Experiences

Yes, I have been about this year, mostly with my glorious travel companions. From sea shore to hills to deep jungles, we went everywhere. We baked in 45-degree temperatures, squelched and waded in monsoon rains, and walked endlessly in salubrious weather. The most significant thing about this is the subtle difference that has come over me as a traveler. Traveling has become a spiritual experience, at least in parts. It could be because I stop to observe birds, wild flowers, insects, and water droplets on blades of grass from behind my camera a lot nowadays, especially after learning the basics of macro photography. The point is in every trip, there is a moment I feel I understand the world, nature, and perhaps even God better. I feel connected. I feel integrated. I feel grateful to be here. Who else to describe what I feel eloquently than Subramania Bharathi: Ethanai kodi inbam vaithai iraiva Chithinai achithudan inaithai Angu cherum iym bhoothathu viyanula chamaithai Athanai ula...

I mean very free verse. So free that you might wonder whether it is verse. But I have been writing these poems regularly for a few months now, usually in the mornings. These little spurts of creativity help me face increasingly stressful days at work and give me a reason to feel good about life, on a day-to-day basis. The Ride Outside my balcony was a fluffy cloud "Hop on, time for a ride," it said. I jumped over the rails, nimbler than I thought Fell headlong into its cushiony softness. We soared towards the orange streaked sky Cold wind swept my hair, my nose tip froze I waved at a flock of birds, they nodded at me We swerved sharply as a plane passed by (Deafening noise, btw, I am now hard of hearing) We met a minor God, rushing to an appointment We talked, my cloud and I-- Water bearing is not as easy as it looks Bombarded by hills, zapped by lightning! It talked of the trauma, the hard life I talked, about nothing in particular. Eventually, silence bef...

30 sweet seconds to enjoy a winter full moon in an inky black sky framed by the bare branches of a tree looking like a Van Gogh painting at Lonavala. 30 alone seconds to watch the tops of the 100 feet casuarina trees outside our cottage at Dive Agar erupt into a confusion of yellow as two dozen Golden Orioles rose out of it to the accompaniment of a cacophony of twitter. 30 all-too-short minutes to enjoy the biting cold of early Delhi morning at Chanakya Puri, watching school kids bundled up in woolens going to school, like so many bees. Four achingly nostalgic hours to dash from Marina Beach to Saravana Bhavan to Mount Road to Besant Nagar Beach, remembering those crucial three years of shedding small town-ness, growing wings, growing up, falling in love, being betrayed, picking up guys at a fast food restaurant on a bet, pillion riding to Mahabalipuram on a bike... Vignettes framed sharply by the strict confines of time to enjoy them--like looking through someone else’s photo albu...

You need to be in a state of preparedness to visit the Sundarbans. I suggest that you wait until you are over 30 and have experienced a few knocks, some heartbreak, and a little disappointment in life. It would help if you had ever searched for anything—God, happiness, truth, yourself. It might also be useful to believe that it is necessary to get lost to find your way. If you are the sort of person who finds music in the sound of the quiet lap of water against the tarred hull of the boat or the metaphor of life in drifting along endless waters on a little vessel, then you are ready for the magnificent mangroves. Because the Sundarbans is not for the weekend holidayers, the types who would want to drink beer, scratch their bum/crotch/head/something, throw plastic and Styrofoam into the water with impunity, and hope to get laid. I only hope that the crocodiles that eat them would not develop indigestion. It is important to find the right tour guide for the Sundarbans, as we did. Bi...

My Neighbor Totoro (1988) This is a gem of a movie—precious, joyous, enchanting and a little sad. It’s about a childhood where there are adventures to be had at every corner, spirits and creatures in the forests to frolic with, of cat buses and furry trolls, of plucking corns and driving sooty sprites away with laughter. It’s about big fat tears and wonderful giggles. It’s about breathtaking visuals and lyrical moments. It’s about two girls—short-haired and lanky Satsuki (about 10 years old) and her cuddly pig-tailed baby sister Mei (about four years old.) They move into rural post war Japan with their professor father to be near their long-term ill mother in a nearby hospital. Their house is old, rickety, falling apart in places and most importantly, allegedly haunted.  There is a giant camphor tree in the yard that looks all mysterious. The girls are excited and just a bit scared. They settle down to their new life with zest and cartwheels.  Mei follows her sist...

On the boundaries of my childhood territory was this ancient ruined temple. Silent coconut palms stood over fallen granite columns and abandoned moss covered stone idols. The temple tank was but a small hole in the ground, overgrown with weeds and laden with lily flowers during season. People seldom passed through the temple premises. One heard of spirits and sprites. Even the lone pujari seemed frightened of it—he used to come early in the morning and leave not soon after. Now, if I had but a tenth of the imagination of the Japanese animation master Hayao Miyazaki, I would’ve grown up to write wonderfully enchanting magical tales about the place, full of woodland spirits and pagan Gods and friendly otherworldly creatures. But alas, I’m but an ignorant hack who hadn’t even heard of the master until yesterday—and then only because my nephew set up a Miyazaki marathon to take my mind off my pesky flu. The first five minutes were enough for me to get completely addicted to the ...

O Babe of the Bayou, Big Easy on the Big River, Cousin of Cajun, Creator of Creole, Mother of Mardi Gras, Queen of Voodoo, Purveyor of Gumbo, I bow to thee! For indeed thou art the hope, succor, and ultimate recourse to the depressed and debauched, serious and quirky, prosaic and bizarre. All my doubts about why New Orleans is called the Crescent City vanished as our flight descended. The mighty Mississippi (mighty indeed at this point) made a sharp U turn and formed a perfect crescent of a delta. We are told ad nauseam that New Orleans is built on layers and layers of alluvial soil that the river has been depositing on the delta for centuries. Which means that the city has no rock bed foundation. It is built on mud, which makes everything sink--buildings, roads, anything that depends on terra firma. On the other hand, buried things come floating up during storm flooding, like coffins. Which is why, as most of you might already know, the good people of New Orleans decided to bui...