Published On TTT

Terribly Tiny Tales, an extremely popular platform for microfiction, published my, well, terribly tiny tale. Usually, they give one word (in this case - wince) and one needs to weave a story in 140 characters or less using that particular word.
The tale got over 18000 ‘hearts’ on Instagram and received over 530 comments.
On Facebook, it was shared over 500 times and got over 7500 ‘likes’.
Guess, that's the power of being featured on an established platform.

Meet the Backroad Vagrants


It’s a favourite fantasy of mine. And I am sure it’s common amongst people permanently afflicted with a strong case of wanderlust. You know wake up one fine morning, swiftly type out a resignation letter, mail it to HR, and then head out on an epic road trip around the world. Preferably, forever. Then I have my morning fix, the head has a gentle conversation with the heart, and before you know it, the resignation letter magically transforms into a leave application for 6 working days (plus two weekends for a grand total of 10 days). 10 days leave of absence is usually granted without much eyebrows being raised. Sad, I know, in comparison to a round-the-world road trip. But perfectly welcome as I am a life member of the 'count-your-blessings' club. Also, I don’t have a trust fund in my name.

On one of these little breaks when I managed to unshackle myself from my workstation, I landed up in the remote mountainous region of Svaneti in Georgia. Or more precisely, in Ushguli, one of the highest inhabited villages in Europe. And that’s where I met the Backroad Vagrants - a pair of overland explorers who’re actually living my fantasy.

Anna (Navigator and Physician) and Heiner (Mechanic and Programmer)
are driving from Germany all the way down to Australia in a specially modified and kitted Toyota Landcruiser (Willie) – their mobile home for the next year or so. Unlike many who debate and discuss endlessly the ways one can roam around the world, this duo actually put a plan in place, and without much ado, set out on their trip. On the road since April 2016, they have already driven through Albania, Croatia, Montenegro, Turkey and Azerbaijan. By the time this post goes online, they will be in Armenia.

Sounds like a lot of travelling since April. But except for some hectic cross-country driving through
Turkey (800km approx. in a day – well, it was coup season), they are actually travelling nice and slow by taking the back roads instead of highways. Where as we all know life is more authentic. And that's how the Backroad Vagrants are exploring one country at a time. By sticking to a routine that's not set in stone. Camp at picturesque locations. Buy local produce. Chat with locals. Share meals with strangers. And stop to smell the wildflowers whenever they feel like.


Here are some photos of their fantastic mobile home and their life around it.


Meet Willie - the modified Toyota Landcruiser HZJ. The Backroad Vagrants searched for six long months for a vehicle that was financially viable and ticked all the right technical boxes. E.g. The roof opens up and becomes Anna and Heiner's bedroom at night. This pop-up roof was a technical requirement. 

This is their smartly designed kitchen. Everything has its own place. The two-burner stove 'suitcase' is really neat. Once cooking is done with, it can be neatly stowed away. Did anybody say German engineering?

The dressing table cum toiletry section. Anna and Heiner believes that being on the road is no excuse to look messy. Well, they didn't really tell me this. But one look at them and the words 'neat and elegant' comes to mind. We were lucky to spend some time with them because every now and then they stop at a B&B to do their laundry. And one of those B&Bs happened to be the one where we were staying.

The rear seats have been taken out in order to create storage space. For everything that's required for a transcontinental journey - from essential spare parts to medical kits. This area also acts as their 'office' from where they update their journeys on their blog, apply for visas and other sundry paperwork. Just like home. But a world away from home.

Does your car have a place to do the dishes? Well, this one does.Everything's designed in a way that would make the designers at IKEA turn many shades of green.

They even have their own filtration system. An essential piece of kit. After all, when one is flitting constantly from one region to another, one needs a trusty source of water. Anna is a doctor. But prevention is better than cure and all that.

And where do they sleep? As I mentioned before the roof opens up to create this cozy space. All they need to do is climb up and gaze at the stars through the glass panel.

As per Heiner, one of the most important pieces of equipment in the car.Perfect to crack open a few cold ones when they set up camp in a valley, on a beach, beside a gurgling stream, on a mountain. Well, you get the picture. It's a tough life.

Anna and Heiner, it was lovely meeting you two (and Willie, of course).Wish you all the best for your travels. Hopefully we will cross paths again, sooner than later. Maybe the 1974 Land Rover that stops next to Willie at the only gas station for hundreds of miles in the Gobi desert might have a couple of familiar faces. One never knows. Sometimes fantasies do come true. Especially when one is focused enough to make them happen.



The Artist, Fridon


Svaneti's koshkis or stone towers protected entire families from invasions.
Ushguli is a village tucked away in Georgia’s corner of the Caucasus Mountains – the fabled region known as Svaneti. Located at an elevation of over 2000 metres, this remote village also happens to be Europe’s highest inhabited village. Georgia’s highest mountain, Mt. Shkhara towers above the village in all its snow-peaked glory. On one side of the village, the glacier fed Enguri River thunders down a deep gorge, frothing and seething. The houses, sturdy structures of wood and stone, stand stoically next
Ushguli is one of the highest inhabited villages in Europe. 
to Koshkis or defensive stone towers, each 20 - 25 metres tall. Towers that protected families from blood feuds and invasions. The residents, numbering about 200, are mostly farmers. As they tended to their crops and animals, children played to their heart’s content in the flower-bedecked alpine meadows. The all-too-brief summer needs to be enjoyed to the hilt. Winters last six months with temperatures regularly plummeting to -35 degrees Celsius. There are times when severe snowfall cuts this village off from the rest of Georgia. I met Fridon Nizharadze, a reclusive artist, in this isolated mountain refuge. 

Fridon's time in the sun is almost meditative.
Our host, Temraz, was sharpening a hoe with an electric sharpener. His elder brother, Fridon, stripped down to his waist, stood nearby, enjoying the sun’s warm rays on his bony back. Every now and then, his rheumy eyes would focus on the sparks emitted by the sharpener. Fridon’s time in the sun was important. It was almost meditative. Observing him from the first floor landing, I felt that the high-pitched whine of the sharpener was disturbing his time in the sun. Not that he voiced an opinion about it. Fridon had suffered a lot in his life for his opinions. Forget about expressing his thoughts, nowadays he barely speaks.

