A murder and a rape within the span of a week are not that random when the victims of both incidents are from the Northeast. Denying there is racial discrimination in Delhi would be a monolithic bluff like calling the Commonwealth Games a ‘grand success’. On the upside citing deep-rooted hatred, fear and insecurities as reasons would be a bigger bluff – with farther-reaching ramifications – like justifying the Yamuna landfill with a bus depot. There are no dearth of help centres, support groups, university departments and even a dedicated

Romance gets precedence over credence in populist writing. And travel writing is one big pleaser – aiming to pull, pique and prod. Many of the bubbles are what you ‘buy in’ to when you just pass through, fated to burst if you look around a little longer and engage deeper with the locals. So those – is there a TRP for travelogues? – of who throve on populating the Bhangarh Fort with bhoots should script for the Ramsays. Was that pen shaky when you took down those haunting tales? Or

An occasional series on the more interesting – and helpful most of the time – people I come across during my travels. “Calling one of them Bina is alright. But naming two of them Bina-1 and Bina-2 is for the SPCA.” I said. “But the minister was personally involved in every step of their growth.” Ramphool stood his ground. “So it’s fine.” I gave up; between the two of us he would be dealing with the Binas more. Whether it was ‘1’ that just bounded away or ‘2’ that was

The river Chambal has been found to meander continuously towards the right during the past 28 years (1972 – 2000) at a distance of 140 kilometres away from the origin. ‘Stream dynamics change analysis of River Chambal using remote sensing and GIS techniques’, International Journal of Geomatics and Geosciences, 2011. Jeep drivers are icons in hinterland India. Little boys grow up idolising them, hoping to be one someday. An ambition shared many years ago. But in the rickety racket – with curtains – where I sat bouncing, I realised that non-existent

Real India is still in the villages and viewed best from the highways. I spent a sizable chunk of 2013 travelling in the north and central regions of the country on assignment. Besides learnings and memories, friendships and experiences there were also the photographs. Prodders, grabbers, freezers. Stokers of the intangible. A handy tool while stringing words – a sort of un-glue when stuck. Often unfortunately relegated to mere exhibits of oeuvre and photographic mettle, it throws light on the little seen and the vehemently felt. Neither in gray nor

Bet you never knew Mr Robert Vadra is not exempt from paying toll. Am kidding, sure you knew. Then, did you really? Know that the Gandhi in-law – unlike in airports in the country – was not on the ‘exempted’ list of highway toll plazas? I went through the entire list of 13 ‘exempted dignitaries’ to figure if I could bluff in anywhere; chances were kind of bleak that I could pass for anybody on the list from the President to high court judges for I was in a red

All the while I was in Kotwan I couldn’t shrug the queasy over safety of my car. My Red was parked right in the village square – or whatever you call four charpoys arranged in waking disarray under a grandpa tree – and some kids had already discovered the wonderful slide the hood would make. Still. The dusty, deserted place looked like one of those fringe urban settings that it was – 100km from Delhi, along the NH2 – where your car would disappear to one night to emerge a

Save the flirtatious cavorting the rest of it is still intact in Vrindavan. The guys are all Krishnas, women are Radhas and the cows a happy lot. What drives the thousands flocking to this part of brajbhoomi or land where Lord Krishna was born and spent his youth, attired in dhotis and half saris and accessorised with bead bags and peacock feathers is the assurance by Swami Prabhupada, Iskcon founder, that there is more happiness in seeking than in finding Krishna. On my last day in Vrindavan I had a

Die-hards of ‘Star Wars’ series getting into Darth Vader costume for premiere have always struck me as a bunch of losers. Then, I’ve done it myself – getting into ‘character’ that is. God forbid, not to honour Skywalker. A dozen-odd years ago when the first instalment of ‘Fast and the Furious’ came out I was in Kerala university PG campus. I borrowed an old 800cc Maruti from a friend in return for introducing him to a pretty one. Getting into character, I raced the 15km from Kariavattom to Thampanoor. Though

There are some things nobody needs in this world, and a bright-red, hunch-back, warp-speed 900cc café racer is one of them – but I want one anyway, and on some days I actually believe I need one.  Hunter S. Thompson, Song of the Sausage Creature 2008. In the motorbike market for my third ride, the sine qua non was simple: the biggest Bullet. The 500cc, cast iron engine, four-geared – on the right – with a quirky neutral lever thrown in made it the baddest ass I ever rode as