I’m sitting at Jolene, my restaurant in Anjuna, where the sea plays mood music and the sky writes the script. It’s monsoon season, and like always, it sneaks in sideways — through the leaves, under the doors, into your bones. There’s something about this rain. It softens everything. The light, the pace, even your sense of time. Out here, life doesn’t arrive in push notifications. It drips, drizzles, lingers.
There’s a couple three tables away, quietly sharing a plate of stuffed crab. They’re not speaking much, but there’s comfort in their silence. You can tell they’ve been through a few rounds of storm and sunshine. I recognise that look — not the dazzle of a first date, but the slow hum of a second chance. Or maybe a fifth. Who’s counting?
I’ve been thinking a lot about second chances lately. About forgiveness — not as a moral checkbox or a self-help hack, but as a kind of weather. Something that moves through you. Something that arrives when you’re finally ready to be a little less right, and a little more open.
At 51, I find myself circling back to things I thought I’d outgrown — memories, mistakes, names I hadn’t said out loud in years. I’m not wiser, just more aware of what I don’t know. And more willing, now, to sit with the discomfort without trying to tidy it up.
I don’t have a sermon here. I’m not offering ten steps to inner peace. I’m just trying to make sense of this complicated, occasionally chaotic human experience. And if it resonates, maybe it’s because you’ve felt it too — the ache of a word left unsaid, the sting of a grudge too old to feel sharp but too familiar to forget.
I’ve hurt people. Mostly by accident, once or twice by arrogance, and occasionally just because I didn’t know how to be better at the time. I’ve been hurt too. There are names I’ve learnt not to say out loud anymore because they come with a catch in the throat. There are messages I never replied to, not because I didn’t care, but because I didn’t know what to say. Or worse — because I thought I’d get to it later, and later became never.
There’s a drawer in my mind where I keep these things. Maybe you have one too. A mental box of ‘should haves’ and ‘what ifs’ and ‘God, I wish I’d said something else.’ It’s not always a heavy drawer. Some days, it barely nudges. Other days, something — a scent, a song, an old email — slides it open, and suddenly, you’re in 2007 again, standing in a room that doesn’t exist anymore, hearing someone laugh who hasn’t laughed near you in years.
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But here’s what the monsoon teaches me, year after year: everything deserves water. Even the dried-out bits. Even the brittle parts you thought would never soften. You don’t need to drown them — just let them get wet enough to move again. To maybe even bloom.
I’ve started reaching out more. A message to someone I haven’t spoken to in a decade. A check-in with a cousin who fell out of orbit. I’m not trying to rekindle anything big. I’m just trying to say, “Hey, I remember the good parts too.”
That’s the thing, isn’t it? We remember slights with such precision. But the good stuff — the shared jokes, the roadside chai at midnight, the long walks where we fixed the world between sentences — those fade unless we bring them back deliberately.
Not long ago, someone I hadn’t spoken to in years walked into Jolene. We spotted each other at the same time, and for a second, both of us froze. Then he smiled. That old, crooked smile I remembered from when we were both younger, more reckless, less grey around the edges. We didn’t say sorry. We didn’t rehash the past. We just ordered dessert and talked about the state of tomatoes. It was oddly perfect. Like a wound that healed in silence.
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I don’t think forgiveness needs to be dramatic. It can be as simple as not bringing up that thing again. Or giving someone the benefit of the doubt. Or sending a meme instead of a monologue.
The older I get, the more I value the quiet kinds of love. The understated gestures. A text saying “home safe?” The refill of your water glass without asking. The extra samosa packed in your tiffin. The kind of love that doesn’t ask to be named every time, but is always, quietly, there.
And while I try to offer that to others, I’ve also been learning to offer it to myself. That’s harder, oddly. We’re raised to be tough on ourselves. We carry our flaws like unpaid bills, constantly checking our moral bank balance. But I’m slowly — slowly — learning to sit with my imperfections the way you sit with old friends. You don’t expect them to change. You just appreciate that they’ve stayed.
Rumi said, “Try not to resist the changes that come your way. Instead, let life live through you.” I scribbled that on a napkin once and stuck it to my fridge. Now it’s faded, but the words still hold.
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Out here, by the sea, the changes are constant. New guests arrive. Old favourites leave. The menu shifts. The waves never look the same twice. And in the middle of it all, I find myself — not solid, but sea-shaped. Not certain, but here.
Maybe that’s enough.
Because what I’ve learnt — in kitchens and cafés and conversations at 2 a.m. — is that most of us aren’t trying to win. We’re just trying to be understood. To be given a little grace. A second chance. Or maybe just a clean plate and another go at ordering better.
We’re all doing our best with the tools we have. Some of us have sharper knives. Some of us are still learning how to hold a spoon. And sometimes we cut when we meant to serve. It happens. What matters is whether we’re willing to come back to the table.
I think of all the people who’ve forgiven me without making it a thing. The ones who said, “It’s okay,” and meant it. The ones who joked through the awkwardness and kept the friendship alive. The ones who never told me how much I’d hurt them — they just loved me anyway, and I figured it out years later.
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That kind of grace makes you weep a little when you’re older. Not out of guilt, but gratitude.
And yes, sometimes the past knocks too loudly to ignore. Sometimes it doesn’t want healing — it wants honesty. There are conversations I still owe people. Some I may never have. But I keep that space open. Just in case.
I don’t believe in “closure” anymore. I believe in continuance. In carrying people with you, even if you never meet again. In keeping the good parts, even when the story’s ended.
Tonight, the rain is steady. Not dramatic. Just soft and steady. The kind of rain that doesn’t demand anything. It just falls, and keeps falling, and somehow — without noise or effort — it changes the landscape.
I want to be like that.
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Not perfect. Just present. Not finished. Just forgiving. Not preaching. Just sharing the story, hoping it finds its echo somewhere in yours.
And if you’ve been carrying an old name, an old wound, or even just the memory of someone you miss but don’t know how to reach — maybe this is the sign. Maybe this is the season to let it breathe. Maybe forgiveness doesn’t need a reason. Just a moment.
If you ever find yourself in Anjuna, come by Jolene. I’ll be here, most evenings. We can talk, or not. Sit in silence. Watch the sea. Share a story. Or a dessert.
Because to be human, really, is to try again. And to love — imperfectly, impatiently, in spite of everything — is the one thing we never regret doing.