The moment one enters Gamarjoba Guest House; it was quite evident that the place houses an
Fridon's paintings can be seen throughout the house. This is the hallway.
artist. Paintings that could at best be described as belonging to a surrealistic school of thought hung in the hallway and rooms. These were all Fridon’s creations. His brother had stated in an interview to Georgian Today that Fridon has been painting since he was a small child. He used to head outdoors and paint landscapes. A painter from Tbilisi, Bela Berdzenishvili came to visit Svaneti. She was highly impressed by Fridon’s paintings and gifted him his first palette. In the 1970’s, Fridon served in the army for a while in Kazakhstan (those were the Soviet days) and later joined the Tbilisi Academy of Arts. However, after his graduation, he returned to Ushguli to practice his art. Fridon paintings were a mix of Georgian motifs and symbolism. They were difficult to comprehend. Having seen a bit of the world, he exhorted his community to think beyond growing potatoes. Unfortunately, his paintings, views and opinions clashed not only with those of the villagers but also went against the beliefs of the communist regime at that time. Like many other ‘free thinkers’, he was also sent for ‘treatment’ at a mental asylum. Where Fridon claims lots of blood was drained and plenty of pills were given. Was the ‘treatment’ successful? Hard to say. But Fridon became highly disillusioned. Nobody really understood him or his paintings. His own brother, fearing for his sanity, asked him to draw ‘safe’ work – flowers and mountains. Slowly but surely, Fridon went into a shell.

Fridon has only a few paintings left. 
I kept bumping into Fridon in and around the house. He’d shuffle around the house doing odd jobs. His eyes fascinated me. The flowing beard came a close second. His body might be frail, his spirit broken, but his eyes still had a sparkle in them. It was during the third day of our stay when somehow during the course of a conversation full of hand gestures and repeated words such as India and Raj Kapoor (always an ice breaker in Eastern Europe), when Fridon started taking an active interest in us. He sang snatches of Raj Kapoor’s immortal song from the blockbuster hit ‘Shree 420’ – Mera joota hai Japani – and also recited in no particular order the following words – Afghanistan,
Pakistan, India, Indira Gandhi, Shiva and Dalai Lama. He even showed a well-thumbed book that had ‘Indien’ on the cover and several mythological references inside it.

Fridon, an undiscovered artist. 
I usually like photographing friendly people. They make good subjects. I find it difficult to capture sad or withdrawn people. It feels like a selfish intrusion into a private world. But after the India and Raj Kapoor exchanges, I could see that Fridon was more relaxed and even enjoying the interactions. I took out my camera and gestured whether I can take his photographs. He smiled and a glint appeared in his eyes. 

The Legend Of One-Punch Viktor

Viktor believes in actions speak louder than words.
Viktor limped into the half-grassy yard of House No. 16. His fur was black with streaks of white. He had sad eyes coupled with an air of tired acceptance. His left leg was bent at an awkward angle. It was obviously broken some time back, and since it wasn’t tended to, it became deformed. If he was in pain, he didn’t show it. He moved around quite swiftly despite his handicap. He didn’t make any pleas for food. Or attention. For a couple of days, Viktor kept the humans of House No. 16 under observation. He tentatively accepted their offering of peace - a mackerel – and proceeded to stay put. The other felines around the place gave him a wide berth. SAM (Socially Awkward Meow) anyway would dart
Sam: I have one responsibility - look cute.
in and out of the house after having her food. She was least interested in anything else as long as she got her daily grub and rub from the humans. Plus she was a cat with no pretensions of having a heart for a fight. Simple Dimple was yet to be informed by her sister, Shashikala the Charming Schemer, about the course of action required for this new presence. Shashikala believed in exercising her territorial rights at every cat-given opportunity. But she was missing in action. She had gone to judge the Desert Springs Annual Caterwauling Contest (We’re the Wailers). So, Dimple didn’t take much notice of the newcomer and was just happy to lie around doing what she does best – swat flies. She had once confided over a bowl of Whiskas that swatting imaginary flies makes her feel complete.

Simple Dimple gets her good intentions mixed up with no intentions.
The first thing Shashikala did after her return was to swat Dimple on her nose while she was dreamily swatting away. By doing so, she broke one of the main codes that cats live by – Thou shalt not awake sleeping feline rudely. Shashikala then proceeded to add insult to injury by rebuking her loudly for not taking any initiative to address the issue at hand – Viktor’s presence.
Dimple, nettled by the swat and the harsh meows, went to have a word with Viktor. Not a dent was
Shashikala holds her cards close. 
made. Viktor stayed put, grooming himself while watching Dimple warily. Dimple, still very upset, decided to get physical. Fur flew. But when the dust settled, it was quite evident that it was only Dimple’s fur that flew. Both Shashikala and Dimple were shell-shocked by this display of raw aggression by Viktor.

This lame brooder was the real deal. It reminded Shashikala of one of her ex-lovers – Charlie Cinchpokli. Holy Meow! That one could fight a dozen alley cats without breaking a sweat. A warm feeling came over her. Thinking of Charlie always made her a bit woozy. Shashikala, alumnus
extraordinaire of the prestigious House of Fangs, knew Viktor was a cat from the streets and wouldn’t fall for her finishing school charms. A fragile peace was brokered. All of them kept to their own corners and despite a few snarls here and there, no major skirmishes were reported. But Shashikala kept on needling Dimple about her inability to overcome a lame cat. ‘Top cat, you aren’t.’ She’d hiss every time she passed Dimple.

