The compact speaker had seen better days, been on many treks and taken several falls. It was rusted around the edges but continued to play with such high fidelity that it was easy to see why my friend took it everywhere with him. Right now it was tucked into the cradle of his arms and belted out Lateralus by Tool as we walked along the Mall Road in Nainital. Over thinking, over analysing Separates the body from the mind The steely night was pricked by street lamps flickering because of
The Grand Bazaar in Istanbul, I have been told, is a sensory whirl: the colours and sights, smells and sounds waft around you, a gripping menagerie. In Paulo Coelho’s new book, Hippie, it is a phantasm as two women – one high on LSD – weave their way out of the maze. The whole act of walking through and exiting the melee is described so vividly that one can actually share the trip. The high one sees everything as beautiful and calls everything incredible till: Finally, an idea came to
At the O’Coqueiro in Alto Porvorim I sat exactly where the ‘Bikini Killer’ did over 30 years ago enjoying what would be his last meal as a free man for a long time. Hatchand Bhaonani Gurumukh Charles Sobhraj, widely known by the last two names, might have been celebrating his latest exploit. Or he was serenading somebody – one led to the other, invariably. He was so immersed in his favourite curry, the Chicken Cafreal, that he didn’t notice the posse close in on him. Wanted for the murder of
It’s like your first dinner with a date – you take a while to gather gusto. Except for the food on the way you know little else. You look around and take in the décor with intensity, inspect the chandeliers, peer approvingly at paintings and nod at waiters. You laugh nervously, not mirthlessly, a few decibels above normal. You forget to drink water. In Pachkoti Hotel – the original, there’s an imposter even, apparently, which is the one you didn’t go to – I sat with my feet off the
There is not much difference when you look at Bahraich from half a kilometre in the sky and from street level. It is a tumbleweed cluster of shanty dwellings, lean-to shops, road-facing sculleries, pointy minarets, lowing buffaloes snacking on plastic, milling rickshaw pullers and little figurines cowering in black, chaffering with lingerie and veggie vendors on pushcarts. Main drags radiate like a Merc-sign from the town centre, the ‘Ghantaghar’ or Clock Tower. The grounds of this Raj relic are the only place where you can stretch your limbs without
Butterfly, butterfly Fly in the sky Butterfly, butterfly Flies so high Butterfly, butterfly Lands on my thigh Butterfly, butterfly Motionlessly lies Butterfly, butterfly Gracefully dies (Full transcript of poem ‘Butterfly, butterfly’ by Adryan Bates.) For a life that rarely goes beyond a couple of weeks the amount of cloak and dagger was overwhelming. I, for one, stood agape, eyes wide with incredulity and misted over with marvel. Lepidopterist extraordinaire Peter Smetacek held forth on the survival tactics of butterflies. Camouflage – trying to look like leaves and twigs –
In most tourism hubs the underbelly comes cleverly right beneath the nose. It is rarely that removed from the ordered façade – that ever-smiling and well-groomed veneer which makes the cover of travel brochures and magazine stories and envy-inducing backgrounds to likeable selfies – but tucked safely away from casual glances. I loped through this netherland, the ‘warren-side’, of Kovalam, a mishmash of shops and restaurants, beauty boutiques and Ayurveda parlours, with Mani, a tourism police constable, in his off-duty hours. Mani (name changed) was showing me the area which
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
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
At Kachowri Gali Chowk the bereaved family halted abruptly and looked around flummoxed: where did their dear departed go? Narrow lanes threaded by paan and tuck shops met their gaze. Cows pootled along like shuffling gum-chewing teenagers. Widows clad in white cotton saris with faded neelam-blue borders sat dignified at the doorsteps of dharamshalas, hands clasped in prayer – audible only when they took a break to ask for alms. There were reiki and yoga centres claiming reviews on TripAdvisor and confectioners claiming references in Lonely Planet. Flower sellers sat
