What happens in a writing retreat doesn't always stay in a writing retreat. Check out my new essay on Bound India’s marquee writing retreat in Goa, published in Outlook Traveler. It'll take precisely 4 minutes 37 seconds. Four minutes if you don't check your notifications. Click on the photo to access the story. And if you’re having a day that’s veering into stressfull territory, spare a minute or two to gaze at the picture of serenity below. Always helps.
Smoothie vs. Sashimi
Smoothies are the green flags of the breakfast buffet. I bow my head in respect as I cross them on my way to the bacon-and-sausage counter. Where lies my salvation in neat crisp rows, glistening in anticipation. My partner eyes my plate laden with meaty goodies and waxes eloquent with her eyes. Her plate is full of fruity goodness sourced from farms full of good intentions. Next to her plate is a smoothie, of course. She’s the poster child of restraint and intent.
However, when you come for a food tour of Tsujiki Outer Fish Market that starts at 9am, smoothies are not on the menu, sashimi is. Yes, yes, it’s still healthy. But the amount one can consume when one dumps all caution in the sea, well, not healthy. Especially for my smoothie-downing partner. But hey, YOLO, right. We kicked off proceedings with a skewer of the finest Wagyu sourced from Hokkaido. It was served with a bit of Wasabi on the side. As I bit into it, the juices burst out into some kind of symphony that drowned out the babble around us. For a few minutes, everything was a blur. Just jaws chomping up and down rhythmically. We barely recovered from the experience when we were ushered into one of the teeming lanes. Kie, our guide, stopped in front of another outlet that reminded us why it’s called a fish market. We pointed out and plates of sushi, crab meat, nigiri, oysters found their way magically into our hands. Kie gave interesting bits of trivia, which we enjoyed at that moment, but now nothing comes to mind. This was basically the template of the tour – stop, eat, go, repeat. Entire mind, body and soul committed to the celebration of cuisine uncorrupted by words like fusion, experimental, Blumenthal, etc.
We ate our way through the tour in a meditative bubble punctuated at regular intervals by Kie’s insightful comments – again, no recollection. Next time, I’ll record everything. For now, relish the visual documentation.
The KISS rule.
The 'Things to do' section on the Central Park website lists a lot of things to do. A bewildering choice actually. So, we kept it simple. Just walked around - and things happened around us.
A woman in a traditional Vietnamese dress (Ao Dai) in Hoi An.
Colour Me Yellow
If you were a sailor between the 15th and 19th centuries, your ship would have crossed seas, calm and stormy, and sailed up the serene Thu Bon river to drop anchor at one of Southeast Asia's leading ports - Hoi An. The first thing you'd notice are the yellow hues. The most weatherbeaten sailor in your crew would show off his knowledge while he waits for a bowl of Pho at a riverside restaurant. Yellow stands for royalty, prosperity, luck - and a lot of other positive associations, he'd explain. That's why every house in the town - be it Japanese, Chinese, French, Dutch, Indian - is painted a bright shade of mustard yellow. Also, yellow absorbs less heat. Perfect to deal with the heat and humidity of the region. The thought springs to your mind - practical solutions can look good too. As a steaming bowl of Pho is placed before you, a mental note is made. Hopefully, you'll visit this place again. And hopefully, the place would still retain its charm. Thankfully, there are times when a wish stands the test of time.
The Quiet Magic
Crossing rivers where piranhas wait patiently for a mistake to happen. Climbing mountains to plant a flag atop a glacier. A receding one, that is. The earth is 2 degrees hotter. Embarking on a voyage that involves turbulent seas. Maybe even a Great White or two. Hiking through forests where Jurassic Park ceases to a work of fiction. Yes, we can all lead extraordinary lives that involve tales of derring-do and adventure. But when these tales come to an end, there's nothing like the quiet magic of daily life.
Four wins - 2023 International Photography Awards
The results are out. A Jury Top 5 Selection + three Honorable Mentions. A satisfactory haul at the 2023 International Photography Awards. Thank you for all the love and encouragement. :-)
https://www.photoawards.com/winner/zoom.php?eid=8-1686637939-23
https://www.photoawards.com/winner/zoom.php?eid=8-1686638072-23
https://www.photoawards.com/winner/zoom.php?eid=8-1686637999-23
https://www.photoawards.com/winner/zoom.php?eid=8-1686641537-23
Destination: Lofty Heights
It was a day so pleasant that birds sang their heart’s out. A day perfect for a long drive to lofty heights. Where one can listen to an unbridled rendition of nature’s symphony at Chelela Pass (3,998m), Bhutan’s highest motorable road. The stiff breeze rifling through the thousands of prayer flags. The sharp afternoon shower bouncing off the tiny tin-roofed shed. The cheerful yelps of a band of dogs being fed by a little girl. Her lilting laughter fading into thick rolling carpets of mist. A lone biker appearing as if by magic through the same cover of mist, the roar of his bike muffled by the wind.
