Random Wanderings!

Welcome 2012

2011-12-31T19:30:00.001+05:30

Well, the world may end this year according to some ancient experts. So, we need to live this year bigger than ever before. Up, up, up. Live it up.

Though I admit, the ending to this Year has been an antithesis to the last few – Shake it off. And dance it away. Bye 2011.

2012. Bring it on.

Into the Wild

2011-12-20T16:35:00.003+05:30

At the outset let me confess, I saw no tiger. I prayed, visualized, ranted and chanted – all to no avail. The other animals, well, they were quite wonderful, but by the time I tried some artistic composition on my camera, they’d decided to scamper away. So I got a lot of butts, just a lot of pretty elegant animal butts on display.

But you know what I discovered? The stakeout can be as much fun. A tiger sighting would have definitely been the cherry on the cake – no denying. But to sit there quietly, catching rustling leaves, hushing on a deer’s alarm call, or langoors scampering in anticipation of a predator, the heart racing every second with the prospect of the beautiful creature walking down the road, looking at us from behind the tall grass in disdain, scornful at our obvious eagerness. Sometimes we would see the leaves quiver at a distance and scream out, that’s a tiger for sure, I am telling you, only to get an admonishing, “Nahi Madam, that is a spotted deer” from the forest guide accompanying us.

The heart raced every time the leaves rustled or a deer called in distress. Oh, the excitement!

When the last futile safari ended, our forest guide said wisely, “He is the king of the jungle. What would be his value if you could see him whenever you wanted?”

So we had to make do with a lot of stories – some funny and some not so much. Here are few.

First. Once a tigress attacked a tourist vehicle and dragged two tourists out of it. Their driver picked up a stick and hit the tigress to distract the creature, who promptly dropped the tourists and attacked the driver. In desperation, the driver hit out at the tigress’s mouth only to realize that oops, this one had no teeth! Turns out that few days back a safari car hit the tigress and since then she had been wary of the vehicle; hence the attack. Tigers consider safari vehicles as harmless and part of the background. They rarely attack.

Second. A sad one. Once a forest ranger was tracing the trail of a tiger tracking elephant in the reserve when he suddenly stumbled upon a tigress and her three cubs. Face to face. Right down there. He fetched out his walkie talkie and whispered quietly in resignation “There is a tigress in front of me. This is the end I think. Come fetch me in some time.” Half an hour later, the patrol car found his body parts strewn all over, half eaten.

Third. Our safari car driver Manindra told us a story of his friend’s nephew Gopal, also lovingly called Gopla. He was once out in the fields building a road along with his pals. He turns to lay some bricks, turns back to say something and notices the whole lot gone. Vanished. He scratches his head wondering what was wrong. He turns back – and then he understands. A huge tigress tumbling down the fence towards him. He stands absolutely still, shivering in fear, while the beast sniffs him and saunters away disinterested. His relief is short-lived as he soon sees her cubs tumbling down after her jumping at him in an attempt to play. He starts to run, the cubs follow as if in a game and their mother noticing their pursuit joins them. Gopla’s final respite comes when he climbs up a thorny tree as the tigers look up at him in wonder. He stays there till his uncle arrives with guns and reinforcement. By that time, the tigers are gone. Yet, it takes an hour of persuasion to get their Gopla down from the tree.

Pench National Park is a lovely forest area – well kept, closest to Mumbai (overnight train to Nagpur and then 2 hours by road). The locals are charming and the resorts marvelous.

We stayed at Mahua Vann which we really liked, specially the service.

But all said and done, if tiger viewing is the objective, Pench may not be the place – especially if you rarely win at card games. You have to be really, really lucky to see a tiger. The reason I am told is the route system the reserve follows as against the zone system say in Kanha, which tilts the scale. Still, the fire has been ignited and a tiger I shall see. Soon.

Since I took some really terrible pictures – I would like to include some tips.

Carry a really good DSLR camera - animals at a reserve are wild and they do not stand around to have their pictures taken (hence the butt fiesta). Keep your point and shoot away and invest in some good lens and camera. Lot of zooming will happen.

Next, forget composition, keep clicking. Let your ISO stay high and shutter speed fast for as many clicks as possible to capture animal movement. At least some of them will turn out alright. This is against my usual principle, but the animals have brought me to my knees. Some more great tips here.

Monopod is better than the tripod – but neither is very useful according to me. You have to be very alert and flexible.

The bottom-line is - be prepared and be patient, wild animals are extremely flighty.

It's that day again

2011-12-11T12:40:00.001+05:30

The thing about growing older is that...at the end of the day...you know it's all going to be alright. When you fail you know there will be other opportunities to make it good. When you succeed, you know this is not to last. And if you've somewhat played your cards right, you will be left with few friends and family who will love you no matter what, and moments you've lived and cherished that will make it all worthwhile.

The only pitfalls I guess are gray hair and low metabolism. And also some cynicism. Not all those dreams come true. But there are some unexpected happy coincidences which more than make up.

Well, halfway through life, that's what I think. Happy birthday to me! To an adventure filled rollercoaster in 2012.

December

2011-12-09T12:59:00.001+05:30

December is usually my favourite month of the year. The reasons are the usual – it is chillier than usual (although in Mumbai it makes no difference), there are loads of holidays and potential holidays (bosses are usually more benevolent and clients are partying themselves), it is a countdown to a new and (hopefully) better year and of course, the most important of them all, it is my birthday month!

As we end the year, some images that will stay with us. Courtesy Reuters.

This time Goa

2011-11-12T20:01:00.004+05:30

Why do we like Goa so much? There are places with beaches much cleaner, food and drink a lot cheaper. There are no landmarks you would want to see again, nothing extraordinarily tempting, you know.

I thought and thought about it. Then Bingo! I think this is it.

We love Goa much because it allows us to be decadent. Decadent without guilt. You can start the day with food and drink, lie around in shacks, shorts soaked in languid sweat, feet up, eyes gazing into the sea….drowsy…not one worry in the world. For us humans, above everything else, are immensely lazy.

Thus in short, Goa lets you be.

The crowds have just begun to trickle in. Club Cubana has reopened (with an open bar, ah the joys of life!). Goa is as bohemian and fun as ever.

The auspicious victory

2011-10-07T09:40:00.009+05:30

'As early as 1930, the Eastern Bengal Railways had an advertising poster of “Pujoy Bhromon (Puja Travel)” with the image of a Bengali family walking with their luggage towards an approaching train through kaash fields.' From Telegraph.

For decades, these five days of Durga Puja has been the highlight of the Bengali’s year. Now that it’s gone, emptiness lingers. I can still hear the roll of the drums and the conch shells too, reverberating in some deep crevice of my mind.

Now it is time to visit people, wish them luck and love for the year, and eat bellyful of sweets. Shubho Bijoya.

She’s gone, till next time

2011-10-06T14:57:00.002+05:30

We bade the Goddess adieu with a heavy heart. But again next year, my friend. Hold your spirits up.

Asche bochor abar hobe.

Her many Avatars

2011-10-06T12:56:00.005+05:30

In search of the best idols of Goddess Durga, down the bylanes of South Kolkata.

Favourite three

And my winner is...

We walked for five hours and saw about twelve. But if you want to marvel at more, look here.

These Puja days

2011-10-06T09:39:00.002+05:30

By the drumbeats you know. The incessant roll of the dhaks, their bearers hitting with all their puny might; the rhythmic, hypnotic beats that crash around us as we wake, wash and walk hurriedly over to the pandal.

By the scent of the dhoop you know. The powerful assault on the senses, yet pleasant. The smoke that gathers round and round, enveloping as we watch in wonder, with a dreamlike stupor moving into a world of fantasies.

By the kinship you know. Flocked together in little circles with steaming gossip and tea. Sweaty hands jostling, eager to grab flowers and bel patha before anyone else for the anjali in the morning. The elderly, walking down gingerly to watch the hour-long aarti in the evening. Games and contests, open to all, and won by none.

By the way they dress you know. The deepest cut blouses, the tallest shoes and the chunkiest jewellery.

By the fervour you know. Waves of people squealing excitedly, garbed in their garish best, feet aching with hours of walk in the relentless heat. Sweat glistening proudly on their forehead, a mark of all night pandal hopping.

The city throbs today. These few days of palpable excitement and fervour. These few heady days of Durga Puja.

Mahasaptami

2011-10-03T14:20:00.004+05:30

It is that time of the year again. The Goddess cometh upon our land to vanquish evil forces. Durga Puja begins.

But of course, more than its religious portent, it is an opportunity for the community to get together, work alongside to create an event larger than life itself, for migrant children to return home to their parents and thus yours truly is in Kolkata.

There are several conflicting accounts of how Durga Puja came into being. Some claim it was celebrated as a symbol of the early freedom movement in Bengal, while I read somewhere today that it was originally a post harvest celebration; to thank the Goddess for the bountiful food on their tables. All said and done, I do think this is the only time we can disclaim naysayers who say that the Bengali is incapable of hard work. Visit us now, you asur!

Cat on my door

2011-09-25T15:22:00.001+05:30

You would think my home was almost the menagerie. But they make living here so much more interesting.

Isn't she adorable? (Till she starts to pee at my doorstep)

Pigeon on my window

2011-09-25T11:55:00.000+05:30

Where have you come from

Bright pigeon on my window?

Drops that you scatter around

Would you take them when you go?

Don’t think me ungrateful

You grace my home and hearth

That deep rumble from your throat

fills me with a lot of mirth.

Yet, you come not alone

but with many friends and foes

who fly around, noisy and rank

That doth make me moan.

Fly away bright pigeon

Into the far trees

Where you can do your thing always

And leave me in peace.

Cozy in the rain

2011-08-31T20:18:00.001+05:30

Cramped and the food could be better, but oh so cozy! Specially if you manage to capture the loft on top. Like sitting in my own home, private and comfortable.

Rainy Saturday at Kala Ghoda Café. Opposite Trishna, at Ropewalk Lane.

The ten day Ganesh festival begins tomorrow. Much fun, and maddening traffic.

Free as a butterfly

2011-08-29T20:11:00.007+05:30

“How does one become a butterfly?” she asked.
“You must want to fly so much that you are willing to give up being a caterpillar”

It was time to celebrate. Last week was spent on the laptop, fifteen hours each day of non stop work. Over the long weekend too, no less. And I have been just two weeks into my new job. This weekend though, I was free.

Ovalekar Wadi butterfly garden. Located in Thane, but well worth the effort. Set in two acres of green land, the garden houses many, many flowers; and in them roost butterflies, caterpillars, pupae, dragonflies. The whole pretty lot.

As I was trying to capture the Jezebel (very flighty, I must say), a man came running up to me.

“Do you have the macro function?” He asked breathlessly

“Yes, yes” I said, half in panic

“There, take that, very important snap”

I don’t like being told what to click. But I was curious, what was he talking about?

“There, see over there” he gestured to the shrubs by the side.

Perched on the rain-washed, smooth green leaves, were two of them having a go.

I asked him how he knew so much.

“It is my hobby; I gave up my job for this.”

“Really?”

“Yes, after I watched 3 Idiots. A friend of mine also gave up his job to become a cartoonist”

He worked with the Bombay Nature Lover Society.

Another interesting guy was BD, from Bangladesh, in Mumbai on an exchange program. He confessed his shock on seeing Bombay, which he had expected to be cleaner, more developed since after all “This is the financial capital of India". Was migration to blame, we wondered. But I am an immigrant; I love this city, pay my taxes and avoid litter. No, he said, it was also some apathy. Such few dustbins on the roads!

Finally….as some other wise man said, “If nothing ever changed, there would be no butterflies”. Good to know.

Ovalekar Wadi: On Thane’s Ghodbunder Road. Open 7 AM to afternoon. The best time to catch those butterflies is early in the morning since they are cold blooded. There is an entry charge of Rs 50 and some extra for breakfast and tea.

A little this, a little that

2011-08-06T11:32:00.012+05:30

Yet another goodbye. The day has finally arrived, much to our grief.

I’ve visited you on my holidays and loved every minute. Gazing into green lakes endlessly, dense trees swaying in the breeze, train hooting alongside, red blinking rooftop lights at night. So many moments, so many memories. We shall sorely miss you, dear home.

Through the window

On a more cheerful note, this time I could steal away to a few nightclubs. Unfortunately it had to be early (parental diktat). But I came away impressed, Kolkata does have a nightlife. Limited, but it’s there.

When the old is old

2011-07-28T23:14:00.007+05:30

And also....

Washed in Sepia. A walk along the bylanes of Chor Bazaar, Bhendi Bazaar and Mutton Street throws you back to the bygone era. Crowded streets dotted with Bohri Muslims. Women in colourful burkhas. Men selling multi functional wares. Noise, clutter, mayhem. But a curious, new world (errr.. maybe that should read old.)

