When you turn down the narrow road and reach the gate, the house is
below you, down a slope from the parking space. The trees and bushes
hide everything but the slant of a roof in such a way that you can’t
actually tell how big the place is. The first time I visited Aradhana
Seth’s house was at the peak of Goa’s winter season, just around
Christmas—lunch, 12-15 people, the action was mainly around the back
porch where the food was laid out and the cocktails were being spilled.
Inside, the kitchen seemed large and busy, the different dishes of food
jostling each other as they waited to be taken outside. The living room
was made large by just two people having a private chat, the long dining
table had an archipelago of melted candles marching down the middle,
stalagmite islands of wax gripping the sea of dark, age-marked wood, as
though Aradhana had just done a set up for the filming of some
magical-realist García Márquez story. A quick wander through the whole
house left an impression of beautifully done spaces, all quite separate
and discrete from each other.