That summer, two events occurred that changed the status quo. One fine humid day, Charlie
Charlie Cinchpokli - Mercenary for hire. Being mean is his business. 
Cinchpokli, stretched his way into House No. 16 and came face-to-face with his former lover. Shashikala was very surprised and was all ready to welcome him back into her life. With Charlie by her side, she had nothing to fear. But hang on. Charlie still hasn’t got over the fact that Shashikala dumped him at a garbage dump. So, he kept his distance despite the warm welcome. He had learnt the hard way that a cat can administer healing licks on all wounds, but not the ones inflicted on tender hearts. He was surprised by Shashikala’s presence though. If he had the option, he’d prefer to live far away in the next neighborhood, but he had always been a hired gun. His line of work meant he couldn’t be fussy about the places he inhabits. Even if that place houses the love of his life. The promise of regular meals is something that cannot be ignored. Especially during these recessionary times. During one of his nocturnal walks, he had bumped into a feline who told him that there’s a constant supply of food at a particular location. He could be a part of the gang provided he took care of one nasty piece of business – a lame cat named Viktor. Charlie purred happily. This seemed like one of those win-win situations. All he knew was to fight. And how. He lost count of the times he had emerged victorious. And this was a lame one. The deal was formalized with a paw shake over a half-eaten piece of Norwegian Salmon. Stolen, of course. A full moon cast its glow on this not-so-holy alliance. If this were happening deep inside an African savannah, you’d have heard a pack of hyenas laughing. Charlie thanked the feline for this offer and then remembering his manners somewhat, asked her how he should address her. ‘Dimple’ the cat smiled, ‘just call me Dimple’. Dimple walked back home dreaming of the day when Charlie would take care of Viktor and she’d get back to swatting flies in peace. And yes, shut up Shashikala too.  

Charlie can't believe his luck on landing such a sweet deal. 
The second event of that fine humid day was that Viktor disappeared. No, Charlie had nothing to do with it. He didn’t even see Viktor. Dimple felt more than a bit perplexed at the turn of events. She confided in Shashikala that she was the one responsible for hiring Charlie but now she’s not too sure whether the contract is binding. Shashikala felt a headache start from her tail as she heard Dimple out. Trust Dimple’s simple mind to land themselves in further trouble. You see, once a cat is hired for a purpose, and if that purpose disappears, the contract still stands. Charlie showed up. It’s not his fault that Viktor vanished. And now he’s entitled to his fees – the daily meals promised. Shashikala would have liked the situation if Charlie had forgiven her. But it was quite evident that he hadn’t.

So, once again, things fell into a pattern. Charlie’s pattern, that is. He was very pleased with the way
One of Charlie's many fans who dig his bad cat persona.
things have progressed. It was a nice neighborhood. Lots of trees. Lots of juicy-looking birds too. He was the biggest cat around. He could bully anybody he wanted without even the slightest retaliation. A couple of felines have been checking him out. Truth be told, he was also giving them the glad eye. His coat was shiny black with a white patch on his chest. Plus he had his bad cat reputation. A combo that drove the chicas wild. Boy, was he glad to call the shots. First, he took control of the food supplies. He made sure he ate first before the others could. He would follow the human as food was distributed and snarl at the others to maintain a safe distance. He also fancied himself as the human’s bodyguard of sorts. Not like a dog. That would be beneath him, of course. But a guard with a Samurai kind of mystique. Yes, he liked that image. Samurai Charlie. He liked it a lot.

To top it all, he could ignore Shashikala’s friendly overtures. He made a stabbing motion to his heart and grinned. Life was just perfect.

Life’s funny. Just when you think it’s perfect, it bowls a googly. Viktor going missing wasn’t just a sadistic Game of Thrones plot twist – you love a particular character, identify with it, adore it and before you know it, heads go rolling into the deep abyss of heartbreak and disappointment. A similar thing happened to Charlie Cinchpokli. The humans had served tuna chunks for lunch. The breeze was just the right side of cool. He could feel his entire body relax in anticipation of a postprandial snooze. Now only if he could get a human to stroke his chin. The mere thought made him lie on his back with his legs in the air. Beauty sleep, here I succumb to thee.

The return of Viktor stirs things up. 
At that precise moment, Viktor limped back inside House No. 16. Shashikala spat a hairball when she spotted him. Dimple uttered an oath and went scampering to Charlie’s side and committed the same crime that cats should never do – Thou shalt never wake sleeping felines rudely. Charlie opened one eye and surveyed the scene. He was ready to bite off Dimple’s head for her misdemeanor. But he was a professional. And what he saw before him was something his left paw can handle. A lame cat.  He snorted. Somebody’s in for a hiding.

Both Shashikala and Dimple realized there was something different about Viktor. His misshapen left foreleg didn’t exist any longer. There was instead a stump. Suddenly, there was no mystery behind Viktor’s disappearance. A human had taken him to a place where they make animals feel better. There a man wearing green overalls removed his damaged limb. He was taken care of. When he recovered completely, Viktor was dropped off at the same place where he was picked up – outside House No. 16.

Viktor realized things have changed. There’s an alpha male in charge of things now. And he’s spoiling for a fight. Viktor sighed. He avoided fighting as much as he could. No good comes out of it. But the world thinks very differently. He liked House No. 16. It’s peaceful as long as everybody behaved. The humans were kind too.

Charlie padded about circling him, sizing him. Shashikala and Dimple were watching a bit warily from
Simple Dimple finds a vantage position to watch the fight. 
the sidelines. Sam was also  nearby ruminating about why cats can’t co-exist in peace. It’s another thing that she prefers her own company. But she didn’t mind this distraction. There’s a part of her that enjoyed fights. Well, as long as she’s not playing a part in it.

Charlie couldn’t make up his mind. Should he just end it in seconds or make a show of it. A quick KO might be attributed to luck. Whereas a painfully orchestrated beating would show everybody who was the boss. He grinned like a Cheshire cat. He would go for the latter. Give everybody a show. Hey, he’s the big bad boss.

Charlie decided to start with a few stinging slaps. But first a good eye-to-eye showdown accompanied by lots of guttural snarls. That softens them up. Charlie danced up to where Viktor was
One-Punch Viktor - A cat that has seen life is no ordinary cat.
crouching. An instant later he realized he was flying. It would have been a nice situation if he were flying behind one of those pesky swallows. But it wasn’t a nice situation. It was, in fact, a horrible situation. All Charlie could remember (in extreme slow motion) was how Viktor stood up on his hind legs, gracefully pivoted like a Tai Chi artist, and landed a mighty right straight on his chin. A right that sent him flying over the startled eyes of Shashikala and Dimple. Charlie crashed on a pile of broken branches, surrounded by scraps of his tattered reputation.