Interesting origin of names. Chor Bazaar began as Shor Bazaar; meaning Noisy Bazaar (named allegedly by the British). Later the name corrupted to Chor Bazaar and also became a self fulfilling prophecy with thieves bringing their stolen goods into the market. It is said that, if you lose anything in Mumbai you can buy it back from the Chor Bazaar.

Bhendi Bazaar. The British referred to this area to the north of Crawford Market as ‘Behind the Bazaar’ and the locals picked it as Bhendi Bazaar. Chinese whispers.

For me, I could get lost amidst the miasma of wood, old posters, miniatures, curios.

When the old is young

2011-07-28T22:36:00.002+05:30

It was a day of indulging the old (or perhaps it was the other way round?)

The first – an old man doddering alongside, who stopped to ask,

“What is this morcha for, do you know?”

We shook our heads and something prompted Rajan to add, “We are tourists. New to Bombay”

“Oh” he seemed confused,” with those big cameras I thought you were from the press”

We grinned and moved on.

After a while, the walk through Crawford market seemed endless, what with the impending political rally and the traffic diverted. We stood a while, sweat pouring on listless eyes and lo behold our old acquintance wobbled past again.

“You need to walk five minutes ahead to the market to hail a cab. It will be hard to find one here” he waved his hands in front, “Just five minutes. Walk”

Tired smiles on our faces. Just resting a while uncle.

He repeated again. “Walk” waving his hands frantically.

Well, we made a run for it. To please him. Or you could say we ran from him.

The long walk did throw in some interesting sights. And it was a mill workers strike.

The second – an entertaining 89 year ‘young’ Boman Kohinoor, the owner of the iconic Café Britannia at Ballard Estate.

He asked me to guess his age. I started low, to please him of course. With each shake of his wiry head I would “go up. Go up.” Till I reached 90.

“90 minus one. That is how old I am.” A self satisfied beam.

Then a conspiratorial whisper.

“My grandfather lived till the age of 114. Do you know the secret of his long life?

- No smoking

- No drinking

- No gambling

- No drugs

- No womanizing

‘No Eating’ wasn’t on the list; so we gorged.

Café Britannia is an old Parsi joint at Ballard Estate. The food is great, though more expensive than you would imagine. Boman Kohinoor is endearing, with his collection of old photos and anecdotes.

And finally his hearty blessings, “May you live long, may he live long, may I live long”.

What they don’t tell you

2011-07-19T17:24:00.013+05:30

About the mysterious creature they call Media.

To be successful, you need to start early. At 21. There is then plenty of time to learn the ropes from seniors, grow contacts, and still look fresh and pretty. Specially (sad but true) for women.

Let’s face it. Men can afford to look like fat, sloppy fish and still be lead anchors if they know their stuff. Women need to be pretty and speak well, never mind how much they know. And most will be thought of as bimbos anyway. I’ve seen how much smarter many of the female anchors are, how much hard work they put in. But still the stereotype. In business media specially, men are listened to and women are looked at.

Yes, women get in more easily and the ride up is easier for them. But, also sharper is the fall. Everyday there is a younger girl who can replace you. Not many survive the race, eventually.

No, anchors do not get paid a lot. Some of them do, but only eventually. That is once they are a name to reckon with, and the channel cannot bear to part with him/her. They used to make a lot of money once upon a time when good anchors/speakers were a rarity. Not anymore. Thus, you can have 2 well known anchors and 5 chotu ones to make a channel. And the others have a long way to go.

Anybody who is somebody in Indian media today started when the channel did. Udayan Mukherjee with CNBC TV18, Pranoy Roy, Barkha Dutt with NDTV, Arnab Goswami with Times Now. A pattern that makes you think…maybe that is the formula.

Aggression is the key in media. Who gets the best stories, faster, the exclusives. That’s what sets a channel apart from the others. You blame the media for sensationalizing. They do it for survival. A very competitive, harsh world this is.

Lastly, the fame. How many anchors from any channel do you remember on the top of your mind? A maximum of two per channel? This is how it usually goes. If they’re your friends, they’re thrilled to see you on TV. “Wow! I saw you on TV yesterday. It was great.”. If someone you don’t know, it is, “the girl with the nice smile on that channel.” Or if they meet you, “Oh! You work in a channel, I think I’ve seen you somewhere!”.

In the end, it is all transient.

A day in the life of Television

2011-07-19T17:22:00.007+05:30

We keep unearthly hours; a typical day begins at 6 in the morning. The anchors and researchers come in stumbling in the dark of dawn, bleary eyed. Newspaper scans begin. Headlines etched out.

But the stress is scarcely in the long hours, it’s the transactional anxiety in the ten hours we work.

A typical fifteen minutes in a day is like this.

“Smitaaaaaaaa” a spine chilling scream comes from the ticker desk (a group of fledglings who monitor Bloomberg, newswire and Reuters for newsbreaks. The content on the ticker which rolls at the bottom of the screen comes from here.)

“What is it?” I scream back, heart thudding painfully in my chest.

“Listen, XYZ is acquiring ABC” Now the heart stops, blood draining away. “Oh, shit”

There is sudden frenzy in the newsroom. The rest of the team refreshes BSE, NSE. Printouts are fired. Few run to the printer. Few run to the ticker desk to shout out instructions for headlines.

I have just that one line. XYZ is acquiring ABC.

The desk (which edits the content that goes on air), the producer from the PCR (the man in the Production Control Room controlling the show) is screaming, “Smita, mike up, mike up, NOW”

I can feel the blood rushing to my head. I am frantically looking at past slugs (short research précis we make for the anchors everyday), running search strings through google for help. Any help. Cold sweat trickles down my back.

2 minutes down. No information yet.

Now the anchors are screaming from the studio. “Get us information fast and get her miked up. Now”

Damn. It is always NOW.

I scream instructions to my mates, quickly put on my talk-back and mike, look into the mirror, comb my hair. The make up guy runs over and touches up the powder, rubs in some lipstick. Good to go, the talk-back mutters.

I start to ramble.

And that’s just a regular day.

It’s the end of an era

2011-07-19T17:21:00.007+05:30

Or so some would think…

Three years ago I joined business media as a change. Come on, who doesn’t like the idea of being on Television. Fame, money, glamour – glittering stars in my eyes, heady buzz in my head. I did get a bit of all those, but also a lot of others.

What was it like? Let me start with why I loved this animal they call media.

The Irreverence. Media grants immense power. Believe it. Heads of conglomerates who wouldn’t talk to anyone, will smile, fawn and be good to you, even if you are just a tiny little nobody in a news channel. You get entry to events, launches, meets. Just pick the phone and dial anyone. He will atleast give you a patient ear.

This extends to the workplace as well. A junior can shout back to senior editors, make her opinion heard, and as long as she is good, it's all good. Thus, newsroom fights are commonplace, but soon forgotten. Abuses, screaming, brawls is what we grapple with everyday. It took a while to get used to the constant buzz of activity, and now it will be harder to work in silence.

Casual. The work environment is unlike a regular workplace. Chai and food is ordered couple of times a day and we all pounce on it. Like a college canteen. We wear jeans and shorts underneath the formal jackets you see on TV (yes, that bit you heard is true!). And what a relief it is not to plan, manage and maintain an elaborate wardrobe of formal attire. You will never know, till you don’t have to.

Glamour. A bit of this as well. Always well turned out, hair done, makeup on. When you enter events like that and hobnob with those in the news, people notice you. And remember.

The rush. There is news every minute, every hour. If it’s in your beat, you better respond well, and fast. Although harrowing when it happens, it gives an instantaneous sense of achievement. More, when stocks react.

How? Read on.

Harihareshwar: A monsoon break

2011-07-11T16:10:00.010+05:30

Rain scrubbed plains. So green that you wonder if these are not green tinted glasses you are wearing. Sudden bursts of shower on unsuspecting heads. Chirping crickets, croaking frogs, grazing cows. This weekend was at Harihareshwar, a small village tucked into the Konkan coast.

I was meeting Urv after a year. So we thought, instead of meeting for drinks why not take a weekend break together. She would fill me up on stories of ex colleagues, sleazy bosses, love lives. Plenty of girly gossip.

Harihareshwar is known for a Shiva temple and pristine black sand beaches. It is an idyllic, quiet pastoral setting replete with farmers, gram panchayat, milking cows, intermittent electricity. And the beaches are truly virgin and beautiful.

There is not much to do. That is of course part of the charm. We walked the slippery roads, marveled at the mossy lakes, sudden brooks which spring up from nooks. A smiling, curly haired local lady fed us Konkan fish, poha, Zunka bhakar, sol kadi, modaks. Coconuts in everything.

My favourite hour? Riding on rickety local cycles, rusting on all ends. Riding as if nothing mattered, no goal in sight, just to enjoy the roadscape. Waving to farmers as we flew along, tyres hiccupping over dried nettles.

Two days of just different shades of that. Now I can puke green.

Harihareshwar is located 200 km from Mumbai on the Mumbai Goa route. We hired a car which takes almost five hours. But you can take the train to Mangaon and board the bus next. Stay at the MTDC hotel at Maral.

In the end

2011-07-06T14:56:00.003+05:30

I realize Helena Norberg-Hodge was right.

Tourism and western style development have brought in their many ills into Ladakh. None can discount that education and healthcare are important basic rights, but what works in the western world may not really work everywhere. In addition, a yearning for a lifestyle like the West may result in self contempt. Not the best way to live.

Happy, smiling faces - not as many as I thought there would be. Cars splutter dirty smoke into faces. Ramshackle random shops are an eyesore, broken roads, stray plastic bottles (not just the tourists), greed, bickering. It’s all there.

She says

As one of the last subsistence economies to survive virtually intact to the present day, Ladakh has been a unique vantage point from which to observe the whole process of development. Its collision with the modern world has been particularly sudden and dramatic. Yet the transformation it is now experiencing is anything but unique; essentially the same process is affecting every corner of the world.

Read her book before you go. Not just Ladakh, you’ll know what's wrong with most of our lives.

Road Merry

2011-07-05T22:38:00.004+05:30

You spend almost half your time on the roads. While what you see, will give you much joy, Ladakh’s Border Road Organization has taken the onerous task of providing the rest of the entertainment. So, as you navigate each precarious turn on the mountain-way, go right ahead, laugh away. Here is a list of some signs that dot the paths.

Drive slowly and live long

Always Alert Accident Avert

Peep peep don’t sleep

Better Mr Late than Late Mr

Test your nerves, on my curves

Be gentle on my curves

Love your neighbour, but not while you drive

I love you darling, but not so fast

If married, divorce speed

Don’t be a gama, in the land of lama

And my favourite

Don’t be silly, on the hilly

BRO is naughty, he is.

Day 8: Leh alone

2011-07-04T22:31:00.014+05:30

Today I do what I‘d been avoiding for the past seven days. I stand in the long winding queue at the only ATM in Ladakh. Luckily there are separate lines for men and women. Still, it takes 30 minutes and much shoving and yelling to get my money.

An HDFC ATM will soon come into being. Take heart.

I have Leh and the day to myself. Everyone else leaves.

I start at 11 in the morning; just to be sure everything is open by the time I reach. It is an easy 20 min downhill walk to the market. The uphill climb later in the afternoon though gives me a headache.

My shopping list is short. The first tranche of shopping includes rotating wheels, turquoise jewellery, thangka paintings, shawls, apricot cream, wood crafted tables. None by any means cheap. Dvds of Samsara and Kundun. Did I say short? Yes, money depletes fast. Hence, the ATM.

Every shopkeeper is friendly, willing to talk, bargain till you drop. It is a no plastic zone, so carry a bag.

I highly recommend Amdos Café. The kahwa and chicken thentuk are scrumptious. Cheap too.

Ming suggests Bon Appetit. It turns out to be a lovely place where I spend my last few hours in the city.

I watch as the setting sun bathe the clouds in orange. There is a cool nip in the air. The poplars sway from side to side; as people nodding in unison. Dogs bark in the distance. Streams gurgle past hastily. Children call out to each other as they play. Prayer flags flutter in the sky. The orange disintegrates into the breeze as the clouds turn gray. Dusk descends.

I munch on my dimsums and sip tea.

Inner peace.

Day 7: Pangong Tso

2011-07-03T21:50:00.007+05:30

My eyes flickers open at 4:50 in the morning. It is bright around the tent walls. Is the sun already up? I toss back to sleep. Tad guilty, but the sun rises early in these parts. I am only human.

Suddenly Raj calls from outside the tent. “Are you coming?”. I jump up on my bed and scramble to get my clothes, camera and tripod. “Yes, yes” I say hurriedly. I rush to the attached bathroom (which is quaint, a zip opens up to the makeshift bathroom. Clean and functional enough), put on warm clothes and run out. Just one day, might as well make the most of it.

