‘Bridge View’ was the name I gave my writing room – a rented space in a commercial building by the banks of the canal. It had a unique atmosphere marked by a strange colour and odour. Sound even. The stink from the cremation ground towards the west wafted in with the wind along with the stench of coconut husks being retted nearby. From where I sat I could hear the rhythmic thrashing of the pulp with wooden mallets like drumbeats. Sometimes after work I would put out the lamp and

First day of the Hornbill Festival of Nagaland some years ago. Many glasses of zutho, traditional rice beer, later I was winding my way aided by random hands and shoulders out of the Kisama venue to the car park. My crew – we were filming the weeklong spectacle for a travel channel – was supposed to meet me next to a temporary ATM which served more as a landmark than cash dispenser in the ensuing days having run out on the second day itself. We were all drunk or tired

The odd-even formula has struck like boarding school after a jaunty summer vacation. Though we are aware the restrictive regiment is for our own good – Delhi pollution levels are 15 times higher than the WHO standard, capable of claiming up to three years of our lives – as true Delhiites we have to groan and gripe: At the inadequate public transport infrastructure, at the laxity on part of cops to challan offenders who flaunt political connections, at flouters flaunting political connection, at the government non-committal about extending the de-congesting,

Every travel is a quest for Shangri-La – the mystical, mythical land of harmonious coexistence, contentment and fulfilment. With a subtitle like ‘Searching for Shangri-La’ travel, thus, has to go on. But when the last in the collection of (just) six travelogues that make up Asian Absences is called ‘Shangri-La’ it almost seems like the insatiable hunt has come to an end. This ‘hour at the edge of the clearing’ leaves several jolts in its wake which possibly is the intention. For this Shangri-La is the China-made model Tibet awaiting

Nobody wants to read yet another account of passenger trauma induced by the proclaimed pathological delay of Air India flights. Nor about the anguish inflicted by the habitual misdemeanour of the autumnal aunties of the aisle (AA). Though I had my share of both these ritualistic inevitabilities by the time I took my seat on board AI 048, Delhi – Trivandrum, I swear I didn’t want to write about it either. That is till at take-off when the Young Handsome/Hopeful (YH) who sat on the jump seat next to the

Desert rain falls like a baptismal shower, there is divinity and rebirth. It is a diffuser of an exotic perfume with top notes of fragrant earth, a heart of nostalgia and the base leaving a hint of longing. The desert itself remains almost still, the shifting dunes quivering just a bit in a silent frenzy to quench an insatiable thirst. The rain-washed scrubs gleam black and green. Lightning cracks the shocks of cerulean skies above and thunder squalls trembles the air. The sun, refusing to give in – this is

Chicken shamans It is easy to spot a chicken shaman in Kathmandu – they come to you. They tell you about sky burial – a Tibetan form of burial where the body is hacked into pieces – hoping to leave you astounded before they try to persuade you to follow them to a burial site high up in the mountains. If you are still not impressed, they will even perform a trick or two – usually magic or mindreading. The real shamans you seek out. Like I did following a

Before the paan there is the paanwallah. So I will begin my paean to the paan with one for him: he is fantastically clever, can spot the nescient first time paaner without glancing up once from his gleaming tin-can assembly line. I can personally vouch for the ones in Lucknow and Banaras, the land which inspired the evergreen Khaike Paan Banaraswala song, a Holi, Diwali, marriage and birthday party staple. A digestive ditty whose calming, settling effect any DJ will swear by – just like paan itself after a hearty

No movie so far has dealt with the most prodigious of perils – in terms of derailed diplomacies, maligned reputation, dented economy or the sheer brutality of the act itself – that can befall a traveller to the subcontinent – rape. From big budget, star-studded international productions to a sizeable cache of charming, even some hard-hitting indigenous ones, no one has till now tackled this issue. US travel advisories, while tactfully maintaining that ‘though India is generally safe’ it also points out ‘rape is a fast-growing crime.’ Britain and Canada

As I loped down the winding pathway to Ockbrook, home of the Gantzers, I felt a little light-headed and not because of the thin mountain air. I was reminded of reporting for my first date a generation ago albeit this time it was in broad daylight. There is something splendid about meeting somebody you have for very long very much wanted to meet: it is, as The Alchemist says, the outcome of the coming – and conspiring – together of many things on a cosmic level. It is sort of soppy