And that’s how the legend of ‘One Punch’ Viktor was born.


The 11th Floor - Published by 101 Words


He looked at his grimy room key. (A key…in today’s age of smart access cards.) Ryan wondered whether he would reach the 11th floor in this lifetime.
The ancient lift creaked up the floors of the Sunshine Hotel agonisingly slowly. Ryan swore that he’d never entrust hotel bookings to his travel agent again.
He was the sole occupant in the lift. Yet, it kept on stopping at every floor. The flyspecked bulb glowed dimly.
A soft ding announced the arrival of his floor. But to Ryan’s consternation, it didn’t stop. The light flickered and died.

Behind him, he heard a giggle.


About 101 Words

My story 'The 11th Floor' got published on 101words.org – a platform for stories that are exactly 101 words long.

The Magic Of Mornings

Snooze buttons do a big disservice to mornings. They create a false sense of urgency. You might be a pro at hitting the snooze button without even waking up fully. But the damage has already been done. Because rush hour has already started inside your head. You start thinking of the emails you need to send out before noon. The presentation that needs to be fixed. Also, before noon. The to-do list. It doesn’t matter which side of the bed you wake up, your morning is already wearing a scowl. You mutter darkly about banishing mornings to the Mariana Trench.

But mornings deserve more than being sacrificed at the altar of snooze buttons. After all, they don’t
storm in like a band of teenagers entering their college canteen after two back-to-back classes. Or like boisterous relatives dancing their bellies out at a wedding. Far from it. They have the gentle demeanour of the friendly neighbourhood GP of your childhood days. Who   administered the same medicines, again and again. Life was uncomplicated then. It was either an upset stomach or the flu. And there was always an extra lozenge that made its way magically into your pockets. Who wouldn’t want a morning like that? Mornings glide in, gently, very gently. Its soft rays coax our feathery friends to start singing their songs of hope and promise. Even the tuxedo-clad night sky heaves a sigh of relief as it sees morning approaching wearing a tee and well-worn jeans, whistling merrily. It surrenders itself, as the inky black canvas is delicately unfurled to reveal vivid splashes of pink. There’s an air of anticipation. A quiet confidence. Stillness. And if you are really patient you could even hear your heart beat.


Mornings are special. And the earlier you wake up without resorting to snooze buttons, the more magical they become.

The Perfect Job

Both were finely cut suits. And both were perfect fits. Kevin was a bit undecided. The blue suit was a bit shiny. The black, was, well, black. A month ago, he could have never imagined this happy scenario. A problem of choice. Of suits, that too. He would have been happy if he found a clean shirt to wear. Kevin muttered a quick prayer of thanks to the bearded man upstairs. His current job has made a huge difference in his life. It’s true what they say about doors closing and opening. He wouldn’t have been where he is today if he hadn’t spilt Club Ibiza’s most expensive bubbly. On its favourite patron’s mistress. The club’s guitarist, Dan, was a special friend. He played a special number for Kevin after everybody left. It was a song called ‘The Impossible Dream’. He still remembered the lyrics.

And the world will be better for this
That one man scorned and covered with scars
Still strove with his last ounce of courage
To fight the unbeatable foe, to reach the unreachable star.

‘You are a good man, Kevin. Good things will happen to you.‘ Dan had said as he ended the song. How prophetic, Kevin thought, remembering those life-affirming moments.

Kevin had always admired the stylishly dressed crowd at the club. He often dreamt of wearing nice, smart clothes. How dreams come true. Now he could also plan a dashing entry at his cousin's wedding. And hopefully catch the attention of Patricia, his cousin’s best friend and bridesmaid. He just loved the way she carried herself on those high heels. He had a doubt though. She’s most likely an inch taller than him. Patricia had a disconcerting habit of looking through him. ‘Well, she never saw me in a suit before’ Kevin spoke aloud. Things are going to change. Fast. He made his choice. Black it is. His uncle, Ralph, had told him once - whenever in doubt, wear black. Uncle Ralph worked as an usher at a five star hotel. He could recognize class the moment it swung through the revolving doors. Class always managed to find an extra fiver or two for Uncle Ralph’s outstretched palm.

After flicking off an imaginary piece of lint Kevin squared his shoulders and examined himself critically in the mirror. He let out a slow smile as he pointed an index finger at the mirror and mouthed 'You da dude'. The new batch of clothes will be coming soon. The possibilities are endless. He just hoped the ones that catches his eye matches his size. Truly, who’d have thought the job of a cleaner at Sunshine Laundry & Dry Cleaners came with such unique perks.

A Lifeline Called Dubai Creek


Both were equally weather-beaten – the gently bobbing abra (a small wooden boat) and its ‘captain’, a wiry man with a straggly beard and deep-set eyes lying in a nest of wrinkles. I waved out at him as I started assembling my camera paraphernalia on a concrete jetty. He acknowledged my presence with a nod, while continuing to sip kadak chai from a Styrofoam cup with an unhurried air. A bunch of squawking seagulls flew around playing a frantic game of tag, swooping up and down in dizzying circles. A stiff breeze started blowing and I felt the stress of a hard week gently slipping down my shoulders. I thought to myself. I should come here more often.

I was roaming around the Dubai Creek waterfront. Guidebooks would use the word 'atmospheric' to describe it. When the Greeks stopped here during one of their many ‘let’s-see-the-world’ expeditions, they called the creek, River Zara. In those ancient days, the creek apparently extended all the way to Al Ain, located more than 130 km away. Nowadays, it flows for about 16 km before ending in the Ras Al Khor wetlands. It was around this creek where today’s iconic Dubai had its humble beginnings as a port with a natural harbor. The inhabitants kept themselves occupied with fishing, pearl farming and dhow building. Before it developed into a major trading port. 