All worth my while. We take many, many lovely pictures. The water changes colour every minute.

One time I turn away from my tripod and a stray dog pees on it. I shoo it away and laugh. No other place to go sonny? I rinse the tripod in the waters of Pangong. Now holy.

I am sad to leave. Another long, long drive back.

Closer to Leh, we stop at probably the most visited monastery in Ladakh. The Hemis monastery. We are lucky to catch the monks preparing for the festival that happens in July.

I see an Indian biker boy flirt with three firang chicks.
"You should see other monasteries too"
"Yeeess, but vee zon't know hoow zo go"
"I am going to Alchi tomorrow. We can go together" Smirk. Flutter of the eyes.
Chance pe dance. Even in a monastery.

How happy are these monks. Cheerful, teasing, polite, playful. Despite a confined life, riddled with protocol. Still happy. Like we should be.

Day 6: To Pangong Tso

2011-07-03T12:10:00.009+05:30

I had a good night's sleep. The others aren’t so lucky. Most complain of headaches and nausea. The thin mountain air has unleashed its suffering. Slowly, but surely.

We are visiting Pangong Lake today.

Khambit, apricot jam and bhurji for breakfast again. Two cups of steaming hot ginger tea. I like how the day begins, everyday.

We visit the Shey palace monastery. It has the largest gold stupa in the region. Some interesting finds.

When I come out to the car, Dawa is helping a lady set up her jewellery for sale. I compliment him on his generosity and linger by the seller’s wares. Soon my co travelers gather. Haggling begins, exchange of cash and turquoise earrings, pali bracelets, rotating bells. Dawa is chuckling happily by the side. We spend a lot but the bargains are good. I leave behind my old earring at the cart. By mistake.

We then visit Thikse monastery. Bright yellow, freshly painted.

After we leave Thikse, disaster strikes. The second car breaks down. We call for another car. While we wait, we have the yummiest mutton noodles and momos. Gulnawaz serves us. After lunch we also raid an army truck selling surplus T shirts. Us tourists are like roaches, but hey we spend the money.

It is a long six hour drive to Pangong Lake. We stop at many places in between. Random tea tents, grazing shepherds, yak chases, Mammuts. Though, I strongly insist we reach Pangong by sunset.

At around 7 PM we reach Pangong Lake. I am all excited, I dump my bags in the car, snatch my tripod and camera and run to the lake. It is all I'd dreamt of and more. The setting rays of the sun changes the lake to a lustrous Prussian blue, slowly turning black. Wild geese fly out, spreading their urgent wings over the stark blue sky. It is surreal.

Bon King rum and warm water at night. The café plays songs of 3 Idiots ad nauseam. The lights go out at 10:30. We chatter in the freezing wind. Call it a night early and curl up in the warm tent. I need to catch the sunrise tomorrow. Umm.. too ambitious?

Day 5: A long wait

2011-07-03T11:05:00.006+05:30

Today is an easy day. We are driving back to Leh from Hunder and visiting some monasteries on the way.

Snow Leopard, Hunder

The Diskit monastery is on the way, which Dawa tells us is future Buddha. It is a gigantic monument that can be viewed from the plains below. Very few tourists, so one can actually feel some peace. The monastery faces the idol; I am assuming that is how the monks then pray. Neat concept.

We stare at the mountains flanking the horizon. An elderly gentleman next to me points out the peaks that belong to Pakistan. Everyone, after all, needs their share of beauty.

We get stuck in an awful traffic jam on our way back. The road is being rebuilt ahead and vehicles queue up in a single file while the road is being cleared. It is hot and stuffy inside the car. We play Jab We Met songs. It is fun for a while. Soon I get tired and venture out to see what is happening.

An army officer is standing few vehicles away. He is older, but so distinguished and well spoken. I am smitten. I inspect his finely trimmed moustache, which I normally abhor. But on him, as he speakes, it embellishes each word like finely tuned music. He was posted in Ladakh for three years; his family was visiting him for summer. As we talk, two soldiers under his command sprint past. To clear the road ahead, they scream out as they salute. Ah, men in uniform.

It is an hour before we can resume our journey back to Leh. Dawa waves at every third driver while he drives. I ask him, do you know everyone? He says, only the ones from Tibet. He adds sadly, Tibet would be a great nation when formed. Her people are all over the place and when they come together, they would imbibe the cultures of so many lands. I hear about Tibet often here. It is like the magical land. Elysium almost. I ask Dawa how he expects Tibet to come together again. It has been over 50 years since Chinese invasion. He says, “Dalai Lama hai na, mogeeek korega” (There is Dalai Lama, he will do some magic)

At night I am too tired to go to the market to eat with the others. Seljam, our sweet little helper prepares some green dal, cabbage and rice. I request Soldja. It turns out to be scrumptious. Like salty, buttery soup. I feel sudden vitality now.

Day 4: When God mixed up

2011-07-01T22:59:00.011+05:30

Today we are going from Leh to Khardung La to Nubra Valley

The rest wake up late. The lady of the house grumbles to me, “Breakfast was supposed to be at 8 am. Indian Time. Grrumph”. She is very pretty.

Khambit, apricot Jam, scrambled egg. Not even the boys can finish a whole Khambit. It is a farmer’s breakfast.

Enroute, the celebrity in our group is ambushed by jawans. Tall, swarthy, well spoken men who surround her excitedly and request snaps.

While we climb, it is hot and stuffy. I remove my sweater. We climb round and round, scaling circuitous route. We see some cyclists rising with us and marvel at their fortitude. We squirm in our comfortable seats.

Up 17582 feet at Khardung La. And you know what? It SNOWS! Stuffy to hot to warm to so-so to cold to chilly to frozen, and snow! All in an hour. We run out chattering in our teeth and grab the white flakes. Dance around all smiles.

Hot tea is another treat we have.

We break at a café in Khardung La village. Hot maggi and stuffed parathas with pickle. Our appetites are voracious. But like every place in Ladakh, we wait for almost an hour before being served.

Dawa entertains us for rest of the way.

“Dawa, you were in the army?”

“Haan modom” (Yes, madam)

“So, what happened?”

“Kya bole modom. Hum gunn dekkhe dorr goya” (what to say madam, I was afraid of the gun). Raises his arm in mock fear.

We contemplate this. After five minutes

“Soch both bathau modom?” (Shall I tell the truth, madam?)

“Yes?”

“Hum Sikkim regiment mein tha na. Nepal mein shomon shostha hai na. Woh laya mein na. Toh ek bar pokod liya” (I was in the Sikkim regiment. I used to bring cheap goods from Nepal to Ladakh. One time they caught me)

Hmmm… a smuggler. Dawa. Our Dawa.

Nubra Valley. When we see, we gape. Really, what was God thinking? Mountains, brooks, oases, desert. You’ve got to be kidding me! All of it together? In one place?

We get down the car; droplets of rain fall on our shoulders. They stop immediately. And another treat from His magic box. Voila! A RAINBOW! We run out and point in glee. Again.

Fifteen minutes atop a double humped Bactrian camel. Dinesh yells while mine lovingly nibbles on his camel's butt. I hold on for dear life.

Sohan dishes out six double-egg spicy omelettes at the Snow Leopard guest house, Hunder. The boys discover the wonders of whisky and warm water. We gossip till late.

Day 3: Lamayuru to Leh

2011-06-30T23:12:00.008+05:30

We make it a habit of getting up late. Not my style, but when in a group, do as….

We are still at Ule. The toilets are outside, so each time I pee I fetch the torch and grope my way out. Do not forget the torch.

It gets light early. 5 AM. When I get out of the bath and tie my hair in the mirror, there are mountains, poplars, stark blue sky behind. Can you believe that?

Now let me introduce you to the one and only…wait for the trumpets….turrumpurrumparaaaaa…. DAWA. Driver, ex army, Tibet born. Who regales us with his stories, songs, anecdotes. Who berates us for being late everyday, every time. “Aree modom, bosh ko bolna podtha hai na. Feeer aap late ho joege.” (Madam, Have to report to the boss, you will be late again)

Meet Dawa

While we are clicking snaps at Ule, Dawa comes running in, gesticulating and shouting. “Shob koi chala gaya, cholo, cholo.” Deepika wonders why the owner is shooing us away. She isn’t in our car; anyway we did not know Dawa well yet. But we meekly obey his bulk.

Breakfast at 9:30. Now to Lamayuru.

Lamayuru. A much larger, spread out monastery. Bright red prayer wheels. Young monks sit hunched in sunglasses and pose cheekily. Old monks sit on the stairs in pairs, pose for photos. Once you finish, they raise their palms and grin toothless, “Baksheesh?”

We are hungry and have lunch at the Khaltsi village. Rajma chawal, egg rice. We stuff it in. I meet a man who sells liquor. A rarity in Ladakh.

Almost 5 hours from Lamayuru to Leh.

I have Thenthuk at Golden Dragon which is much too spicy. The saving grace was Godfather beer. So yum.

Day 2: Towards the Indus

2011-06-29T21:54:00.009+05:30

Close your eyes for a second and open it again. See! Miles and miles of such lovely landscape! Mountains in all colours, brown, blue, white, grey. Dotted by oases, just like shiny green pearls. Melting snow turn into sudden streams. Every corner a new marvel.

We are moving out of Leh today. Leh to Alchi to Ule. That is the plan.

We stop at the Gurudwara Pathar Sahib on our way. The impression of Guru Nanak's back on a large boulder, allegedly hurled by the demon, is the big attraction.

Then - fulfillment of a lifelong dream and steeped in much history. We stop by the confluence of the Indus and Zanskar river. Where civilization thrived many many millenniums ago. Muddy though, not blue. Just like the mountains around - arid, barren, hot, serrated.

There is a small monastery called Alchi, built by Rinchen Zangpo. I notice the chortens, mound like structure which symbolizes the oneness of life. Flowers beginning to bloom. I use my sweater as cover in the heat. The vagaries of weather in Ladakh. Days are searing, nights freeze over.

We are staying at Ule Ethnic resort, run by Overland Escape. We are so hungry when we arrive. I gorge on the pasta, strange yummy potato pancakes and cream, dal rice, suji halwa. I forget to even take pictures.

The place overlooks the mighty Indus which runs below. Mountains on one side, apricot and apple laden trees on another. As close to nature as it gets. We remark delightedly when we see stars above. So clear and dense is the sky.

At night we play Dumb Charades. Drink beer. The Indus flows by. Somewhat quiet.

Day 1: Landing in Leh

2011-06-28T21:38:00.015+05:30

My flight from Mumbai leaves at 2:25 in the morning. At first I wonder if this flies out from the international terminal. Turns out it doesn’t. Several sleepless hours later I land at Delhi, and then catch another flight to Leh. Thank God for the swanky refurbished Delhi airport and carry through luggage system.

6:30 AM the plane is circling Leh. Lo behold! Is that an airport? Tiny, tucked away amidst towering mountains? Snowy, scratchy white on top of brown barren rocks. I land all bright eyed, open mouthed. But breathe now. Breathe deep. Remember acclimatization?

I meet Raj & Rajan. Two round and jolly men. I am meeting the first two members of a completely random group of 8 people. Suddenly, the prospect doesn't seem so scary.

15 minutes to Zeejeed Palace. Look at the stream, the pines, the flowers, the garden! Picture timeeeee.

Zeejeed Palace, our homestay at Leh

I stop and remind myself several times. Are the breaths deep and bellyful? Remember acclimatization? Rest aplenty.

After a long nap till 4, I meet some of the rest of the gang. We decide to head to the market at Changspa to eat. We walk to Otsal, by the big red revolving prayer bell. Thukpa and mint tea. Is all food this good?

Otsal

We walk through the market which looks a bit overcrowded. And yes, touristy. Tibetan stalls, Janpath wares on roads. I notice two mosques – Shia and Sunni. Leh Palace. A colourful fruit market. The stream we cross in Otsal has disappeared by the time we head back.

Dinner at Otsal again. Dal, rice and rum (covert mind you). And acclimatization? Umm,. Just this once….one peg, and no harm done. Tungbos zabos (enough to eat, enough to drink)

We head back. Torches on. Dinesh warns watch out, and promptly falls flat on his face. We give a short laugh at the irony and help him up.

So dark are the roads. So still the black night.

Back, with a shot of health

2011-06-28T15:37:00.000+05:30

Bright, fresh and hearty with mountain air, I am back from Ladakh.

It was as beautiful as I’d heard. Miles and miles of spectacular landscape, green oases springing up in seemingly barren land, snow somewhere, rainbows elsewhere, smiling faces, sumptuous food.

