While designers like Wendell Rodricks and Savio Jon provide minimalist glamour from fascinating studios in Panaji, Malini Ramani promises Paris Hilton makeovers with her disco-ball clothes in Baga.

Bhangra rap meets Goa trance and Parisian quirky cuisine melds into a cocktail called Shiva…Bandana Tewari does a round of the restaurants, bars and beaches of Goa, the oh, so cool Indian destination

When I look back on my first trip to Goa, I must confess, I was nothing short of a fake Bohemian, with the assumption that juggling a Jack Kerouac novel in one hand and a Hare Krishna scarf in the other, would allow me a quick entry into a world of spliff-friendly hippies. I marvelled as I watched the dreadlock community descend day after day on Anjuna Beach, to watch the sunset with the same awe-struck gaze, as did believers of Moses when he descended Mt Sinai. It had taken me a few days to ‘escape’ from my Gothic environment (convent run by Czech nuns in Darjeeling) and I promise you I smelt freedom for the first time. So in utter excitement I found myself, within an hour, beaded, tattooed, hennaed and scuffed up to make a poor man’s hippie swaying to Bob Marley, punctuating my conversation with “the vibes, man….” I have never been that earnest in my entire life.

There is a lot to be said about the Goa of the past. There was a time when nudism was de rigueur in the beaches north of Vagator and Margoa was the ultimate bazaar. Every self-respecting hippie headed straight to Calangute and Albuquerque red tiled roofs were the authentic stamp of blissed-out Goan homes. This was the time when the carnival (pre-Lent festival) in February was for real with King Momo parading the streets with his indisputable message of eat, drink and be merry. Today, cigarette and alcohol sponsors spread the good word on behalf of King Momo. As for Calangute, the saga of the testosterone-driven Indian males gazing endlessly at thong-happy westerners continues.

But see, the spirit of Goa is that of an intrepid backpacker, who believes in experience, not as one being better than the other, but as an accumulation of memories that will make him or her quite the ‘self-realised’ raconteur. As I sat in La Plage in Asvem Beach (best vegetarian carpaccio and conveniently close to the chic outdoor Le Salon for a quick haircut), I realised that Goa like its waves, is all accepting, all consuming. It doesn’t repudiate the wannabe, the unsophisticated that the ‘real vibe’ imbibers say is corroding Goa. What it does is carve a little corner for everyone. While the hippie epicentre is moving increasingly north to Vagator and Arambol, leaving behind marks of local adaptability in such names as ‘Israeli Beach’ and ‘Spaghetti Beach’, Russians have quite a thing for Morjim. Chapora remains the retirement village for over the hill hippies, while Baga and Calangute beaches are swelling with surplus Indian revellers who think underwear is swimwear and carry the message of bhangra rap to the sandy beaches that once swayed to Joni Mitchell.

Sipping grapefruit juice in Café Lila on Baga River, with the promise of the finest steak in under fifteen minutes, it’s easy to recognise an ever-growing Goan panache. City dwellers have erected getaway homes in surreal spots; reborn hippies have become restaurateurs, adventure-sports experts, yogic guides, trans-global artists and musicians. While designers like Wendell Rodricks and Savio Jon provide minimalist glamour from fascinating studios in Panaji, Malini Ramani promises Paris Hilton makeovers with her disco-ball clothes in Baga. Where there is Sangolda with uber chic, chi-chi goodies, there is also the thrift-friendly Saturday flea market, a jaunt that may lead you to such psychedelic clotheslines as ‘Melon F…ker’. Speciality cuisine restaurants – the ever reliable Fiesta (with the enchanting co-owner maitre d’, succinctly called Yellow), Le French Restaurant (Parisian quirkiness in Goan comfort), Au Reverie (nouvelle cuisine and mother of all desserts), The Other Side (a modish lounge in Morjim), Fisherman’s Paradise (Calangute beach shack run by a duo who summer in Europe at festivals like Glastonbury and Germany’s Voov and bring the funk vibe to Goa) – all contribute to this melting pot of the finest gastronomical and cultural sensibilities from all over the world.

If you are a Carrie Bradshaw-like cocktail chaser, follow what I call ‘Goa’s Golden Triangle’ – a trail that begins in Caravela (Taj Village shack in Aguada) to Congo (with Julius Macwan’s 16-feet mural in a bling-bling meets jungle Jane lounge) via Vijay Mallya’s palatial home (strictly by invitation), a one kilometre romp that is patently for manicured mamas who match jewels to their thongs. If you want to sprawl in luxury within the confines of impressive ‘mini-metropolis’ hotels, then swing your Vuittons to Park Hyatt or The Leela, Goa. But for the twilight zone followers, there’s the perennial boho-circuit – sunset in 9 Bar (great music and pizza), strawberries and vanilla ice cream at Primrose before you kick-start your bike by midnight to a rave (which is only good if some snotty local boy tells you about it). If neither suits you, just go meet Tony. You will find him in Fisherman’s Paradise, making a cocktail that epitomises Goa’s energy. It’s called Shiva. Shiva for a Goan sunset.

Says Dipti Dutt, a Goa veteran, “I love my Goa because it is truly a global meeting ground of ideas, philosophies, fashion, culture, art and film. For seven months, we experience an intense exchange of global progressive thought. Come summer, everyone shoots out to cities all over the world spreading the evolution of ideas this exchange has triggered. It is an incredible seasonal process that happens so easily and naturally – a true global underground!”

As I fill my lungs with the moist Arabian Sea air at Olive Ridley (a shack in Morjim Beach with great food, welcomed privacy and a sea perfect for swimming), I concur that the most positive assault on Goa has been its music. Goa Trance (Raja Ram, Goa Gill, GMS, etc), the psychedelic cousin of regular trance music is undoubtedly the biggest catalyst that brings the computer savvy, New Age hippies to Goa. Inspiration for microchip music in Goan bliss for Ibiza and Equador. If there is a twist to global warming, this could be it! Trance – bereft of the boundaries of language, is a fascinating attempt at self-preservation of the soul, in an era that sees airplanes as missiles. Anjuna, the playing field for the New Age hippies (Israelis, Dutch, French, Germans, Indians) is now witness to acts of genius as the sea, sand, chourisso (pork sausages flavoured with feni, chillies and toddi vinegar) and a laptop, are a perfect arrangement for thrashing ideas that culminate into music that caters to the rave destinations of the world. Party spots in Goa, such as Bamboo Forest, Banyan Tree, Disco Valley, Hill Top, are all testing grounds for new music, a salutation to the ‘ravers’ who perform the function of being a discerning audience. But for heaven’s sake, don’t bastardise the beauty of it. As a trance veteran told me recently, “Either you get it or you don’t. There’s no middle ground.” So, if you’re still toeing to Simon and Garfunkle, you don’t get it. Make a noble exit and let the party continue.

Away from the madding crowd, atop a hill in Nilaya (crown jewel of Goa, of Music Room fame and a guest list that boasts Philippe Starck and Jade Jagger, amongst others), I marvel at a simple truism – nothing is more permanent than change. And I must confess, I have come to accept the commercialisation of Goa. That there are charters full of septuagenarians who throng the beaches for solar therapy or gawky teenagers playing truant from schools in Bihar and Andhra Pradesh, is only a testimony to the fact that irrespective of age or wallet size, we all love freedom and more importantly we need the space to explore it. So, whether it’s the lure of the Goan legacy of sex, drugs and rock ’n’ roll or spiritual rejuvenation, be prepared, you may just get what you want.