There are three things I look forward to during breakfast at Walton’s homestay: the masala omelette made with the spiciest home-grown curry leaves by Mrs Walton, the strongest black coffee whose unending supply is ensured by her comely daughter Charlotte and meeting other guests. During these jentacular jaunts I have come across travellers from so many different places and with such delightful tales that I finally made peace with what Mr Walton told me many years ago: ‘No, I don’t travel. In fact, I don’t have to travel – the
Belgian monk Francis Acharya decided to come to India after he met Gandhi in London. So impressed was he by the Mahatma’s espousal of the tenets of Hinduism that he wanted to work for the ‘encounter between Hinduism and Christianity.’ After several unsuccessful applications for visa he finally approached Vijayalakshmi Pandit who was the Indian High Commissioner in England at that time. The visa was finally granted after Jawaharlal Nehru sought a personal guarantee from Acharya that he wouldn’t proselytise. Acharya then travelled across the country before setting up his
As you ascend the over 100 steps to the top of the Borobudur Temple you actually pass through three levels symbolic of Buddhist cosmology all the way to Nirvana. Chances are that you will be climbing up, unawares, in the pre-dawn dark at 4.30 AM to catch the famous ‘Borobudur sunrise’ your progress aided by lights from the rechargeable torches thoughtfully provided with the ticket. You might still be rubbing your eyes and even be a little irascible at having to wake up at an ungodly hour on a holiday.
Contrition followed admission. Two men sat on the ground with their heads tucked between their knees; three women, faces covered, sat on a wooden bench and whimpered. These were the core members of a notorious pickpocket gang who worked the Prambanan heritage site; a well-oiled operation that involved several ancillary hands depending on the scale and time of robbery. The guys, caught trying to make a sizeable purchase with the stolen credit card, at first tried to bluff their way out till the CCTV footage proved overwhelming. Thorough questioning led
If you are a fence-sitter when it comes to the supernatural – and its different ways of coming alive – Indonesia is a not-so-gentle nudge into adherence. The folklores and urban legends abound with spirits infamous for a lack of benevolence – some shriek forcing you to veer off the highway in the middle of the night while others beckon you sultrily into the deep sea. Every kris has its own unseen resident if the locals are to be believed. Some collectors I know vouch for it. ‘Just let them
From a distance it would have looked like the crystal and other jelly fishes had gathered for a surface party in the middle of the night, their unearthly bioluminescence in full swing. There was music even. In place of the emotion-shorn trance and techno, lovelorn songs from Malayalam cinema filled the air. Belted out by All India Radio, staccato broke in rudely now and then but love and longing prevailed. Bobbing around each other in a chain dance were little catamarans and bigger boats. In the gloaming of the deep
Nothing comes in the way of your interaction with the locals other than laziness and prejudice; even an alien tongue doesn’t. I say this with conviction as I wrote a road tripping book on Chhattisgarh when there was no GPS (definitely not in Chhattisgarh) and my Hindi was pidgin at best (it still is). My friends were surprised to see that I actually returned after 40 days on the road in this heavily forested central Indian state besieged with its own set of unique problems. I made up for all
A sudden blizzard – a regular occurrence at high altitudes – caught us unawares as we approached Khardung La and we stopped to chain up our tyres. Flaky snow fell on our jackets which were blown away by strong winds. There was nothing much we could do about the meltwater, ice-cold and mucky, that threatened to penetrate our trekking boots through submerging eyelets. Our drive up from Leh had alternated between treelines and skylines; approaching Khardung La at over 5,000 metres we drove straight into the clouds. An old stray
When into the womb of time everything is again withdrawn chaos will be restored and chaos is the score upon which reality is written. (Henry Miller, Tropic of Cancer.) Deepak outside the pastry shop The police van was parked across the road from where the dead body lay as if poised for a quick getaway. There was a lull in activities when I walked into the crime scene; it transpired later that it was the break when everybody awaited the official police photographer. That nameless guy whose thankless work accompanies
Being the only uncle to a bunch of boys who can fill out a small platoon comes with not just enough responsibilities but a minimum knowledge requirement. Like knowing ‘fast track.’ “Tom mama, let’s get fast track,” said one of my nephews at the entry to the water park. “But didn’t I get you all watches just last year?” I was serious as I had actually gifted them outdoor watches from Casio the previous Christmas. In response the kids took turns looking exasperated and laughed. They glanced over their shoulders