But tourism has left its dirty mark, and to an extent so has development. Electric poles dot pristine settings, plastic bottles by virgin countryside, smoke billowing from army trucks. They can be quite the persistent put offs.

But let me start with day one…..

Ladakh: I am off!

2011-06-16T12:35:00.000+05:30

So, next time I will no longer feign ignorance of (atleast a bit) of the gorgeousness that is India.

I reach tomorrow morning at 7:45 AM. A little worried about acclimatization. Some tips here. I could not pack very light, had to carry the sweaters, mittens, socks. Tripod as well.

Such fun! Be back and let you know how it was.

Ode to the shoe

2011-06-16T10:34:00.003+05:30

White and fresh when I bought you
So much so I cringed
But not for long, the miles I walked
Grayed your edges quick
Now you wear your age with grace
Frayed with endless walks
With me on my many trips
On your last days now. Sob!

My companion, you shall be missed.

Ladakh: A whole new world

2011-06-11T23:55:00.002+05:30

So, I finally broke the news to my parents, and they seem to take it stoically. My heart is relieved, and I can start to heighten my excitement.

I am halfway through Ancient Futures, and several things strike me.

Ladakh or La dags, the Land of Mountain Passes, is a two thousand year old kingdom of Tatar herders who learnt to grow barley and few other crops like peas, turnips etc. It is divided into Hindu (Leh) and Muslim regions (Kargil). Tibetan Mahayana Buddhism is the predominant religion, and the Dalai Lama is the spiritual leader.

Ladakh is scorched by the sun in the summer, while the entire region freezes solid for eight months in winter. When temperatures drop to as low as minus forty degrees. The vast majority of Ladakhis are self supporting farmers, living in small settlements scattered in the high desert. Their grazing land is called phu. It also supports a variety of wildlife, including blue sheep, the snow leopard, and wolves. They have an animal Dzo, hybrid of Asian cattle and yak.

Salty butter tea (soldja) – what seems to be an acquired taste. Salt and butter in tea? That must be weird! Most of the barley is roasted and then ground into flour, making the ngamphe. There is the pancake shaped bread – tagi shamo, and thicker, rounder loaves – khambit that are baked over the ashes. Excess barley is made into chang – their liquor. The list to try grows longer.

Some phrases repeat often – Schon chan which means one who angers easily. Apparently, this is the worst insult you can hurl on them. And Chi choen – what is the point, which encapsulates their attitude. Apart from that the universal greeting – “Jule, karu skyodat-le” (Hello, where are you going?)

What stands out – if you’ve noticed in all pictures – the smile on their faces. They always seem happy. Smiling. At peace. It’s the Ladhaki attitude to life – and death – based on an intuitive understanding of impermanence and a consequent lack of attachment.

I have now moved on to the chapters called – Change – where Helena Norberg- Hodge expresses her ire on tourism into the region and the negative effects. The more external factors come into our lives, the more we move away from our old, peaceful, traditional ways of life. Less complicated to more.

But that is the challenge no? For us and them. To be tranquil in the face of disruption and change.

Imagine, what would have happened if there was no tourism in Ladakh? Where would all those beautiful pictures and stories come from? A gorgeous whole world, locked away. Knowledge should go hand in hand with discernment and wisdom.

Seven days remaining….

March against abuse

2011-06-10T18:56:00.002+05:30

I felt obliged to add this here - Slutwalk - read more.

I am not sure if this happened in Mumbai, I would be brave enough to participate. Given we are taught to be cowed by unwarranted male attention, keep off the male eye, ignore if pawed. Why draw attention to yourself? Why prolong the pain? Even after years of walking on the streets and abused verbally sometimes physically, we brave on. Silent.

I doubt this will ever change. But one can hope.

As one placard at a protest in England said, “Stop telling me: don’t get raped. Tell men: don’t rape”

Another day, another French place

2011-06-08T10:12:00.000+05:30

Where is the gap? We have plenty of American joints – fast food and gourmet, Italian, Thai, Chinese, and of course now French. There is so much to experiment here. I discovered Suzette – another session in French cuisine. For me.

This is small hole in the wall eatery at Atlanta Bldg, Nariman Point. I was guided to select two sweet crêpes by a very helpful, smiley lady – and chose apple and Belgian Chocolate flavours.

Verdict: The ambience is very authentic - reminded me of my few days in Paris - espresso shots and toast. Loved the apple crêpe. Need to go there again for more. Pity it is closed on Sundays.

A sunday brunch

2011-06-05T19:17:00.004+05:30

This is what it was.

Sunday afternoon. Cloudy skies. Languid rainfall. A French boulangerie.

The medley of cream, bread and grapes linger. Tartines. Sweet mango tarts.

Le Pain Quotidien on a rainy afternoon.

The monsoon brings along a lot of joy, eh?

Verdict: Rs 1000 per head (with one drink), ambience very nice, I preferred the plain vanilla breakfast options (French toast, banana and honey), and of course the desserts. Main course not so satisfactory for my Indian palate.

The call of the Buddha

2011-06-05T12:10:00.001+05:30

For my mid year holiday, I chose Ladakh. I was contemplating Japan for a while, return tickets from Mumbai are as low as 19k right now, but convincing my parents would have been an uphill task, and considering that much in my life is de novo right now, I chose the easier option. Albeit, no less expensive.

I understand Buddhism more than any other tenet. No dogmas, no crippling rules, no discrimination, just little practical advice. Thoughts on impermanence of life, interdependence of everything and the non duality of nature. Ladakh, being the seat of a thriving Buddhist population, should give me a peek into their culture. Plus, I hear it is unimaginably beautiful.

To prepare myself, I am reading Ancient Futures and The Tibetan Book of Living and Dying – each of which I must admit is not only very interesting, but infinitely calming. I cannot explain it.

The rains have arrived…

2011-06-05T12:06:00.001+05:30

As I write this, the dew soaked draft brushes the nape of my neck. I can smell newly washed earth as rain drops burrowing into the mud. Fresh, fresh, fresh, everything screams.

I sleep in my weekend afternoons, stretching in pleasure when I hear the rain lashing against my windows. Cold air envelopes me. In the warmth of my home.

Of course, mud, slush and spit will await me as I walk outside. But then, little irritants.

Pune: The tale of a queue

2011-05-09T21:27:00.002+05:30

This was my first trip to Pune. Funnily though, what I will remember most is the two hour gruelling queue to board the Shivneri bus back to Mumbai.

Mistake: Returning to Mumbai on a Sunday. Of course, everyone else was going to have the same agenda. Did I think I was the only one making use of the weekend? I reach at 5:15 PM and join the queue. It is already 2 km long. The sun is hot on my back, I start listening to music on my blackberry. This will move fast, I tell myself. I notice a fair, tall chap by the pole on the porch next to the door which leads to the ticket counter. I am standing 50 people away from him. There are families with bawling children, students, old men. The boy behind me is restless, makes recurrent noises, pushes his bag brushing my side every time we move a step forward. And that happens one-step every fifteen minutes. So, in one hour I had moved only till the porch. I peeped in to see the ticket counter. Maybe the ticket man was extra efficient. I would get my ticket in no time. It’s six o clock now.

I peep in, and there I see the tall, fair lanky chap. Who was surely a kilometer ahead of me? What was he doing by the ticket counter still? The chap behind me starts to make irritating clucking noise and I raise the level of Annie Lennox on my BB. I can be very, very patient. Just ten minutes more maybe.

But the ticket guy had stopped selling tickets. He was waiting for the next bus to come before he could resume. Meantime he was shredding some papers, making neat little rows of chits, his top three shirt buttons undone, his sweaty under shirt bunching on his paunch. Weary, tired we give him dirty looks. He does not notice, continues to cut neat rows of paper.

Then I move forward few more steps. 6:45 PM. Surely, now we will get our tickets. We have been standing here for over one and half hours. But another few buy their tickets and move out hurriedly before the ticket guy stops issuing them. He walks out to chat with his fellow men in nearby cabins. How can the buses be full already? There were just ten people ahead of me!

Another fifteen minutes pass. I read the Sunday Mid Day stacked on the table. Shift from foot to foot. People start to crack jokes on a mass bus breakdown. Smile resignedly at each other. I have half a mind to walk out. The last minutes are the most trying.

7 PM. The tickets come. I feel like rushing past to get my share. A middle aged woman comes running in, breaking the queue, begging for someone to get her a ticket. She is angrily jousted out. I try to feel pity. But again, it has been two hours. I am beyond sympathy.

Finally, 7:15 PM. I get hold of those tickets. Ah, dear Lord.

So, for almost two whole hours, I spent staring at.

Pune impressions: Afternoons hot and dusty, nights very pleasant. Very chic crowd, atleast in Koregaon Park. Auto guys try to fleece (makes you thank God for Mumbai cabbies). Apartments though are dreamy. I stayed at Magarpatta city. Lots of coffee and cakes.

India shines bright

2011-04-04T11:22:00.001+05:30

Let me confess in the beginning that I am no cricket fan. I used to be, before the betting scandals broke out. Yet, the World Cup fever is hard to shrug off. It started with the India Pakistan match, and of course ended with the spectacular finals yesterday, which India won.

More than the match itself, the post match fervour was overwhelming.

Our gang was out on the street, in cars. Close to 1 AM at night and the streets were crawling with flag totting teenagers, girls with tri colour on their shirts, screeching out of their car windows, aunties out and dancing, uncles patting and hugging anyone in sight. Drivers couldn’t have been more polite, grinning randomly and high fiving neighbours.

Just one World Cup. And the whole country up in a bubble of euphoria. India. Indiaaaaa

It felt like an extended one month long crazy festival, with heated conversations, endless bets, tri colour in every street, feast in every home.

Next stop IPL. Still, not the same

Descending into Inferno

2011-02-12T19:06:00.001+05:30

As the credits rolled, an avalanche of emotions swept over me. Sorrow, thrill, dread, pity. It was Incredible.

To start with, Nina is a demure little being, ruled by her obsessive mom, her debilitating inhibitions, her control. Always that, control, perfection. Never letting go.

Then her attempt to fight her monsters. At first feeble, growing into something stronger and more evil. Where is my sweet little girl? She is gone; now there's someone else.

The Black Swan enters, sweeps over the world, takes charge. Round and round, pirouette after pirouette. The tension wraps around the fluffy gray bodice.

That music blends into a crescendo. Gosh, it builds and builds as it overpowers you. The White Swan then bids her adieu. Oh! what a way to go. The lights shining into my eyes as the world applauds. The grand exit.

Natalie Portman. Take a bow.

End of the Millennium

2011-02-08T19:48:00.003+05:30

By Spanish illustrator Fernando de Vicente

The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, The Girl Who Played with Fire, The Girl Who Kicked the Hornets' Nest. All done. Finito.

I cannot explain my fascination with Lisbeth Salander. I think it’s the fact that she looks frail but kicks ass, takes up cudgels for the wronged and is emotionally aloof - all of which I wish I could do. A female with male attributes, mulier fortis.

All three books, I recall, I finished end to end without a break. Stieg Larsson builds up the tension. I read about him a bit. He was a Swedish journalist and the three books were published posthumously.

But it made me wonder sadly, that even in a country like Sweden, which is considered to be one of the safest for women; there are so many crimes against them.

Some quotes,

"There are no innocents. There are, however, different degrees of responsibility."

"Don’t ever fight with Lisbeth Salander. Her attitude towards the rest of the world is that if someone threatens her with a gun, she’ll get a bigger gun."

"Normally seven minutes of another person's company was enough to give her a headache so she set things up to live as a recluse. She was perfectly content as long as people left her in peace. Unfortunately society was not very smart or understanding." (That's me)

"I've had many enemies over the years. If there is one thing I've learned, it's never engage in a fight you're sure to lose. On the other hand, never let anyone who has insulted you get away with it. Bide you're time and strike back when you're in a position of strength - even if you no longer need to strike back."

I do wish that Mikael Blomkvist could have gotten together with Lisbeth, though that would have become too filmy. But then, who doesn’t like a happy ending?

Some books, some movies

2011-01-30T17:17:00.003+05:30

The Sicilian. Orchards of lemon and olive trees, jugs of wine, bowls of spaghetti. Good looking bandits, treacherous dons. No tale more intriguing.

Turi Guiliano. I just checked. He is a real person! Not a figment of Puzo's imagination. Dashing, 20th century Robin Hood. Stuff legends are made of. And, did I mention good looking?

Sicilians. How Mario Puzo brings the whole countryside alive. A treacherous lot, but you can’t help but feel some tenderness for them. Note this.

‘The Sicilians had voted to be given a piece of land for themselves and their families, not for a political party. They could not conceive of any greater joy in life; to work their own land, to keep what they produced by the sweat of their brow, for themselves and their children. Their dream of heaven was a few acres of grain, a vegetable garden terraced on a mountainside, a tiny vineyard of grapes, a lemon tree and an olive tree.’

