Goa, India – 1999

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The sun hadn't yet risen when I left the stuffy guesthouse and stepped out onto the street.
The barking dogs of the night had stolen my sleep, so I promptly hopped on my rented Vespa.

I had no plan, no map, only the desire to drift – away from the restlessness of my thoughts, into the unknown.

Goa was the first stop on my four-month trip through India – a project that led me not only in search of material for my diploma thesis at the art and media school, but above all, to myself.

The streets were still damp with morning dew, the smell of damp earth mingled with the scent of jasmine and smoke. I drove past lush green rice fields and endless rows of palm trees, leaving the main road behind when I suddenly came to an intersection.

A sign pointed to the right: Vasco da Gama. The name of the Portuguese seafarer who once conquered these coasts echoed like a sound from another time.

The road was crowded with old, overloaded trucks, spewing black plumes of smoke into the sky. Fine dust settled on my skin, mixing with the sweat that ran down my forehead. I had to get out of here.

 

A narrow path appeared as if from nowhere, leading left through the fields – narrow, barely traveled, almost mysterious. I followed it.

Suddenly, everything was quiet. Only the soft hum of cicadas and the distant roar of the sea accompanied me.

The road wound past dilapidated colonial villas, their gardens growing wildly into the landscape, blossoms in garish colors climbing over fences and walls.

Then – abruptly – the road ended. A high wall blocked my way. I braked sharply, the Vespa came to a stop with a jolt. What the…?

 

A sign on the rusty gate revealed the answer: Central Jail Aguada – Goa. I had ended up right in front of a prison. I parked the Vespa, stepped closer to the wall – curious, as if drawn by an invisible force. To the lower right, in the tall grass, something metallic glinted.

There lay old, rusted letters – presumably once part of the institution's lettering, now fallen from the plaster, forgotten.

 

I collected them, sat down on the low wall that jutted out over the cliffs – directly above the ocean. The wind carried salt and stories with it. I began to arrange the letters playfully, like a child solving a puzzle.

 

After a while, a sentence lay before me, incomplete but significant: "And L _ ve Or"
Inside me, I immediately completed the missing letter: an O. Not an I, not "Live," but Love. And Love Or... – or what? Die? Break?

 

I stared at the rusty letters as the waves crashed against the rocks far below.
The sentence became an oracle. I suddenly understood: Without love, man is lost.
 

Without love, man becomes a shadow of himself – cold, bitter, alien, incapable of joy.

Without love, life becomes a punishment. Perhaps it was no coincidence that I found these words on a prison wall. It was a message.

 

Back in my homeland, at the end of this intense journey, I dusted off the white, plastered plastic, a book I had once created during my studies – "The Great Book of Philosophy." It was empty.

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But now I knew what belonged inside. I carefully opened it and placed the found letters inside.

Where the "O" was missing, I placed a red rose – the symbol of love that completes this poetic story.

 

A story that one must not invent, but live.