To soak all this in, just find a patch of grass. After all, that’s why you came to Bhutan. To lose yourself in the life-affirming embrace of nature.
Sonmarg, Kashmir.
The Still Life
Quiet-yet-full-of-birdsong mountains, or for that matter the restlessness of vast seas - they have this way of making one feel very significant. Well, not that one has a tendency to feel very significant otherwise too. But those who are in the know, are aware of the healing impact of unfettered wilderness on souls sullied by the daily business called life.
Jama Elmi, Portobello Road, Notting Hill.
Live Life In Technicolor.
Jama believed in first impressions. A jaunty red hat. Flamboyant red shoes. A suit with an extravagant air, stitched out of a psychedelic dream. Fingers adorned with rings with stones as big as the rock of Gibraltar. It was a fashion statement that made other fashion statements wither away into nothingness. No wonder Jama cut a rather dashing figure as he waltzed through the busy Portobello Road. A merry hop, skip and jump away from where a bumbling Will bumped into the poised Anna. An incident that resulted in many young men dream about opening their own bookstores with doors that chime when a Hollywood actress walks in.
Jama, however, was no less than a superstar than Hugh and Julia, in Notting Hill. Unlike most movie icons weighed down by PR-made reputations, box office expectations and their own elevated sense of self-awareness, Jama walked around with a carefree air. Visitors lined up to take photos with him. Residents exchanged a joke or two. His million-megawatt smile dispelling clouds overhead, and in people’s heads.
After a series of selfies with his fans, Jama stopped for a breather at Ci Tua restaurant (hygiene rating of 5, authentic Italian delicacies). He draped his lanky self across a chair, flanked by two tables covered with red & white checkered tablecloths.
One doesn’t need to take a photography masterclass to recognize a photo-op. I asked him for a photo. He happily obliged. We exchanged fist bumps. As I thanked him and was about to walk away, he asked me to wait for a second.
Jama fished out a wallet from the depths of his many-hued coat. He opened it with a deft movement and handed over a card to me. The card had his contact details. Seeing my quizzical look, he flashed a smile. ‘I like it when people take photos of me. And I’d love it if you mail me the photo you have taken.’
I have no idea who Jama is or what he does for a living. What I do know is Jama makes a tiny part of the world a happier place. And sometimes that’s all you need to know about a person.
Perception
The carousel and the fish & chips joint barely had any takers. Maybe the fact that it was barely 3 degrees above freezing (with a feels like -1) had something to do with it. The thing with carousels, especially with this particular one, was that it was up for a merry round. Even if there were just a couple of interested people. In fact, there were literally three people riding the carousel when this photo was taken. One more than the humble establishment next to it. Photographs don't lie. But there are times when they do spin a different perception.
Land Ahoy!
The Art Of Doing Nothing
There’s not much to do when you reach the summit of Chelela Pass, Bhutan’s highest motorable road that connects the valley of Paro with the remote Haa valley. That’s a blessing. Because at 3,998 m (13,083 ft.), if not in the fittest of health – no, the ability to binge watch (insert favorite series) is not considered as a measure of fitness - you should take things slow. Really slow. Watching-the-paint-dry kind of slow. That’s an exaggeration. You get the drift though.
The high altitude means if one is not in good physical condition, even the simple act of walking around needs to be planned a bit. For example, imagine a meal in a fine dining establishment. The whole escorted- -to-the-table act, a leather-bound menu handed over with suggestions that don’t really make any sense because, well, it’s in Italian. And it doesn’t sound anything like Pepperoni Pizza. Plus the English translations are in a font size that makes you think fondly about your ophthalmologist. So, you wait, smiling at the waiter politely, while the waiter prattles on, knowing very well, that he’s complicating things further. You heave a sigh of relief as he gives you five minutes to go through the menu. You take ten minutes before placing the order – two starters – a soup and fried calamari. That should give you enough time to Google what’s recommended in La Trattoria. Well, the point being overstated here is whether you’re having a meal or perched at an altitude that’s just 800m less than Mont Blanc, things should be done in a measured manner. No rush. Take all the time you need.
We didn’t do anything of the above. Forget fine dining. It was more of a food court experience. We walked around rapidly sampling the wares greedily. Clambered up an incline. Ventured down a rocky path for a better view. Later in the evening, a combo of headaches and stiff limbs made us realize the folly of our ways. Not the exploration bit. That’s par for the course. But how it was done. Hence the words of wisdom. Painfully gleaned from personal misadventures.