Was it a sweet coincidence then that I re watched Godfather 2 and 3 this week? I’d fallen in love with Michael Corleone the last time I watched the trilogy, but this time it was Vincent Mancini. Andy Garcia’s lethal charm. Who can resist this pretty face?

Dhobi Ghat. A tale of circular obsession. Aamir with Yasmeen, Shaina with Aamir, Munna with Shaina. Tightly edited and music so haunting. Treat for lovers of Mumbai. Then, what was not to like?

127 Hours. I admit, I was analyzing the ceiling when he was severing his arm, but the desperation was palpable. Another hour and half well spent. Destiny, you gotta believe it.

But seriously, what will it take for teenage girls to shut up in a movie hall and not ask after every dramatic scene, "What is he doing?" Aarrghh.

Bali: What remains

2011-01-29T19:23:00.003+05:30

Legs ready to dance at the slightest hint of music. My dance string has been yanked after a decade of hibernation. Thanks Kuta!

Lamentations, oh how good were those days, while the boss gives me that glare and more work.

Some gradually depleting odds and ends.

First, Arak. Bitter, strong and queasy morning after.

Second, hand made delicious smelling soaps. Sweet odour on my clothes where they lie till used.

Third, grand masks that stare.

Fourth, Asian horror that scares. The ones I really liked till now – Alone, Memory and Death Bell. Much better than the horror Hollywood makes. Some of the movies though have subtitles which get cut off by the side. I struggled for hours to get it right, but then how much did I need to comprehend in horror flicks anyway? School girl ghouls, murderous enchantress, gleaming knives, spouting blood – it’s all there. Right up my alley.

And of course, some lovely art work.

Mostly, fond memories.

Kuala Lumpur: Twelve hours in a city

2011-01-22T19:57:00.005+05:30

If you are a woman, it’s a no brainer. You shop. Considering the shopaholics I was traveling with, that’s what we did mostly.

But admittedly, the place rocks for thrifty high quality shopping. I splurged in Sungei Wang Plaza for clothes, bags including a gorgeous Miu Miu fake for 70 RM and a brand new Blackberry Bold 9700 for 1200 RM. All in under 2 hours.

Berjaya square was another revelation – the mere scale and number of obscure brands overwhelming. We spent another few hours here.

And we had some really funny moments with cab drivers in the city. One was from the airport to a friend’s place we were staying for the night.

We got in. It was freezing cold inside. Rick says,

“Could you lower the AC a bit? It’s freezing”

Cabbie, “Do you want to kill me? I am wearing a suit”

Alright, it was midnight and I was irritated. And that was rude.

“Do YOU want to kill us?”

No response. AC remained at freezing levels.

After fifteen minutes of cruising through dark winding roads, suddenly cops wave him down. He pleads with them for ten minutes and then gets out. We discreetly turn down the AC and the horrible music he was playing.

Fifteen minutes pass, then half an hour.

The group of cops and cabbie argue. Sometimes the cops look at us suspiciously, then back at him. After about 40 minutes of being stranded on an empty highway dead of night, the driver pays them some money, gives them some papers and saunters back in.

Before he opens the door, Rick hurriedly turns the AC back up and the music.

“What was all that about?” I ask.

“Speeding” He says nonchalantly.

“But you were within limits”, Rick says.

“Over 90 is speeding” He says. And soon after he starts the cab, zooms to 120 and speeds off. I roll my eyes at Rich. We couldn’t wait to get off.

Another bad incident was landing up at Hotel Sabrina. For 100 RM a night, the place was a seedy and what looked like a pick up joint. Although, it was right in middle of Bukit Bintang, we gagged when we saw the rooms. Reminds me to never agree to a hotel without reading atleast one review.

What I remember most fondly was Petronas Towers. Every bit regal as in the pictures. Dazzling.

Well, this is now the end. One of my longest, and also most memorable trips with friends.

And again, Happy new year!

In the end, Bali

2011-01-19T22:39:00.004+05:30

We liked almost every place we stayed.

Balam Bali Villa. A cliché, but it turned out to be home away from home. We got away with a lot of latitude and freebies. Banana vodka cocktails at night with fancy wooden straws, endless round of ginger & sariwangi tea, Bali coffee. Adi, the manager also changed the dressing for Roe’s bleeding knees. Finally, for four days we ran up a bill of only around $200/head. If serenity amidst lush paddy fields is your thing, stay here.

I had to shut the girls later who kept moaning, "I miss Balam, miss Balam"

Villa Sayang. Cute little boutique hotel. Chatty and helpful Rosa. She was kind enough to give away some of the stacked Indonesian horror CDs I fancied. Lombok though is sleepy.

The open shower which we loved.

Dream Drivers. Basic. Disliked the open loo. Really, what does a door cost? Scallywags may have been a better choice

Niche Hotel. Right there. In the midst of the Kuta madness. Shops at one end. Bars and lounges at the other. Tanaya Bed and Breakfast also looked interesting. Some distance away from Bali memorial. Although, we never saw it.

Shops for crafts are aplenty. You will be spoilt for choice. Masks, dolls, artwork, sculptures, antiques, silver. For random clothes – there is Body and Soul which my friends devoured.

We had one of our most lavish meals at Nomad in Ubud. Scallywags and in Gilli. Kopi pot in Legian. I would have liked to eat in Ku De Ta. It looked interesting. Expensive though. Load in lots of fish.

Sky Garden. We loved most at Kuta. Just for its sheer space and pulsating music.

Bali mixes it up totally – art, culture, slutting, eating, shopping, and chilling.

You will be surprised.

Bali: Random notes….

2011-01-19T22:08:00.006+05:30

Selamat Datang.

Every morning pancakes and coffee. Ever afternoon fish.

It’s interesting about the the night butterflies. You may write them off as ladies of the night, but some of them, I hear manage to make lucrative marriages. Enough to own some land and property, rear multi racial children and if lucky, your husband could settle down in Bali forever.

There are four names in Bali that are oft repeated. The firstborn is "Wokalayan" (or Yan), second is "Made," third is "Nyoman" or Komang (Man or Mang), and fourth is "Ketut" (Tut). Adi is another name we encountered. Apparently, many Indonesians have just one name.

Bali is big. If you are travelling alone and intend to explore, you may need a bike/car. Most locals travel in bikes, and petrol is sold in bottles along the street. Funny. The same bottles will pass for olive oil in Turkey. (Too random a thought)

Indonesian horror is seemingly popular world over; I picked up a few CDs.

Good places to shop in Bali. Monkey Forest Road, Ubud. Celuk for silver, Kerobokan for sculpture, Seminyak for High Street, Poppies Lane in Kuta for anything. Avoid Sukawati, Sanur. Bargain till you are ready to faint.

Chill Gilli

2011-01-17T14:15:00.007+05:30

The first real beach I saw in Indonesia. That 3 km street has so much packed in; libraries, boutiques, lounges, cute surfers. You can just sit in one of the beach shacks, beer in one hand and watch the world cycle past.

Time just stops. One of my favourite places in Indonesia (minus the cat calls)

Wanted to try the magic mushrooms. If only I wasn’t already nursing a hangover.

Bali: A near miss

2011-01-16T21:39:00.003+05:30

Our most gripping moment was the almost missed Merpati Flight. From Lombok to Bali. Mataram to Denpasar.

Here is what happened.

You know how our whole schedule got messed up because of the visa issue. Well, our earlier booked Lion Air flights went null and void. We decided to try our luck directly at the airport instead. And, being the busy season it was, all flights were booked. BOOKED!

So, we stand there with puppy faces, staring with pleading eyes at counter window, after counter window. Should we instead go to the port and get on a fast ferry to Padang Bai? More time and money spent. Then suddenly, our angel of the day beckons to me.

“I will give you tickets”

Silent Yippee

“This paper not ticket. On standby. You pay if you get ticket”

Scratching heads. What was that?

“You wait. See if ticket free. Then on flight”

So, we just enter with bag and baggage and no ticket? With our ‘Stand by’ print out, quaking in our shoes, we approached the ticket counter.

The ticket lady looks at us first, the print out next and us again.

“This is not a ticket”

“But that man outside gave it to us”

Our angel for the day comes running towards us

‘Our agreement. You wait, Ticket if free. You come and pay me’

Ten minutes for the flight to take off. The ticket lady comes running. Our second angel of the day.

“Pay 417,000 IDR. Check in your luggage. You got in”

After that, with our second angel’s help, we rushed through baggage check, airport tax, security check. The works. All under five minutes.

And guess what? We got Padang ermm.. food we totally devoured. Before the flight had even taken off.

Bali Boys

2011-01-16T20:48:00.001+05:30

These are not the local gigolos or ladyboys. Yes, there are plenty of those.

But I refer to the scores of Australian kids – on vacation, in Bali to surf, dive and try their bright luck with women. They are the Kuta nightlife. Boy, did we feel flattered with their attention!

Oi mate!

Bits of Bali

2011-01-16T13:12:00.003+05:30

Canang Sari: Ceremonial early morning offerings.

Terraced Paddy fields.

Penjor Poles: Bamboo poles, tips hung with floral decorations erected a day before Galungan Festival.

Fresh pineapple and banana pancakes

The good life

Bali, Lombok: Little treats

2011-01-15T20:22:00.002+05:30

If you are not trekking the Rinjani in Lombok, there is precious little else to do. And the Rinjani trek is closed during monsoon months. Jan – March.

We soft trekked to the Senaru Waterfalls instead. Which was an acceptable alternative given the benefits. The waterfall of Tiu Kelep makes you one year younger.

K-Dot (fancy!) was our local guide. 100,000 IDR for the trek. He was a local Sasak, 26 years old, guide for ten years, never been out of Lombok. Also, my quick guide to native life.

Another day. Another treat.

Two hours at Spa Bali, Kuta, made us purrrr... with pleasure. Massage, body scrub and flower bath.

“Do you like it miss?”

“Very much, very much. Mmmmm”

I am many years younger.

Bali: Art Attack

2011-01-15T19:41:00.006+05:30

Monkey Forest Road – you gotta love the crafts, cute cafés and little houses.

Temples. Taman Ayun at Mengwi. Beautiful garden of love.

Pura Meru, the largest temple in Lombok. Three mounts which represent the three great mountains, Rinjani, Agung and Bromo. Where the old attendant insisted on putting a frangipani in my hair.

Shopping for crafts is fun, the haggling tiring. There is a “Sunset price”, a “rainfall price”, a “first sale price”. Aggressive nodding, pretense to walk out, arms outstretched - Alright, just give it to me now. I like it that much. But with a nagging doubt – would he have lowered it some more?

At the Banyumulek pottery village, we had a kid attack. All muttering with outstretched hands -

“One thousand please?”

Mimicking what we did, giggling and pointing.

Bali: Let me tell you a story

2011-01-15T19:26:00.003+05:30

The ballet of Bimaniu.

An attendant recounts the story of Bimaniu (Abhimanyu), son of Arjuna. He is searching for a princess name Siti Sunari. He meets her and falls in love with her. She resists him for a while. Eventually, she falls in love with him.

Suddenly, the romance is shattered by prince Sateaki, an officer of the palace guard. He blazes in anger and attacks Bimaniu. But he realizes that Bimaniu is related to him. He advises Bimaniu to flee along with Siti Sunari.

Kalika, chief of witches finds the couples sleeping on a graveyard hut. She tries to devour Bimaniu, failing which she asks helps from Durga, Goddess of death. Due to Bimaniu’s magical powers, even Durga’s attack is in vain. Finally, Goddess Durga listens as Bimaniu reveals himself as from the Pandawa lineage.

Goddess Durga wants proof and asks Bimaniu to dance. After the dance, Durga acknowledges his great lineage and shows him the way out to Suralaya.

Breathtakingly beautiful was the Legong dance at Ubud. Enthralling, with those fluttering eyes, hip sway, finger twirls.

Bali, Lombok: Slobbering all over

2011-01-15T17:06:00.005+05:30

Bollywood. Our single most potent export. Only second comes the techie.

That morning in Gili, I was afraid to move out. Along that one road, all you could hear was

“Kuchi Kuchi hotha hai”

“Kareena, Kajol, Rani”

“Anjali, Anjali”

“I am Shah Rukh Khan, You are my Kajol”

It was fun in the start. After a while, irritating. And this was happening all over Bali. One more time you say, Kuchi Kuchi hotha hai, I swear I shall clobber you to death.

Although, Papaya Cafe was fun. We were sitting in a corner, chattering away excitedly, warding off unwanted local attention, when the band set off

“Humko hamein se churalo” (Mohabbatein). Just for us.

