell. No response.

We knocked. Nothing… Then we started banging on the door.

Still silence.

For nearly an hour, we tried everything we could think of. There wasn't even a hint of movement from inside. It was as if the room had been abandoned. Finally, we called one of Soman's former roommates.

After hearing what had happened, he sighed.

"I'm not surprised."

He still had a spare key, but there was one problem. He was now living in another part of Madgaon without any vehicle, and by then it was far too late to travel.

After discussing every possible option, there was only one conclusion.

"Spend the night outside."

Breaking the door wasn't practical, and we had nowhere else to go. So that's exactly what we did. Two newly employed pharmaceutical professionals...Sleeping outside their own rented room. If someone had told me a month earlier that my career would begin like this, I would have laughed.

That night, however, there was nothing funny about it. The concrete floor became our bed. Sleep barely visited us. As dawn broke, around seven in the morning, we finally heard the latch move. The door opened. Out walked Soman. Perfectly dressed. Shirt tucked in. Office trousers neatly ironed.

As if nothing unusual had happened. He looked at me, handed me the spare key, and said in the calmest voice imaginable, "This is the spare key. I'm leaving for the office. Stay if you want. Leave if you want. If you leave, keep the key under the shoe rack."

And he simply walked away. No apology. No explanation.

Nothing!!!

Parag and I looked at each other and burst into laughter. Not because it was funny. Because sometimes frustration reaches a point where laughing is the only option left.

We packed our belongings, freshened up as quickly as possible, and left for work. I requested the factory security guard to keep my luggage safely in his cabin until evening. Thankfully, he agreed without asking unnecessary questions.

After office hours, I collected my bags and headed straight to my new studio apartment in Colva.

The room wasn't aesthetically decorated. Didn't have expensive furniture. It didn't overlook a beach. But it gave me something far more valuable.

Peace. (at least that’s what I thought at the moment)

Looking back today, I don't remember Goa for its beaches, churches, cafés, or nightlife.

I remember it for that tiny rented room.

For a man who knew exactly how to manipulate sympathy.

For a night spent outside a locked door.

And for one lesson that no classroom, textbook, or university could ever teach me. Sometimes the real world doesn't test your intelligence.

It tests your judgment.

It teaches you that not every emotional story deserves your sympathy, not every smiling face deserves your trust, and not every act of kindness is appreciated.

Some people don't exploit your money.

They exploit your goodness.

That one month in Goa gave me far more than my first job.

It introduced me to reality.

And that, perhaps, was the most valuable salary I received.