But yes, if you like listening to what can be described as a particularly energetic rendition of nature’s symphony, you’ll find yourself clutching complimentary VVIP passes at Chelela Pass. The stiff breeze rifling through the thousands of prayer flags. The sharp afternoon shower bouncing off the tiny tin-roofed shed. The cheerful yelps of a band of dogs being fed by a little girl. Her lilting laughter fading into thick rolling carpets of mist. A lone biker appearing as if by magic through the same cover of mist, the roar of his bike muffled by the wind. The muted yet excited chatter of two friends meeting by chance.
To soak all this in, just find a patch of grass. After all, that’s why you came to Bhutan. To lose yourself in the life-affirming embrace of nature. And to do nothing
A Tale Of Two Artists
The Buddy
There are rewards for braving sub-zero temperatures on the highest pass in the Eastern Alps.
Hot Dogs On A Cold Day
It was quite cold. Something that one tends not to notice because of the fact that all five of us were decked in several layers of fleece. Plus the not so insignificant detail that we were inside a car. A gently baking car. The expression ‘warm as toast’ would be apt here. Thanks to modern niceties called ‘climate control’ modes.
Feeling a bit adventurous and thinking about my motto in life (Live a little), I flicked the power window switch. The general idea was to sniff the crisp cold air at the rarefied heights of Stelvio Pass (2,757m) - the highest paved mountain road in the eastern Alps. As the window slid down soundlessly, I could feel my face going numb. Startled shuddering yelps emanated from my passengers. The air was crisp and freezing. A quick glance at the temperature indicator revealed that it was more than a couple of degrees below sub zero. But it felt like -20 degrees Celsius or so. Thanks to an icy wind blasting its way over the white-sheeted peaks. Just to add to the atmosphere, it started drizzling a bit too.
It was then the whiff of something utterly delicious wormed its way up the frozen olfactory glands, reminding me of my other motto in life (Eat a lot). In all fairness, it was lunchtime. We trooped out of the car and made our way to the source of the delightful aroma. It was a hot dog stand. A tall man, spare of build, was busy grilling hot dogs, stuffing them in buns and handing them out with a complimentary joke or two.
We ushered the three senior citizens with us inside a restaurant and ordered some fortifying ‘mountain soup’ to start with. My co-traveller and I then dashed outside and started salivating over the grill before us. Perhaps a bit afraid of the fact that he might end up with a batch of hot dogs seasoned with our dribble; the Hot Dog man tapped the grill sharply with his tongs, and beamed at us. That snapped us out of our reverie. Orders were immediately placed. With deft movements that would have made a magician proud, he picked up a bun, smothered it with mustard, layered a carpet of cabbage, plucked out a still smoking hot dog and laid it down gently on the bed of cabbage. It was a lesson in performance art.
The next few minutes were a blur. My jaws champed rhythmically. I was mindful of something absolute delicious making my taste buds shed tears of joy. Everything was forgotten for a few blissful moments. And what about the cold, the observant amongst you might be thinking. Well, let’s just say when the heart is warm, nothing else matters.
The Sunset Story
Cove Rotana, Ras Al Khaimah
The sun was almost about to call curtains on its daily show. The waves started lapping the shore a bit more hungrily. The lifeguard politely, but firmly, started asking the audience to head back to the cosy confines of their homes. Or, hotel rooms in this case. This scene was unfolding on the stretch of beach allocated to the Cove Rotana Resort in Ras al Khaimah.
And then there was a late entrant. A really, really, late entrant. The young man, a teenager really, was looking a bit lost. He held a football in his hands. As we all know, a lone person with a football on an almost empty stretch of beach - well, nothing dramatic can really happen. If he was practicing with a katana and slaying imaginary demons - now that’d have been a bit promising. The young man was kind of glancing at the rapidly dipping sun as well as looking in the opposite direction. A middle-aged person shuffled across the sand towards the footballer. Things became a bit clearer now. The footballer quickly struck some poses - and the man started capturing the various poses. A father-son bonding over a shared love for football and capturing some moments for eternity. Feel-good. Very feel-good.
And then came a plot twist. A soft swish revealed a lady walking towards the duo. A smile flickered across her face as she stood a little behind and watched her husband contort himself in various positions in an attempt to capture his son in a flattering light. She then took out her phone and started clicking them. The scene was now complete. And so was the family.
