Mangal and the state of happiness Two seemingly disconnected sights abound in parts of Himachal Pradesh – cannabis plants growing in disarray by the roadside and cafes announcing Israeli culinary delights. Then, there has to be a connection. Going by history at least. History: Charas – made from the resin of the cannabis plant – has been billowing heady out of sinuous chillums in the country for thousands of years as part of religious rituals and culture. Though there was a clampdown on the drug and its users during the

“Look, there kaattupothu,” bellowed the tribal tracker in unfettered relief at finally being able to spot game after hours of squelching through sodden tracks, sweat-drenched in the tropical humidity, plucking out leeches that squirted a gallon of blood when quashed between thumb and forefinger. The incongruity of the lingual mismatch in the exclamation was lost on the group that comprised mostly of westerners who were also equally relieved at having spotted something wild after so many hours of futile wandering. “Oh, hey, look over there, a bison.” A stocky Englishman

The ‘it’ factor. This is what makes a superstar stand out from the rest of us. Repeated attempts by the learned ones haven’t resulted in its decoding – yet. If the at first theoretically postulated God Particle was found to actually exist, then some day the ‘it’ factor too will be revealed to inhabit probably the genes or will be attributed to a conditioning of an impressionable hypothalamus. Till then the attributes bandied about will be as flattering as it will be flummoxing, will be contradicting as it will be

The world knows Ani Choying Drolma as ‘the singing nun’. But Ani (honorific for ‘nun’) was at first an accidental nun. “I did not join the monastery out of any divine calling,” she says with all the nonchalance of an everyday fact. “My father used to abuse me physically and I joined the Nagi Gompa Monastery as it was the next best option to running away.” We were sitting in the airy living room of her comfortable, rufous-coloured multi-storey house in the tarred mesa on the predominantly Buddhist outskirts of

This is the first in an occasional series ‘Telling Tales’ which are stories of people from my different journeys. On a coarse sheet of paper Koul drew some lines and circles. “Here,” he said pointing to the lines, “are electric posts with wires.” “And these,” he said tapping the hurriedly-drawn circles, “are birds. They are sitting on the wire.” Koul then put a bold mark across one of the circles / birds. “If somebody shot one of these birds,” he asked looking me right in my eye, “can you expect

Dramatic translucent smoke billowed out of the open cockpit doors into the narrow aisle. I espied the numerous shiny consoles and knob-headed levers fading into a thickening blanket from where I sat with my cameraman Santosh. My co-passengers, mostly pilgrims from Hyderabad and Mumbai began to panic. The startled murmurs reached a feverish crescendo to screams and shouts of alarm. The older ones, not yet willing to let go, began the ubiquitous chant ‘Om Namah Shiva’. “Buddy, start rolling.” I told Santosh who sat frozen only for an instant. If

The winding road set in the midst of a coniferous forest was a continuing reminder of the place I was leaving behind. Definitely, Nagarkot was cleaner and greener, above all, quieter. If you are looking for quality time introspecting or bonding, then you have to be away from the hubbub of Kathmandu. And the quickest getaway is Nagarkot. From the cooler climes of the verdant heights, I reached the warmer and definitely shriller plains of Kathmandu. The capital of Nepal was overflowing with life, the energy is contagious and the

Most of us urbanites find forests irresistible. For my part, I just couldn’t bring myself to leave Chitwan. So I asked at the Unique Resorts, where I was staying, to arrange for me one last ride through the forest. Niranjan, the mahout, came with his black beauty, Champakali, an intelligent, frisky hulk with twinkling, naughty eyes. With the dawn just breaking across an argent-blue sky, I sucked in the dewy freshness that lay like a halo over the forest. I trampled through the swampy marshlands, with the moist-laden tall grass

A clear dawn descended, typical of a tropical zone like the Terai where the Chitwan National Park was located. On Mahendra’s recommendation, I decided to go for a canoe ride around the forest to try my luck at spotting some of the famed wildlife. Spotting wildlife, rather trying to, seemed to be the buzzword here. It was only seven in the morning and Mahendra was waiting at the boat jetty; I never doubted his energy and enthusiasm. One sinewy heave-ho from our boatman and we were off. The ride gave

If Pokhara was an escape, Chitwan was supposed to be better – an escape into the wild. I headed to the former hunting reserve of the ruling dynasty and one of the few remaining tall grassland habitats in the world. Here I would be watching an enthralling sunset, canoeing close to crocodiles and generally getting closer to Nature. The bus station in Pokhara was brimming with other tourists who were also Chitwan-bound. My baggage was secured against the bumpy ride and possible rain. Fresh-baked rolls and croissants rattled into paper