Lingah in Iran was a big port. But port authorities over there took the momentous decision of increasing
custom dues there. A decision that certainly didn’t do their retirement funds any good. Because in a masterstroke, Dubai, introduced several trade-friendly services and facilities. And merchants started gravitating towards Dubai. Pearl farming was big in the 1920s and along with it several secondary industries grew making Dubai an important port of call. Traders from Far East Asia, Iran, India, Pakistan and East Africa sailed across seas, calm and treacherous, in their rickety pastel-hued dhows to trade with merchants in Bur Dubai and Deira, the two districts flanking the creek. 

Even today, if you walk through the various spice, textile and souks (markets) on the waterfront, you can still get a whiff of the Dubai of
yesteryears. I was fascinated by a Chinese trader negotiating terms and conditions in Arabic with a Moroccan merchant. A fact that was pointed out by Behnam, the ‘captain’, who has finished his tea and started to take an active interest in what my camera can do. He has been a sailor as long as he can remember. He started out in a dhow. Once, pirates off the coast of Aden hijacked their dhow. And he had to spend an agonizing 36 hours on an open deck without food or water till the ransom demands were met. He promised himself never to set foot on a dhow ever again. But a sailor is never comfortable on terra firma. Behnam now operates as a tourist guide of sorts. He takes passengers on 1-hour cruises along the creek. Unlike the other abras, which crisscross the creek, ferrying residents between Deira and Bur Dubai (for the princely sum of 1 dirham). Behnam’s father came from Iran sometime during the 1930s as a young man. He has never been to Iran. But has studied a bit in an Iranian school in Bur Dubai. He remembers the creek being dredged up in the 50s so that bigger ships could enter it. 

Behnam snagged a young couple eager to have an authentic abra experience. He guided the couple
onto his boat, waved out to me and disappeared amongst gaily-lit dhows languidly floating up and down the creek. The seagulls lost their boisterous air and settled down for the evening on the wooden eaves of the buildings lining the creek. I got myself a kadak chai from the same place that Behnam ordered. And slipped through the time portal called Dubai Creek to a life more simple, yet fascinating

A Story Of A Skyline

One of my earliest memories of an ‘English’ film (all Hollywood films were lumped under this category while growing up) was a sequence involving two sappy characters who couldn’t decide if they were in love with each other. Throughout the movie they kept on arguing about something or the other while running a bakery. Or was it a morgue? In an era where subtitles didn’t exist and the ear wasn’t trained enough to decipher hurried exchanges in ‘Americanese’, I was more than a little disappointed in my neighbour’s choice of film. I was more than ready to watch ‘Bloodsport’ for the 15th time. And it was available at the video store too. But then this neighbor who was almost sprouting a moustache decided to get this movie thinking there were a couple of, well, interesting scenes of an intimate nature. I didn’t have any money to contribute. So all I had to do was sit in front of the only colour TV in the building. And hope that the tape would get stuck inside and he’ll have to change the movie for something else. Maybe Bloodsport. 
I took some pleasure at the loud oath uttered by my neighbor when the end credits started rolling as soon as the warring couple finally decided to kiss. After 90 minutes. Camera zooms out turning the couple into two specks and in the process reveals the magnificent Manhattan skyline, lit up by the incandescent rays of the setting sun. And thus started my love affair with city skylines. Forget love. It had become an obsession. There was something about these skyscrapers that stood tall and proud. The thing is I could never imagine myself living in these steel and glass structures. They were too aseptic for me. Or, maybe I was afraid of the unbridled ambition that lurks in each one of them. But I was still fascinated by them. 
There was a time when I could reel off facts and figures of some of the world’s most celebrated skylines with the flair of a magician. Won a tiebreaker at a quiz once. The world’s most vertical city? Nope. Not NY. Hong Kong. When I started working in Bombay, I often ended up jumping into a ferry to Mandhwa Jetty or Elephanta Island on weekends or during Diwali to escape the crowds. I’d head straight for the upper deck and enjoy the cool breeze while watching Bombay’s skyline disappear. And during the return journey later in the evening, refreshed and eager to start another week, I eagerly watched out for the twinkling lights of the skyline stretching from Nariman Point to Worli. I used to get into a Bhiku Mhatre kind of mode - Mumbai ka king kaun? For all of five seconds. 
Dubai happened a decade ago. The day I landed, I was received at the airport by the Man Friday of the ad agency I joined. I was then driven straight to the agency at the other end of town. A journey that necessitated hurtling straight down Sheikh Zayed Road. I had read a lot about the famed Dubai skyline. But still wasn’t prepared as the jaw-dropping skyline came into view. I almost felt like I was in an ‘English’ film.As I gushed about Dubai’s tall spires jutting proudly into the sky, the Dubai veterans, the ones who came before the Sheikh Zayed stretch was built, smiled patronizingly and sort of conveyed the message that I came a decade late. Enjoy the view. We, however, watched this view being built. 
It was around 2005 when I heard rumours of massive skyscrapers being built along a stretch called Dubai Marina and JBR. ‘It’s going to be spectacular’. A friend who saw the architectural renditions murmured helpfully. So, one fine Friday afternoon, I set out for this location, which was apparently very difficult to find. I switched on my inner GPS and after just a couple of wrong turns, found myself at a location, which is now referred to as the JBR Beach. I parked the car and walked a little further down the beach, right to the water’s edge. I watched as gigantic cranes transported construction material swiftly and precisely to a series of half-constructed high rises. Tiny figures, high above, strode around purposefully in the manner of worker ants. After almost an hour, a man wearing a hard hat and a scowl approached me and told me in no uncertain terms that I was in dangerous territory. I assured him that I had no intention of troubling my medical insurance provider. I strode away with a happy heart. I knew the way to this place. And I know how to befriend people. So, there was no way I am going to miss seeing a spectacular skyline being created. 
(This photo of the Dubai Marina and JBR skyline was taken in 2015. From the Palm Jumeirah. Two iconic developments that I’ve been a part of. Now, that makes me a Dubai veteran too, I guess.)

A Dance Less Ordinary

‘What shall we do today?’
‘The same thing that we did yesterday. Walk a bit. Eat a lot. Stare at the paddy fields.’
‘Great. I was thinking the same.’