Karaoke through the night.

Kuta, Bali: Throbs all night

2011-01-15T16:37:00.005+05:30

What a place was Kuta!

Despite staying in Mengwi, two hours away from mainstream Kuta, nothing could dissuade us from partying there. 31st and 1st.

New Year’s Eve. It started badly.

First, Roe got this bad sea food allergy. Her eyes popped out, face puffed up. We stuffed her with medicines and let her sleep. When we were dressed up and ready to leave, we pulled her along, but she was never really totally OK.

That was not all. It started to rain and since Kuta roads get really cramped around New Years Eve, we had to walk. Walk, walk, walk, asking the way all along. We walked for atleast an hour, through rain, slush and bikers soliciting rides.

Club Double 6. We arrived fifteen minutes to twelve. Grabbed our beer and hugged each other when they screamed.

“It’s 2011!”

It wasn’t so bad after that. We danced and danced. Till it was five. Too tired then to move any more.

“Mengwi!!?? Very far, very far!” Nabbed a cab after negotiating a $20 fare.

Then we saw the dawn break through the paddy fields. Nodding our drunk heads, opening eyes a crack.

The ache was probably worth it.

Bali: We were there

2011-01-14T20:37:00.004+05:30

So we did make it to Bali finally.

We left on 29th Dec instead of the 24th. I braved all the giggly newly weds around me in the flight to KL. Several in-flight Nasi Lemaks, Nasi Gorengs later, we were there!

To begin with, we were staying at Mengwi, which was close to atleast 2 hours away from where we wanted to do really – party (Kuta/Legian) and shopping (Seminyak). Slight misjudgment there, since serenity among paddy fields was not what we had gone there for.

But mostly we made it work. Tales follow.

When things can go wrong

2010-12-28T15:37:00.003+05:30

They will....

Rick called up just as she was to board the flight.

“There has been a disaster!”

“What?”

“We are not being allowed on board. We need a visa to change flights in Kuala Lumpur”

“Oh, that can’t be true, it is a transit flight”

“I don’t know what is happening. They say we need a visa to enter and exit the low cost terminal”

“That is not possible; it’s just for a few hours. We will not get out of the airport”

“I know, I know. We have been telling them. But they are not allowing us. THEY ARE NOT LETTING US BOARD.”

That was Friday, the 24th of Dec at 4 PM. 5 hours to board my Air Asia flight to Bali via KL.

The next 4 hours was a marathon of phone calls to and fro - checking options to change flights, reschedule to get a Malaysian visa, change travel itinerary to start on 29th Dec.

We rescheduled the whole trip.

The big question was how soon we could manage a Malaysian visa. Because everything, everything depended on that.

I found out in Mumbai I could get a visa in 2 days through VFS. My friend would have to go to Chennai (from Bangalore) to get their visa.

And here too another blow. Chennai’s Malaysian consulate was closed on Monday. We had only Tuesday to get a visa. Just one day.

The whole trip hinged on that.

And another blow. Train tickets to Chennai were booked. So, was Tatkal. The girls decided to brave the bus with blankets at ‘sub zero’ temperature as they say. Anything for New Year’s at Bali.

We practiced stories.

“Tell them it’s your marriage”

“Sure, and I made this colossal mistake and travel by a low cost flight”

“Say your sister is pregnant”

“What about Su, Whose sister will she become?”

“It is your best friend’s wedding and you two are the bridesmaid”

We’ve heard conflicting experiences from applicants to Chennai’s Malaysian Consulate. Most said visas are given in 2-3 days only; no way were we getting visas in a day (heart palpitations, prayers start). Some claim it is possible if you plead in person. Plead they did.

Tuesday morning. I sit with worry and clenched fist at work. Richa calls up. And in the past couple of days whenever she has called, it has been some bad news.

“One minute back we were ready to call off the whole thing.”

“So what, tell me fast?”

“We’ve made it. They accepted our visa application”

“Yippeee, what did you guys do?”

“We leaned over the little window, cried, wept and entreated, sir please give it to us on humanitarian grounds, and he says, so the rest are animals or what? That is not what we meant sir. Sir, sir. Sir, groveling on and on. He finally says alright, just submit and scoot.”

Will we ever forget this trip (of course, if we ever make it)?

For your info: Air Asia is a point to point flight. You will need a visa if you land in a country which provides no visa on arrival, even if it just few hours within the airport. The same is not the case with full fare airlines like Malaysian Airlines which may provide transit facilities.

Top Ten 2010

2010-12-23T16:49:00.000+05:30

I was a later entrant to facebook, but it has been an integral part since. These are my top status messages for 2010. Notice shades of melancholy.

Bali: Prelude

2010-12-21T17:42:00.002+05:30

Not without hiccups. My holiday approval mail is missing; co-travelers are shuttling between cities for work, phone conks off, yet to take out forex…

Some concerns come up. Rinjani trekking can be hazardous. Apparently, trekkers slip often (shivers). Though I think our version is the safest and easiest. Is it cold out there? Driving a car is cumbersome, withdrawing money is fraud prone. Don’t forget the famous bombings in 2002 and 2005. (Don’t tell my mom).

But the excitement simmers. I hear one can buy dresses for Rs 300. There is Gamelan music I want to hear, wood carving to see, silver jewellery, temples, people. Of course, beaches to dip my toes in. Parties to rock.

Something interesting I read: Kaja and kelod are the Balinese equivalents of North and South, which refer to ones orientation between the island’s largest mountain Gunung Agung (kaja), and the sea (kelod). Kaja and kelod have the connotation of good and evil; gods and ancestors are believed to live on the mountain whereas demons live in the sea. Buildings such as temples and residential homes are spatially oriented by having the most sacred spaces closest to the mountain and the unclean places nearest to the sea.

I like the sea. I don’t like the allusion.

The other daughter

2010-12-18T22:16:00.002+05:30

Let me finish this before I leave For Bali. After that, for a month I will suffer from a travel hangover. Naturally, incapacitated.

While I was reading Songs of Blood and Sword (SoBaS), I was a bit turned off by (what I perceived) as a one sided account of Pakistan’s immediate history. Daughter of the East is the other side. So together, I am hoping to piece together the truth.

Contrary to the feeling I got in SoBaS, Benazir claims her father, Zulfikar Bhutto took her under his wings and implies that she was heir apparent more than anyone else. Mostly, she talks of every family member with affection (atleast till half of the book), and recounts much of her early life with charming (often unbelievable) naiveté.

Members of the Butto family, according to both books, are no less than demi Gods. Some of them are flawless and perfect (Zulfikar by both, Mir according to Fatima, Benazir & Asif Zardari according to Benazir), some others villains with nothing to redeem themselves. Tad myopic.

In the preface, Benazir goes on and on about how she functioned so efficiently when she was thrice pregnant – quite an overkill. There is a lot of feminist talk, but that is to be expected, what with her making it in a strongly patriarchic society. But her language and style are intriguing. The three wars with India, the Bangladesh carnage in 1971 (My parents emigrated just before); the Shimla accord, her father’s incarceration and subsequent death have been sensitively touched upon.

It is surprising that two countries split in the same year – 1947 – One has done reasonably well for herself with stable governments and steady development, the other almost declared a rogue state with years of coups and military rule. It’s weird isn’t it, how some make it and others don’t.

Or maybe I am biased too.

To mourn, so long

2010-12-17T20:04:00.003+05:30

I am reading Daughter of the East and its spooky how I came upon the page on Muharram right today, when it actually is.

So this is what the book says, “During Muharram, the month commemorating the massacre of the Prophet’s grandson Imam Hussein at Karbala in Iraq, I would sometimes dress all in black and go with my mother to join other women in the Shiite rituals. ‘Follow closely’. Mummy would say to me, for the Shiite ceremonies were more elaborate than those of the Sunnis. I never took my eyes off the speaker who dramatically recaptured the tragedy that befell Imam Hussein and his small band of followers at Karbala, where they were ambushed and brutally slaughtered by the troops of the usurper Yazid. …”

So far back, yet still remembered.

On a separate note, we thought it would be a dry day. Luckily it wasn’t.

Sifting through memories

2010-12-13T23:06:00.001+05:30

I took this at Eyüp Sultan - Istanbul. Sometimes, I am that child...

Happy Birthday!

2010-12-11T18:35:00.003+05:30

A movie, shopping, double cheese burst pizza...Little things to make a day special.

Bali Ahoy: Prelude

2010-12-08T17:16:00.002+05:30

In keeping with celebrating at ‘happening’ locations (last time), this New Year's eve I am going to be in Bali. Yeah! Bali - island of fun and parties.

Four of us – all footloose women, are (atleast on record) planning to party hard, and to let all loose (some claim, literally!). Bali and Lombok are on the radar.

Keeping aside the fun and frolic, planning for the trip was getting harrowing. Reasons

1 – Undecipherable local English

2 – No credit cards accepted for bookings (Indonesia is one of the most fraud prone countries)

3 – Most tour offices close by 3 PM IST

The tickets from India were purchased in the Air Asia sale in March. So, my Mum-KL-Mum costs just over 10k. But the connecting flights though aplenty, were not cheap and wait timings long. Still, I like to think, we got it cheap. Our flights go like this

Mum-KL-Mum: Rs 10k (AirAsia)

KL-Bali-KL: Rs 10k (AirAsia)

Bali-Lombok-Bali: Rs 3k (book Lionair via Paypal using travelindo)

Here’s where we are staying (pretty no? pretty no?)

Balam Bali Villa

Villa Lombok

Now, that we have flights and accommodation under control, its time to read up on it. Bali Ahoy!

Just

2010-12-05T19:25:00.003+05:30

A Sunday afternoon nap is a nasty habit I indulge in, and look forward to. The best part is cracking open a groggy eye mid afternoon, the sun streaming in. Plus some more hours till evening tea.

Tumhari Amrita

2010-12-04T23:20:00.004+05:30

I laughed and I cried. It was the best kind of play.

It was so crowded to begin with, houseful as always. We did manage to edge through and sit on good seats. Two chairs, some pages on top, and a glass of water. All what the actors needed.

Shabana Azmi and Farooq Shiekh (who I love). I remember watching the English version of the play and being unmoved. I think it was the language (Hindusthani, some Urdu) and the beautiful script (Javed Siddiqui). The innocent mirth, the depth of their relation which was palpably real. Only through letters.

She says it was important to be a mother – because only then you realized real pain. He says she was like a turbulent river – which crashed against its own banks and led to its destruction. Happy and sad. Sad and happy.

I have often wondered if women are emotionally stronger than men, as often claimed. But I doubt it.

Bloody messy

2010-11-28T19:10:00.001+05:30

This is a book I am finding hard to like – despite the fact that, it’s about Pakistan and the Bhutto family; most of my young life I have heard, read and seen them in action. But Fatima Bhutto makes her father, Murtaza Bhutto sound like a martyr. And Benazir like the very devil.

This is politics after all. No one is clean.

Murtaza in London, Kabul, Libya, (how did he get all that money), dallying with a model in Greece, marrying a local in Kabul (and bearing Fatima), hardly someone seriously looking at avenging his father’s death. His father obviously considered him heir apparent, and he takes his role seriously for most part. But whether he was capable, I am yet to fathom.

“There was friction between Mir and her. He loved her, he stepped aside for her. He said to us once, “She wants to be the political heir, so OK, I’ll move aside.” But wait, wasn’t she the oldest child – and thus heir apparent anyway? Wasn’t she the one who stayed in Pakistan, while the brothers moved to London, Libya, Kabul, France?

Benazir was obviously no saint either, but the whole family is messed up. Everyone assassinated. Politics, power, tragedy ruining generations.

The insight into Pakistani politics and history, a dynasty much like the Nehru-Gandhi one is intriguing. And the picture below, I liked the best.

Young, fresh, still together. Still the good times…

The birthday months

2010-11-23T18:19:00.002+05:30

It’s funny how most of my friends have their birthday in the last 3 months of the year, the numbers increasing as the year closes. Is it true for most of the world?

Today is Ginny’s birthday. We went to Pali Village Café to bring it on – partly because we read good reviews, but mostly because of Ginny’s yearning for celebrity spotting. It was Monday night, well who would we spot anyway?

Right next to Janata bar (easy to ask directions for), it has an unimpressive façade – we almost missed it. But the cosy bungalow ambience grows on you, as does the Caribbean music (was it?). Food we thought was good but so overpriced, pizza by the slice, not so filling. Mostly for drinks and snacks, a tradeoff between the stomach and the wallet.

So many more birthdays to come. Such fun!

Well spent

2010-11-21T00:48:00.000+05:30

The canvas is multi hued this time. Not just blue. Bittersweet, it does make you value life more and laugh a little, even if it’s only till the exit, or maybe till Sunday evening. Guzarish is nice.

