After telling me his story – from enfant terrible and Mall Road Romeo to successful farmer and responsible father and village oracle, he told me not to take his photograph as it sapped his energy and not to publish his name or that of his village. “Then,” he asked, “is my story so strange that it couldn’t have been yours?” No, his story is actually anybody’s story, at least till the part of being chosen the oracle. And I became him. Shimla was my playground and Mall Road, the grand

Delhi – Agra – Gwalior – Orchha – Khajuraho is the hottest heritage circuit in the country. Starting with the Kosi Minars, mile stones from the Mughal era, along the NH2 as you exit Delhi, the best way to do it is from the highway. I drove till Orchha in October this year and rediscovered Dholpur, mid way between Agra and Gwalior, which doesn’t figure in the circuit. This quaint little town is given a miss by most in their hurry to get to the more famous Gwalior, missing in

My heart, like the bud of the red, red rose Lies fold within fold, aflame; Would the breath of even a myriad springs Blow my heart’s bud to a rose? Babur, the great conquistador from Kyrgyzstan, descendant of Timur and Chenghiz Khan, founder of the Mughal dynasty in the subcontinent, actually wrote these lines. Not only does his memoir Tuzuk-e-Baburi contain repeated references to flowers and gardens but the Emperor even had the names of all his daughters prefixed with ‘gul’ – Persian for rose – Gulrang Begum, Gulizar Begum,

One more Halloween. And more of Pirates and Jokers, Grim Reapers and Draculas. Isn’t it strange that in a country inundated with faith healers, psychic mediums, temple oracles, exorcists and haunted dak bungalows, we are yet to come up with an indigenous spectral line up? Here are some spooky tales, from the road, which might inspire. Yes, travelling does have its advantages – a wizened old chowkidar who warns you not to hang around the Bhangarh Fort after dark, a weary cabbie who reminds you to take that extra bottle

First blank then incredulous stares are flung my way when I ask a local the way to Taj Mahal. ‘In a city that grew around the Taj, you don’t know the way?’ They seem to ask. Awkward tinged in condescension raises a nodding head when the ‘dummy out of town’ realisation sinks in. Ask a local for the ‘Red Taj’ (‘Lal Taj’ if any better) and you’d still get the same blank, incredulous ‘get outta here’ stare. Not surprising, considering many of my intrepid travel buddies too hadn’t – forget

Bernie Ecclestone is to Formula One what N Srinivasan is to Indian – and by extension international – cricket. At 82, the patriarch of the sport is an angry old man. What cheesed him off were the tough Indian tax laws and of course, the ubiquitous red tape which we the natives have come to understandingly embrace as ‘bureaucratic hurdles’. At the receiving end of his ire is not just the future of F1 in India – which is more or less sealed – but also a foetal demise of

Disclaimer: You are forgiven if you start to strut about, one hand behind your back, head tilted at an imperious angle. No hard feelings if you give the gardens a critical once over, though impeccably maintained your disdain frowns forth. However that glint of pride in your eyes is hard to conceal – can be espied even from the resplendent ramparts above. After all, one fifth of the world is under your dominion. You might stop short of addressing your friend ‘my lady’ but there’s a mammoth five-glass landau clip-clopping

The gory so far. A Swiss tourist was gangraped while cycling with a friend from Orchha in Madhya Pradesh to Agra. The assailants – five of them – then decamped with her mobile phone and cash. A British national had to jump off the second floor of her hotel room in Agra after the property owner tried to force his way in – at 4am – offering her a free oil massage. Michaela Cross, am American student, put up with three months of being stalked and molested, groped and masturbated

  Dogs and Indians were infamously kept away from the clubs and restaurants frequented by Europeans during the colonial days under the British. While we do not know how the dogs took the ‘Dogs and Indians not allowed’ signboards – or how it kept them away, for that matter – it definitely struck a bitter note with the natives. Back then it led to bloody skirmishes, a suicide mission, even: In 1932 the feisty 21-year-old Bengali revolutionary Pritilata Waddedar led an armed attack on a club which displayed the sign

All the things I could do If I had a little money… Goes the ABBA hit ‘Money, money, money.’ I, for one, would travel responsibly by taking only direct flights to cut down on my carbon footprint. And what I still emit, I would gladly offset. I would make my other jetsetter pals do the same. And if they don’t know about carbon footprint offsetting, I am going to tell them about it. It’s an esoteric concept albeit a meaningful one. As a mechanism, it has been around for more