It’s easy to slip into low gear while in Bali. The entire island has been designed for this purpose. Of course, there are some who wake at 2am (question: why sleep if you have to wake up at 2?) and drive an hour or so to reach the base of Mt. Batur (an active volcano) from where they have to climb up for views of the crater. In darkness. While scrabbling for dear life. The view from the top is spectacular. Well, it has to be worth the superlative. Otherwise why would anyone wake up when they haven’t slept at all? And yes, you can also have eggs boiled in a hot spring pool after all that trekking.

I was looking forward to some much-deserved R&R in Bali’s cultural capital, Ubud. And definitely not climbing up a mountain in the wee hours of the morning. In fact, my visit was restricted to not doing much, except go for long walks soaking in the greenery and watching the famous Balinese dances.

Despite its natural attractions, the hypnotic appeal of Balinese dances could easily become the highlight of a trip to Bali. Ubud offers a fine buffet of cultural performances. These performances are held in various temple courtyards. Come evening, you'll find leaflets being handed out informing people about the various dances they can choose from - Baris, Legong, and the utterly enchanting, Kecak dance. We went for a Kecak dance performance at the atmospheric Pura Dalem temple complex in Ubud. It was about the abduction of Sita, Lord Rama’s wife, by the king of Lanka, Raavan.

Kecak was originally a trance ritual. It was in the 1930s when it was adapted as a dance drama based on tales from the Hindu epic, Ramayana. A group of bare-bodied men wearing sarongs sit around a lamp and chant in a mesmerizing manner while performers in grand costumes enact various scenes from the Ramayana.The men slip into a trance and constantly chant 'chak-a-chak-chak-chak', basically imitating a troupe of monkeys. Throughout the performance, there's no music, only variations of this chant. Sometimes high-pitched, at times low. Every now and then, the entire troupe would go quiet and there would be sharp individual cries adding to the drama. It's popularly known as the Monkey Dance, which I felt was a demeaning way to describe such a fine dance. In the olden days, when attention spans were greater, a Kecak performance would continue throughout the night. There are times when the troupe of men would number about 150. It's only since 2006, that women have started performing this dance. As the evening's stunning performance came to an end, everybody sat quietly absorbing the atmosphere. Almost willing it to start again.

A couple of days later, not been able to get the mesmeric 'chak-chak' chants out of our system, we drove to the iconic Ulawatu temple for yet another Kecak performance. Located high above the cliffs overlooking the Java Straits, the setting was spectacular to say the least. This time it was the mighty Hanuman's tale - how he went looking for Sita in Lanka and in the process razed it to the ground.
Ulawatu was like rush hour at any soulless city. People jostled each other. Monkeys snatched shiny objects and hissed at their cousins. Touts roamed around everywhere with an air of importance. We missed the intimate atmosphere of the Pura Dalem temple.

The performance began just as the sun was dipping its toes somewhere on the horizon. I can easily use the word ‘spectacular’ here without worrying about travel clichés. But unfortunately, I can’t say the same for the performance. There was a lot of playing to the gallery with occasional phrases in English such as 'No problem' tossed at the crowd. We were a bit disappointed despite the dramatic location. But then the grand climax more than made up for it.

It may not have been as good as the first performance in Ubud, but the Ulawatu Kecak performance had its own memorable moments.

The Barcelona Files

Barri Gothic or the Gothic Quarter of Barcelona can stroll into any Hitchcockian whodunit without raising any eyebrows. As I walked briskly down a narrow cobbled lane on a chilly December night, I couldn’t help thinking that a trench coat and a fedora would have been more appropriate than my jacket and muffler combination. A lit cheroot would have been also welcome. Along with a steely gaze and gravelly voice that could make a lowlife sing like a canary. And yes, a double-crossing femme fatale with a .22 Beretta would have been welcome too.

A low growl from my belly hauled me back to the present. I had completely lost track of time while photographing the various nooks and corners of Barri Gothic. It was only when I realized that shutters were being downed that I shoved my camera back into my bag and headed towards an eatery near my apartment building. It was small but served delicious fare at prices that didn’t make eyes water. I arrived just in time to say buenas noches to the owner who had just finished padlocking the café. He then instructed me to head to a square where I’d definitely find some restaurants open. And that’s where I was heading hurriedly while imagining myself to be a lead character in a Dashiell Hammett novel. 

I found myself at a brightly lit plaza with the demeanor of a wealthy man who knows that recession
or not, he’d always be in business. There was only one restaurant open. And it looked like it had a Michelin-star or two. A swish set was quietly enjoying their tapas and wine. A lady in red was plunking at a piano in a desultory manner. That should have been warning enough. Yet I risked a glance at the menu that was displayed helpfully on a wooden stand. My doubts were confirmed. A meal here could blow a hole the size of Barcelona in my travel budget. Before anybody could approach me and before I had to resort to my act of 'Oh, I just like to admire menus in foreign languages', I made good my escape.  I hurtled down an alleyway inhabited by caterwauling cats and mysterious shadows. I was a bit desperate now. And having ventured down an unquestionably shady lane, I was getting a slight attack of the heebie-jeebies too. Enough people have warned about the dangers of walking down dubious alleys at night. However atmospheric they might be. It was then I spotted Felip standing ramrod-straight below a neon sign that declared it to be a cafeteria. Before I could ask whether it’s open, Felip bowed, clicked his heels and threw the door open. But not before he cast a glance up and down the street. It was mildly exciting actually. If food was not on the agenda, I might have been meeting a key witness who would have died before the evening was over. All because he had the poisoned rabbit stew that was meant for me.