The script is tight, humour funny, Hrithik is incredible, Aishwarya acts a bit and looks very pretty (though I do wish she would get rid of the dancy way she walks, does the sheets and everything else). The clothes seem little too Victorian and out of place. But SLB cares mostly about how his canvas looks. To hell with the details.

But I admit, more than the movie I enjoyed visiting Galaxy (Bandra) – back to the days of a single screen theater – with illicitly bought tickets, crayoned ‘house full’ boards, popcorn and tea for Rs 10, crowds which hoot and clap mid way, stench and smoke, rattling wall fans….tickets at Rs 75.

Worth every penny and more.

WTF!

2010-11-20T17:39:00.007+05:30

It must be quite tough to think of new ideas for restaurants in large cities – where every nook and corner sprouts an eating hole, and almost all ideas have been tried and tested. WTF does it a bit differently in terms of its look. Its kitsch I like, charpoi, stools, chairs – the furniture and posters are nice. Specially, the loo with flush art. Interesting stuff you can stare at when you munch at their limited though peculiar fare – we toggled between Lisa’s Srilankan and Jesse's Kerala beef for a while but finally played safe - settled for some mini burgers and mutton sandwiches instead. They were good. Service is tardy.

Wtf! comes from the same owners that run Seijo and the soul dish, Pot Pourri and Lemon Grass Café – and since I have been to all – an eye for décor is what they have a plenty. And penchant for choosing bizarre names.

I tried clicking some across the Bandra Worli sealink; its so hard to click in a moving car – but liked this one.

Coffee and Gossip

2010-11-12T13:42:00.001+05:30

You know, how we are always looking for the perfect Coffee Shop – comfortable, cosy, close by, and of course nice coffee. Bespoke is not perfect, (it’s in a mall!) but it’s comfortable and quiet.

What I like most: The sofas are king size and cosy, the place is mostly empty because it’s so hard to miss, not too expensive

What can do better: The food is good – but very limited in choice, shuts by 9

Coffee and gossip - two of my favourite passtimes

Turning thirty

2010-11-08T10:48:00.005+05:30

My 30th birthday was the usual. Bitter sweet – I had been told it was a landmark event, and I tried to make a whole big deal out of it. Nothing else changed except the age bracket.

But when one of my best friends turned thirty yesterday, I tried to write her a mushy mail. I meant to write why turning thirty is a good thing. I sat thinking, why is it good? Is there anything good at all?

As I sat pondering, the flash of wisdom which did not come on my thirtieth birthday came to me – and here is what I wrote.

“This is usually a watershed event - turning 30. And usually we would have wanted to become or do lots of things by this time.

Frankly, for me - I think I am happier now compared to what I was before I turned 30. I haven't achieved anything I had set out for, but the unknown no longer worries me. What will happen, will happen.

I think we were just wrong to set goals in the first place. After 30, you will enjoy life the way it is supposed to be. Just be."

One time when I was staying in Mitali Aunty’s house as PG, I was going out for a walk – and uncle asked me what I wanted to do by the time I was thirty. I should have said – start a company, have two kids, something as lofty as all that. But I said instead,

“I want as much experience as I can pack in”.

I haven’t been disappointed. Be careful what you ask for.

Happy Diwali

2010-11-05T18:37:00.000+05:30

Delights

2010-11-03T21:57:00.003+05:30

How can you not feel on top of the world?

When on either side as you walk, lights sparkle - red, blue, green. They go twinkle, twinkle. Now blue, now red, now green.

Everyday I get a box of chocolates, from client, company, friend – they are mint flavoured, cashew crusted, crisp cookies.

I clean a part of my house everyday – bring out the candles, coloured glasses, streamers.

Some vignettes of my Diwali.

They've begun stringing the flowers now.

I miss being with family though.

Good Earth

2010-10-30T17:46:00.001+05:30

Another favourite and oft visited eatery - Good Earth. It doubles as a fancy food place and home decor address - the latter specially a treat when in need of visual therapy. Love, love.

Although, it is getting harder and harder to find company for things I want to do. I wish it were not so hard.

Its begun

2010-10-30T17:37:00.000+05:30

Diwali - the colour of lights. Find me a better festival.

Candy Colours

2010-10-23T20:07:00.002+05:30

Candies is probably my most loved and thus frequented brunch place in Bombay. It has the best salad which we absolutely gorge on. Legs splayed, sitting on lovely antique furniture, gazing at the sky and sometimes at the pretty young things that saunter in. They are usually nice afternoons.

Today was a ‘Bazaar and Bling’ day. One of those expensive flea markets with young designers strutting their stuff. We enjoyed. The wares were quite eclectic.

After that we walked into the QueerInk book fair (By mistake, I have to admit). Something else to feel good about. We have come a long way.

Today, I visited four fairs in all - Bazaar and Bling at Candies, QueerInk, Property Fair at BKC, Times Interiors next to it.

Legs ache, but the heart sings.

Puja at Mumbai

2010-10-17T12:26:00.002+05:30

Well, Durga Puja at Mumbai can hardly hold a torch to how it is done in Kolkata – but one has to make do. So, I visited the one at Shivaji Park and another at Santa Cruz (Rani Mukherjee Puja). In terms of celebrity sighting and performances though, Mumbai wins hands down.

October - December are my favorite months. Lights, food and so much festivity.

Conversations

2010-10-16T10:52:00.002+05:30

That was the day I took a trip to Versova, albeit reluctantly.

The auto driver had a languorous look about him. It made me instantly wary. But what happened in the next 30 minutes would change all that.

Conversation in Hindi translated.

“Are you from UP?”

I hate it when auto drivers involve you in conversation. That means either there is something wrong with the meter and he doesn’t want you to notice, or he has something more sinister in mind – trying to get too friendly.

“No, but I’m from Bihar”

I don’t know why I said that. I did stay in the erstwhile Bihar (Jharkhand) for a while, but hardly qualifies me to be a Bihari.

But that opened the faucets.

“Oh, you’re Hindi sounded like you’re from UP. It gives us great pleasure to meet someone doing well and from UP, Bihar. What is your job?”

I was warming up a bit. He wasn’t scary as yet.

“Stock markets” I guessed he could understand this better.

“Accha hai. So, how long does it take to learn about the stock market? I hear there is a lot of money there?”

“There is, but one has to have a lot of capital and a lot of sense.” And then I launched into a ten minute short tutorial, which I have in the past subjected my parents to, ignoring their obvious disinterest.

“So, who are the people who are most involved in the stock market? The Marwaris, Guajarati, Sindhis no?”

“Yes, mostly”

“They are very rich. Baap, dada ka paisa. I have been a auto driver for 20 years now. This Raj Thackeray keeps threatening us – but we only work for a living. Although, it gives great pleasure to see people from our regions doing so well”

Silence. Was he taking me through a circuitous route? A quick phone call to ensure it wasn’t so.

“I just gave 1 lakh to educate my daughter in a college in Bangalore. Padh likh jayegi toh thoda paisa bhi kama legi.”

I nodded silently. It must’ve been hard.

Silence. And some pondering.

“Lekin yehi lagta hai, work well and honestly, for a good night’s sleep and a happy life. At the end of life, that’s what counts”

Well, touché to that.

And yes, I reached safely.

My new camera

2010-10-08T18:34:00.000+05:30

I have a new camera. Canon Powershot G11. Some experimental first take snaps from it.

View from my window. One of those 2 BHK flats cost Rs 4 cr onwards.

My experiments with food.

This time Kolkata

2010-09-28T20:29:00.000+05:30

Pre Puja is not so much fun. There are hordes of shoppers in cabs and we were stuck on the roads for most part of the day. It’s sticky, crowded and chaotic.

I also yearn. I wish I could stay for the Pujas. For the music, the food, the festivities.

But the sporadic, torrential rains were divine.

Fifth generation kitty at my Granny’s place.

Festive Saturday

2010-09-12T22:36:00.000+05:30

3 festivals on Saturday - Eid, Ganesh Chaturthi, Mt Mary's Feast. And empty roads. Love.

The goriest ever

2010-08-15T21:55:00.004+05:30

Well, it takes a lot to gross me out usually. Those horror movies do nothing. But recently, I discovered a few. Antichrist. Hostel. Irreversible turned out to be another. The sequence in the tunnel was unbearable.Why would someone etch out a scene like that so long, so painful. It almost looked like he took some pleasure.

Here is a list of the top five of the goriest scenes someone listed and here is another. Go on, gross yourself out..

Scary

2010-08-08T16:54:00.005+05:30

I think the scariest part of the movie was that it was so believable. In the beginning, when the door moves, or when the psychic comes in, you think, so what’s the big deal? It’s just the wind, or this doesn’t frighten me. But the heart stops, when she gets pulled off her bed, or when the Ouija board catches fire. Then there was really something. I don’t scare easy but this was potent. Paranormal Activity. Refreshing film making. I actually checked online to see if the video footage was authentic.

Antichrist. Many embarrassing, but I guess necessary explicit scenes. And so, so gory. It was just always a hand over my eye, and a wince.

And then, Aisha. A chick lit if ever there was one. Colour coordinated dresses, curtains, jewellery. Shopping, pretty boys, holidays and fun, every teenage girls dream. The music and acting were great though, Abhay Deol is yum but Sonam Kapoor could be better. She knows how to dress and is cute, but cloyingly cutesy, if you know what I mean. In some scenes, she looks just like Rekha (and I don’t mean the young Rekha). Especially, when she has her hair all loose and awry. Scary.

Anyway, back to an antibiotic riddled sleep. Monsoons in Mumbai come with their many perils.

Random thoughts

2010-08-01T15:27:00.000+05:30

It’s been a while.

It may be true that as you grow older, time seems to fly faster. It becomes an obsession to savour every experience, live out each day more. But of course, life scarcely moves as planned, atleast for some people.

When I am fifty, will I look back and see my life as time capsules? Happiest moments, saddest moments, moments of victory, moments of failure. Will the times of boredom and nothingness in between cease to matter?

Another thought - Four of us had met two years back, starting out at this job. Four girlfriends, sitting together by a quirk of fate. Well, one of us left. Left work, left town. And we tried to make her last month nice and eventful. Visiting again all her favourite places, eating together at our haunts, chatting awake all night. But it hurts only when it’s gone – it’s true for people you love.

I often wonder if it is harder being on your own but free, or with people and under duress.

And lastly, a promise to myself - I shall be more regular henceforth.

Turkey: Snippets

2010-04-14T15:15:00.004+05:30

Our first dinner in Turkey, some Döner Kebab and Linden Tea. We were practicing amongst ourselves ‘Te shukere’. What was it? The Sukhreee, teh Shukree. Suddenly, the long haired chap in the next table pips up,
“Tea Sugar in dream”
What’s that?
“Say it quickly, you’ll have it”
Tesekkür ederim

Thank you!

Many, many evil eyes. Every street, corner, wrist, ear, home.
Nazar boncuğu

Sigh! Now all I hold are snippets of memories. Like Mehmet says.
C'est la vie, baby.

Turkey: People I met

2010-04-08T17:57:00.014+05:30

If you ask me, people make Turkey. Warm, garrulous and inquisitive.

Women are like bubble wrapped strawberries and men are like thin, fair, red lipped treats. There! I was dying to say this.

An Iranian family was so excited on hearing I was from India.

“India?”

“Yes”

“We love India. What was that Indian movie we saw?”

DDLJ? My Name is Khan? 3 Idiots?

“Slumdog Millionaire’

Not Indian, my friend. Not Indian.

Ali was most excited.

“I can speak Hindi too. Aap kaise hain?”
Ali collects sand from all over the world. Egypt, Peru, Nepal, Bulgaria. Puts them in coloured little glass bottles.

Selçuk bus stop. We ran excitedly to someone distributing a sweet, brown, drippy treat.
"What's that?"
"Lokma"
"How much is it?"
A rotund man comes running to us waving his hands.
"No, no, its free. take it, take it. It's for my uncle's death anniversary" pushing loads of them into our hands.

Men playing backgammon. Not a tourist trap. They gather around every evening, chatting aloud, playing their game, sipping their Raki or Çay. They invite you enthusiastically, but alas I cannot play.

Shopkeepers!

Spice Bazaar.

“How much is saffron?”

“You are Indian?”

“Yes”

“I am Shah Rukh Khan. How are you Kareena?”

My saffron came only slightly cheaper.

There was this one day when I was up at the terrace and was peering into one of the open windows below. Old man on the couch, beige sweater on, being served Çay by his wife in baggy shalwar and scarve. He looks up at me. Smiles. I half expect him to offer to sell me Kilim on the floor. Half price only for you.

Yes, it's the people.

