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
Babu Azheekan is the patriarch of the homestay, a celebrity chef whose culinary skills are a featured series in a local television channel. Now if I tell you staying at Azheekan’s is a gastronomic adventure, it will be redundant, right? Not really considering that most of the meals at the homestay is made by Girly; well, she is the granny of the family, always smiling and insisting you help yourself to more of the duck roast or the simple but yummy vegetable stew. Now, Babu – or Girly, for that
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
In the beginning there was the Bastar Palace. Jagdalpur town was originally the living quarters of the palace personnel who settled in the imperial whereabouts. Sure enough it soon began straggling in all directions and today it goes a very long way in all directions. When you exit the city towards Sukma – deeper south – for the Kanger Valley it is evident that it is still lugubriously lugging along. Take the Gidam Road (NH 16) through which Jagdalpur goes on in fits and spurts till Kesulur, 12 km away.
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
Traditions with fabled moorings are still sure-footed in Varanasi. Kushti, Indian wrestling, goes back 5000 years in this old old living city. The origins of kushti akharas* where training in kushti is given has been attributed to Parashuram who plays a stellar role in the Indian epics Ramayana and Mahabharata as mentors to exemplary warriors Bhishma and Drona. Today despite grappling with paucity of patronage and dwindling public interest these akharas are brimming: mud-splayed muscles heave nimbly, entangled limbs before pummel, submission holds choke out grunts, thigh slaps sting the