Felip looked like he had also just finished casting for a period film. The Spanish version of Hercule Poirot minus the twirling moustache and the clipped tones. He was a dapper man. Probably featured in Bertie Wooster’s famed article ‘What the well-dressed gentleman is wearing.’ In his heydays, he had obviously made quite an impression on the ladies with his snazzy sense of dressing. He fixed a quivering eye and a twitching eyebrow on me and recommended the house specialty. Which seemed to be everything on the menu. Felip observed my confused expression. He mentioned the one dish that everybody knows is Spanish – paella. Trivia: the origins are actually Venetian.
‘Actually, I had paella for lunch. Can you recommend something else?’ I asked, very mindful of the ‘beggars and choosers’ saying.
‘You haven’t had my paella.’ Felip declared. And then added, a bit haughtily, ‘It’s the best paella in the entire Catalan region.’
‘So, is Catalan paella different from Spanish paella?’
Felip looked like he got an appendectomy without any anesthesia. His voice almost trembled as he said, ‘Catalans are not Spanish. We have our own language, culture and cuisine. We were arm-twisted to become a part of Spain. But very soon we’ll be independent. Madrid is nothing compared to Barcelona. The biggest businesses of Spain are here. We contribute more to the economy.’ Felip went on passionately for at least 10 minutes about how Catalans are more enterprising, hardworking and successful than the Spanish. He ended with, ‘I am a proud Catalan and I’d like very much to serve you our special Catalan paella.’

I was too hungry to get into a debate. So, I weakly nodded my consent. Felip again clicked his heels
and marched off in the direction of the kitchen. I finally got a chance to look around. Despite the humble signage outside, the place was quite large. And empty. There was not even another waiter in sight. I started wondering whether Felip was rustling up the paella in the kitchen. Though I could swear I heard a woman’s voice. Right on cue, a matronly woman appeared holding a plate of grilled potatoes, cut into neat cubes and another plate of shrunken eggs (I learnt later that they were quail eggs).

‘Tapas’ she smiled as the plates were placed before me. ‘Tapas’ or appetizers are a staple of Spanish/Catalan cuisine. They could be cold or hot and range from fried chorizo (slices of sausage), seafood (squid, anchovies, cod), quail eggs to mixed cheese and olives. People usually order the house special and several plates of tapas to go with long, animated discussions. I simply started wolfing them down. The potato cubes had enough salt in them to give the Dead Sea a run for its money. The woman decided that she had exhausted her social manners for the day by saying ‘Tapas’ and smiling. She quietly retreated to a corner and switched on a TV. A talk show came on where everybody seemed to be in great spirits. Probably the studio was serving better quality of tapas.

Felip made his entrance again from another corner of the restaurant. He waved at some imaginary diners, stumbled against a chair and somehow caught his balance before his nose harpooned a quail egg. He looked very displeased with himself. But he gathered himself together and announced that the special paella would be served now. He cast a glance at the woman who was obviously quite thirsty. She was downing copious amounts of the house sangria. Felip snorted with annoyance and headed to the kitchen with his head held high. 

The ‘Catalan Paella’ was good. Hearty would be a more appropriate term. No complaints on that front. Except that there were four mussel shells but I found only two morsels of mussel. But was it the best paella I ever had. Hard to say considering I had paella on three occasions before. Twice in Dubai and only once in Spain. Felip, however, was having none of that ambivalence. He kept on repeating ‘Best paella, no? Because it’s Catalan paella.’ I vigorously nodded my approval. The talk show had changed to a news programme. An anchor was laughing hysterically. They must be lacing the tapas with something strong. As I scooped the last of the paella from the pan, Felip presented the bill with a flourish. I winced a bit. It was on the higher side. But then I reasoned with myself. This was no ordinary dish. It was the best paella in all of Spain. I should be thanking my lucky stars. It's actually a bargain.

The Great Singaporean Food Crawl

Head to the Marina Bay Sands Hotel for views of this former swamp.
It was a long flight. Nine hours. I whiled away time productively – watched three films, caught 80 winks, even indulged in my favourite in-flight daydream - overpowering suave hijackers with high-tech weapons. I was glad though when the twinkling lights of Singapore appeared below. The first thing that struck me when the wheels of my flight kissed the tarmac at Changi was that it’s dinnertime. But Murphy was also on the same flight. And as usual he had other plans. First, he caused confusion at the immigration counters by causing a system break down. So, everybody had to wait for the erstwhile relatively simple act of putting stamp on paper. Stern looking immigration officials glared at everybody. As if it was a virus unleashed by one of the waiting souls. Next Murphy decided to make my only piece of luggage appear on a different conveyor belt instead of the allocated one. Forget the usual efficient 15-20 minutes; it took more than an hour to extricate myself from the clutches of Changi. By the time, I collected my luggage, grabbed a taxi and reached my hotel, it was almost 11. My partner (who had reached a day before) was in a state of euphoria after having sampled the enticing wares of a nearby Hawkers Centre (Singaporean for food court). She had though very thoughtfully packed six pieces of sushi for me as a midnight treat. She had assumed that the airline would provide dinner. Which, in the time-tested manner of most assumptions, was wrong. After reading so much about the superlative street food culture of Singapore, I definitely didn’t think that my first Singaporean meal would comprise of six forlorn looking pieces of sushi on a white Thermocol plate. I almost shed a tear. 

I woke up next morning, bleary-eyed, straggly-tailed, and a stomach growling in anticipation. We had
National University of Singapore. Green and full of character.
 a day devoted to all things grilled, steamed, fried, etc. There was not a moment to lose. First stop was the National University of Singapore where my bro-in-law was studying. Probably the most beautiful campus, I’ve been to. Varying shades of soothing green. Stately buildings. Even a corridor where apparently things go bump in the night. And of course, the buzzing food court. Correction. Quiet-as-a-library food court. It was a Sunday. And hence, closed. But Lord Ganesha, the remover of obstacles, heard my anguished pleas, and conjured up a canteen a short walk away from the main campus. 
Finally, after almost 16 hours of being in Singapore, I got the opportunity to unleash my appetite. Vietnamese Meat Balls in a spicy broth. Diced intestines of some animal fried with chilies. A first. Delicious. Singaporean fried rice with chicken. A staple favourite of the residents. Everything washed down with freshly squeezed lemon juice. This time, I almost wept with joy.