Istanbul: Hidden gems

2010-04-07T14:44:00.016+05:30

Anadolu Kavagi. Last stop on the Asian side of the Bosporus Strait. A 20 TRL ferry ride will get you there, leave you to roam around for three hours and brings you back by 3 PM. You can walk to the castle on top, which although good exercise, does not offer much to see. It was nice to sit at the Yosun restaurant by the sea though and have some yummy Calamari and tea. The Asian side is greener, less 'developed' and you can eye spy the Black Sea.

There is an odd little toy display on the way to the castle.

"For the past eight years I make these toys. No selling. No photographs please." the owner says as he chats up curious visitors.

Buyukada. It was a Saturday. The ferry would have almost toppled over with the number of jostling visitors. It was a carnival. Flower bands, Mado ice cream, cycling teens, screaming kids. If you want to do just one Bosphorus ride, do this one and get to the Prince’s Islands. Enjoy the fat, white, screeching seagulls flying along.

Eyüp. I had been toying between going here and Ortaköy (to have the original Kumpir). Finally, just because I knew the bus number, I opted for the former. I wasn’t disappointed. Serene and residential, it’s a great peak at local life. No tourists.

Turkey: People

2010-04-06T13:17:00.003+05:30

Well, thank God, I am not tall and blonde. Not much untoward male attention (which wasn’t already welcome). But for one bad incident at Sirkeci tram stop, where the guy at the information booth refused to help me (Was I supposed to imagine that the Tram ‘Joten’ or tokens were sold in the little shop next to it), people have been exceptionally nice.

Two incidents I will remember.

She was Fethiye.

The hamam was not top of my list. But it would feature in my new top 5 things to do in Turkey. I was a bit shy to begin with; it is a communal bath after all. But the lady purging my grime was such comfort and she put so much effort into it. Almost motherly. Two hours of absolute bliss.

He was Fahre.

I was at Eyüp waiting. I just knew one way to get back to Sultanahmet via Eminönü. I’d already let one bus pass by, alarmed at how crowded it was. He was standing at the side, just the two of us. Red striped sweater. Cute.
“Which bus are you waiting for?”
“99A to Eminönü, And you?”
“I need to go to Sultanahmet”
God send. ”Me too. But how does one get there directly. I just know the 99A”
“One can take a bus to Beyazit square. Sultanahmet is close. Are you here for business or as tourist?”
“Tourist actually. Today is my last day” Wistful.
A very crowded bus comes by. He nods. This is it.
So, I get in hanging at the door like in Mumbai buses. Atleast, it has a door.
Luckily for me, he was the perfect gentleman. I get escorted in, sit before anyone else on the next empty seat, get dropped to Beyazit square.
“We get down here. That’s the way you should take to reach Sultanahmet, behind the blue building”

Angels.

Turkey Shopping: Explore, compare, bargain

2010-04-05T16:43:00.006+05:30

Grand Bazaar (Kapalicarsi): It is large and well stocked yes, but are you game to bargain with 4000 enthusiastic shop keepers all ready to pounce on you with their many wares? It just seemed to me a larger and more aggressive version of Palika Bazaar or Janpath. But for the bounty hunters, there may be some killing to be made if you can bargain hard, really hard.

Old Book Bazaar (Sahaflar Çarsisi): Liked. À la Kolkata’s College Street. Old books, maps, stamps, coins. One needs to scout for English books though.
Spice Bazaar (Mısır Çarşısı): I went on a Saturday and it was stiflingly crowded, But the variety of spices, my, my! Specially Saffron, dry fruits and tea. Advice: Walk the length and look for the best price.
Istiklal Caddesi: Books, music, French style bistros, high street stores. The equivalent of an Orchard or Oxford Street or maybe a cramped version of Champs De Elysees. Wide selection of food and a vibrant night life.
Bylanes: By far the best idea. I liked Tribal Art at Sultanahmet, couple more shops on the same street, some leather and jewellery shops at Selçuk and Ürgüp, Demetrius of Ephesus at Şirince. Hassle free, neat shopping.

But what you just shouldn’t forget: No matter what, bargain. On your tour prices, on everything you buy, on your hotel rates, even on your Cappadocia balloon ride (we got it as low as €100 whereas on the internet it lists at €160). Just bargain. They expect it.

Istanbul: Bosphorus Lights

2010-04-04T10:58:00.009+05:30

The favourite part of my day was sitting at the guest house terrace with Turkish tea and stories from all over the world. Of course, there was the view to be thankful for.

First day in Istanbul. Since I was back early, I decided to settle down, read my book and plan for the next day – with the Bosphorus beside. Bosphorus for the uninitiated is the strait between the Black Sea and the Sea of Marmara. The ancient passage way for Greece, Rome, the Byzantines and the Ottoman Empire. A lot of history, lot many stories.

But look out there now. First the Lighthouse lights up. A single flicker of light in the darkening waters. Followed by little yellow dots, one after the other across the horizon. The yachts sail across languidly. The night tram buzzes past in a flurry, carrying a stream of lights with it. And gradually, almost like magic, the whole of the Bosphorus is alight.

But that’s not where the magic ended. I was to meet the German student who on a whim came over to learn Turkish, the caretaker who was learning English (and today’s words are earthquake, divorce and slay), the PhD from Cambridge, the German student who is actually Korean, couple of Croatian college kids, a Swiss couple one of who is actually Brazilian and the other German. Everyday a new face, everyday cheerful farewells.

Merhaba. May you have many happy memories.

Turkey: Before you go, you should know

2010-04-03T13:53:00.020+05:30

A little bit on Turkey’s history. Not too much, I promise.

First, Istanbul. The earliest it was called Byzantium, the Greek name for a city on the Bosphorus. In 306 AD, Emperor Constantine the Great made Byzantium capital of the entire Roman Empire. From then on, the city was known as Constantinople. The Ottoman Turks lead by Sultan Mehmet II conquered Constantinople in 1453. and it was renamed Istanbul. Ottoman rule continued until it was defeated in WWI and Istanbul was occupied by the allies. The various monuments carry marks of this volatile history. An obvious example is the Aya Sofya.

Second, Mustafa Kemal Ataturk. Every home, every lane has a picture of him (and the Turkish flag). They revere him, that is obvious and not without reason. He was the architect of the nation that is Turkey. He converted the Ottoman Empire into a modern, democratic, and secular nation-state. He also made Ankara the country's new capital

Third, Turkey and its neighbours. The Turks hate the Greeks. Turks hate the EU (Although, their leaders are trying hard to get in. It could be a case of sour grapes). But coming back to the topic of Greece, after the 1919-22 Greco-Turkish War most of the Greeks were transferred to Greece under the terms of the 1923 population exchange between Greece and Turkey. As in any exodus, there were massacres on both sets of population. And the hatred continues with both parties blaming the other. In addition, Turkey's treatment of Kurdish citizens has been a frequent subject of international criticism.

That’s all. A short (but necessary) perspective.

Istanbul: The mosques, Oh!

2010-04-03T13:53:00.015+05:30

Just how many mosques were there in Istanbul? Everywhere I looked, slender spires extended into the sky. Every few hours, Muezzins called out in symphonic unison. The domes, the spires, azaan on a cloudy day, a dreamy concoction.

Then they were calling out at every entrance.
“Pretty lady, are you from India?”
“Let me show you around the mosque for free”
“Here, here beautiful lady. Why don’t you marry me?”

The attention was at once gratifying and irritating. “These are the heirs of Alexander and Constantine, and Socrates! And they're no better than children!".

Now everyone asks, how were the Blue Mosque, The Topkapi Palace and the Aya Sofya? Everything you could imagine and more. Again, something magical about those huge domes, the gangly spires, the expansive ceilings, the very vastness.

Then there was Derya. Not so much a guide, but a crash course of life as a Woman in Istanbul.

“I am 30. I have my share of men, a good job which pays. I meet interesting people everyday. Live and pay my rent in Istanbul. What can marriage give me, what I don’t already have?”
“Are women like that everywhere in Turkey, or is it just Istanbul?”
“Well, I am from Izmir, and women from Izmir are supposed to be extra modern. In fact if you tell someone from Istanbul you are from Izmir, they turn up their nose like this”
Laughter.
“Have you heard of the common saying in Istanbul?”
“No, which one exactly?”
“If you are married to a man who works in Istanbul, there is 50% chance he will be unfaithful. If he works in Istanbul and is well travelled, there is 75% chance he will be unfaithful. If he works in Istanbul and is well travelled and in tourism, there is 100% chance he will be unfaithful”

“And you should try the Tavuk Gögsü, It actually has chicken in it. People don’t believe it, but taste it. It is my favourite desert”

But coming back to the mosques...

Turkey: Large and tiny wonders

2010-04-02T21:21:00.011+05:30

She thought Ürgüp was a delightful little town – set in caves, oh yes! In fact, the Brit-Canadian couple told her that this was exactly Santorini 20 years back. She hadn’t been there, but she adored the quaint little yellow cave town anyway.

Cappadocia. Of large and tiny wonders. Fairy chimney. Dervant’s valley. Avanos. Göreme Open Air Museum. There was a snake church, an apple church, an underground city, rivers and canyons! The clock tower by the street, the kilims on the wall.

There was this tiny market street where she met Ömer, the corpulent carpet seller.

“I want an Indian or Japanese wife. They make good wives”
“Why? What’s wrong with Turkish women?”
“They are very conservative.”
“It’s not their fault you know, you change the society and they will stop being conservative. I mean can you imagine sending your sister on a trip to India on her own?”
Some silence. After a while.
“If Turkish men could experiment before marriage, there wouldn’t be extra marital affairs”
The same. We are men. We are like that.
Börek brought back some good taste. And so did the whirling dervishes. Eyes in a trance, white umbrella skirts billowing round and round, round and round,

Turkey: Into the wine cellar

2010-04-02T18:55:00.009+05:30

This was to be my second crush. And this time, blame the wine.

Ephesus was another doze of history, albeit a grander one. This used to be one of the seven wonders of the world. Library of Celsus. Temple of Artemis. Agora marketplace. Fat cats on broken columns.

But Şirince was even better. Specially, Grandpa jewellery who directs me to Grandson wine. Who directs me to the old Greek Church cellar with a treasure trove of many wines.
You name the fruit, he had a wine. After several swigs and a swimming head, it was time to go in for the kill.

“How much?”
“10 TRL”
300 rupees, seems cheap, but…
“Too expensive, we can’t pay that much”
“It’s the cheapest price you will get”
“Give us something free then.”
“One olive oil soap free with a bottle”
“Won’t do, something more”
“A tall glass of blackberry wine free”
More wine? Sounded good.

So, drinking with young Zaid, while old German couples on their second honeymoon came and went. I was much entertained. And giddy.

Until the sun set and it was time to go.

Turkey: Start of Spring

2010-04-02T18:17:00.009+05:30

Maybe because it was the first day of spring. Maybe because of the soft guitar strums. Or maybe it just was. I had a crush. And it was to be the beginning of many.

When I woke up in the morning, under the white snow leopard quilts, looking at the faraway castle, smelling the fresh bread and salted olives for breakfast, the heart was glad. The sun rays beamed through the breaking mist, and the müezzins called out together in a distance.

Rushing for the bus.
“Two tickets to Pamukkale please”
“Good morning!”
“Oh yes, sorry, Good morning. Could you please give us two tickets to Pamukkale please? Are we very late already?”
“No, let me show you the bus.”

We stand near the bus.
“So, how many husbands do you have?”
“Excuse me?”
“The rings on your fingers…”
“Oh, just three at this time…” (Flirt!)
“There’s your bus ready to leave to Denizli”
“Thank you, see you at night.”
“I wish!”

I found the two guitar strumming boys on the dolmuş and they were chatting up. Company is good. And when they were this delightful….

The spring flowers were all around. The calcium in the Travertines sludged under soft soles. The miles of colossal ruins at Hierapolis. That Greek city on top of hot springs. That humbling feeling of being a small part of some ancient history.

Those round button eyes, that glib tongue. Did not Shakespeare say that spring is the start of all things amorous? Blame him then.

“Travellers are the same everywhere eh? They are a different breed”
“Yes, I think travel opens up your mind”. I'd thought it up myself.
“I like that phrase”

I ate the Gözleme and the Döner kebab for the first time, and I had to admit, not too impressed yet.

Turkey: Prelude

2010-03-19T08:43:00.002+05:30

It’s like a dream.

Among a thousand footsteps. By the Bhosphorus. Byzantium. Constantinople. Romans. Ottomans. Sea as clear as sky; bluest of them all. Caves to live, Căy to sip, Simit to have. Red fez bent in prayer. The blue mosque.

Tracing along where Europe meets Asia. East meets West. Old meets new.

I am off to Turkey.