Honorable Mentions at Monovisions Photography Awards 2020
When one’s work is recognised at prestigious award shows, it does add some legitimacy to the whole act of throwing caution to the winds and recklessly scrambling down a brambly path chasing one’s heart. Which is why it gives me immense joy to announce that seven of my photos were awarded ‘Honorable Mentions’ at the Monovisions Photography Awards 2020 - an event that celebrates the art of B&W photography.
Do click on the photos to read the stories behind them.
Storms. life. Earl grey.
One of those low-pressure systems responsible for gale force winds, 5-metre waves and cancelled plans was forming somewhere over the Indian Ocean. Someone from the reservations team called up to inform that because of the unsettling weather conditions, the beach will be out of bounds for guests. Now, there’s a reason behind why beach resorts are called beach resorts. Yes, it’s a five-letter word that rhymes with peach. And if you don’t have access to this particular aspect of the resort – then the entire concept stands compromised. Guess that’s why the lady sounded very concerned. ‘Sir, there are huge waves pounding the beach. Nobody is allowed.’
I assured her that I am located very far away from those dangerous waves pounding the beach. In fact, I am not even in the resort. I am precisely 147.7 km away, quite settled in my home. Playing hide&seek with my nephew. Shooting the breeze with my brother. Catching up with my sis-in-law. And sniffing the air appreciatively, along with the cats, as the better half concocts something delectable in a boiling cauldron. ‘I know you’re not in the resort, Sir.’ The friendly tone dipping just a wee bit. Obviously she had a lot on her plate. And the last thing she wanted to know was how my evening was going. ‘All we wanted to know is whether you want to cancel the reservation. We’re informing everyone. Many have cancelled.’
After a quick family huddle, the decision to not cancel the trip was taken. The idea was to head out of town. A family trip. Long drive. Listen to old playlists. Watch the nephew scamper around. Would have been better to see him do that on the beach. But the swimming pool was open. So, we’re good.
Next morning found us hitting E99. An hour and half later through a desert and over a mountain range, we were at our destination. The sun beamed at us. Gloria from reception greeted us warmly. It turned out that she was the one who had called me the previous evening. I couldn’t help ask her. ‘What about the storm?’ She replied. ‘It rained very heavily last night. But it has more or less passed. The beach is open. But you cannot go into the water, the waves are still quite rough.’ With a bright smile plastered across her face, she extended her hand. I shook it. And then realized that she was giving me the key to our cabin.
The vibe of the resort was something straight out of a 70’s beachside community. Generous dollops of susegad and a sprinkling of Marley. The cabins were laid out in neat rows, each one with a view of the ocean. The birds chirped their welcomes. A cool breeze made its presence felt. And the little nephew started running on the lawns with arms outstretched. That sight itself was the price of the admission ticket. Everything else was a bonus.
The thing about storms is that you can do precious little about them. Unless, of course, you are Mark Wahlberg. Then you can head out to the high seas, battle fearsome waves, and rescue Matt Damon from the decidedly fishy embrace of a mermaid. But you are not Marky Mark. So, you wait. Patiently. Nursing a cup of Earl Grey. Or maybe something a bit stronger. Because the good thing about storms is that, sooner, than later, they pass. And you can basically get back to what you were doing. Which is what the gentleman featured in the photos did. Surfing conditions get better after a storm. Guess silver linings are not exclusive only to clouds.
Ser Braun's Advice
I speak Catanese. Cat-a-nese. The lingua franca of cats. ‘Meows’ are reserved for human feeders, ear and chin scratchers. To make them feel, you know, good. To foster a sense of ‘Hey-I-know-cats’. To create an illusion of kinship. Humans going ‘meow, meow’ every time they see a cat. That’s the equivalent of human videos. For cats. Makes their night.
There are very few who know Catanese. In fact, there’s only one I know of – myself. It’s a long story of how I came to master this mysterious linguistic skill. Many hours of gingerly pushing stuff from tabletops, weaving between legs, and curling up on sofas will be required to tell it. Also, I have been sworn to secrecy over a rather dead fish. If I tell you, I’ll have to scratch you. Or regurgitate my breakfast consisting of aforementioned dead fish on your favourite sofa. Nobody likes that.
So, I won’t spill the beans. Well, I can tell you this much. Featured in the photo is Ser Braun of House Felinius, One of his Name, Slayer of Shadows, and Player of Prey. He has asked me to relay one vital piece of information to you all. He has observed that humans now think that they breathe through their throats. I mean there’s no explanation for why the life-saving masks would be gracing their necks instead of covering their noses and mouths. Ser Braun doesn’t want to lose one of his nine lives due to this extreme act of idiocy. Yes, cats get it from humans. Not the other way round. That’s two facts actually. It’s all right. Ser Braun is feeling generous.