Ice-cream bread. Tastes as good as it looks.
Later in the afternoon, we decided to do what most residents of Singapore do in the weekends – head to Clarke Quay, a smorgasbord of restaurants, museums, bars, clubs, etc. built along Singapore river. We walked the entire length of Clarke Quay almost to the Marina Bay Sands Hotel. An exercise that helped in digesting lunch and more importantly envision a strategy for dinner.  It also gave us the opportunity to sample ‘ice-cream bread’. It is what the name suggests. A generous slab of ice cream wedged in between two slices of bread. A refreshing respite from the muggy weather. You can enjoy this break gawking at the colourful boats going up and down the river. I waved out to the tourists in these boats. They waved back thinking its some friendly Singaporean. And just like that I did my bit to enhance a nation’s reputation while enjoying a well-deserved break. 

The serious business of eating. A favourite pastime of Singaporeans.
Our next destination was one of Singapore’s famous food courts in Chinatown – Maxwell Food Centre – where it was refreshing to see that instead of smartphones, food act as conversation stoppers. As far as my eyes could see, well, about a 100-odd metres or so, I found myself staring at jaws champing rhythmically, occasionally stopping to imbibe frothy beverages.  A long row of stalls took centerstage while people milled around them in the manner of ants around a picnic basket.  

To whet appetites, watch the chefs cook.
It was a gastronomic version of Alladin’s cave. Chefs and their assistants bustled about with the efficiency of a well-trained army. Woks didn’t get a moment’s respite. Flames leapt around playfully as steaming heaps of noodles or rice or meat was tossed into them. One chef diced onions in a blur while another sliced succulent pieces of duck hanging from a hook with the delicate precision of a surgeon. Each of these char-grilled pieces falling softly atop a bed of steaming Singaporean fried rice or noodles. 
If you are on a diet, you might want to avoid coming here.
At another stall, a man with an expression full of intent was conjuring up plates of Singapore Chili Crab in the manner of a production line in a factory. One plate served. He tapped a little bell. It got whisked away. Another plate served. Another gentle ‘ting’ of the bell. It was a sensory overload. Besides these food stalls, there were older, established restaurants. Some boast of 1000-year-old recipes, while others carry endorsements of connoisseurs. The Tian Tian stall’s Hainanese Chicken Rice made Anthony Bourdain incoherent with joy. A photograph bears testimony to this fact. Most of these restaurants have regulars flocking to them. Eating out is a national pastime of Singaporeans. So, business is always good. In fact, it’s so good that in a country where owning a car is akin to a king’s ransom, most of the stall owners have a Merc or a BMW parked just down the road.

Yes, it's a 'spoilt for choice' scenario here.
As glazed-eyed diners holding bowls and plates heaped with delectable food floated past me, I panicked a bit. I was not sure if I’d be able to do justice to these culinary masterpieces. I didn’t even know where to start. I then took a deep breath and decided to let my sense of vision and olfactory glands guide me. In short, whatever looked good and had an appetizing aroma found its way to my plate. I headed back to my hotel with a happy song in my heart playing in a continuous loop.

The Catch Of The Day



A Zanzibari 'ngalawa', carved out of a mango tree.
It was a peaceful morning in Jambiani, a small fishing village located on the southeast coast of Zanzibar. The birds chirped merrily. The waves whispered softly amongst themselves. Even the Colobus monkeys from the nearby Jozani Forest Reserve were in a state of contemplation rather than jumping up and down on the mud-tiled roofs. The morning didn’t start too well for Ali though. He woke up feeling feverish and couldn’t join the rest of the menfolk to fish in the high seas in their ‘ngalawas’ or boats carved out of mango trees. But since he had a family to feed, he considered the options before him – head out to the beach or hang around the resorts selling ‘village tours’, ‘dolphin tours’ etc. to tourists. He quickly discarded the second option. The season was yet to start and there were hardly any tourists to be seen. He also didn’t feel like faking a smile and indulging in a sales patter when his entire body was burning up. There have been many occasions when tourists have feigned interest only to back out at the last minute. He had more faith in the sea. Or, rather the beach, on this occasion.

During low tide, the sea in Jambiani recedes almost 3 km exposing a wide swathe of beach. While the men head out to fish, the women of Jambiani wait for the tide to recede so that they can rummage in the tidal flats for clams, sea cucumber, moray eels and shellfish. With ever depleting fish stocks, there’s no guarantee that the men would return with a good catch. So every little bit helps.

Ali walked quite further than the rest, under a blazing sun, ignoring a persistent headache. He knew a
coral rock pool right at the water’s edge. Often, fish get trapped in it while the tide receded. As the pool came in sight, Ali muttered a quick prayer. If someone had put a madema or a baited basket trap in it, it’s quite likely whatever fish was there in the pool was already inside the trap. And he obviously couldn’t help himself to a fellow villager’s catch. He really hoped nobody had got to the pool before him. He waded into the pool, eyes expertly scanning the clear water. No madema. No sign of any fish darting around. A bit anxious, he went deeper; the water was up to his waist now. And then he spotted a big ‘pweza’ or an octopus lurking at the farthest edge of the pool. A largish octopus means he could sell it for a good price at the Red Monkey beach shack.

Ali smiled with relief. His family won’t go hungry today.

Finding the sweet spot


Last minute jitters on the way to the airport. ‘Quick, check whether we got the passports. Damn! Did I pack the spare camera battery?’ A long flight. A long flight on a budget airline. ‘We need to pay for watching movies? Forget it. Let’s catch up on our reading. Or sleep. Or try to read minds. I bet the purser just thought of an imaginative invective as he served that pesky brat with a cultivated nasal twang. Okay. Let's passenger watch. See that guy in 21F. Look how his nostril hair merges so artfully with his moustache.’ So we kept ourselves busy with whatever people used to do before in-flight entertainment was introduced.

Jambiani beach. Hours of meditative contemplation are par for the course.
Many hours later we land on an island that screensaver daydreams are made of. An island that has captured and fuelled the imagination of many - Zanzibar. We stride confidently towards the immigration officials sporting confident smiles that belie the butterflies staging their interpretative version of Black Swan deep inside. I felt a bit uneasy. Not because of my aversion to ballet performances featuring disturbed souls. My biggest fear is that some day I’d be mistaken for somebody that exists on Interpol missives. I’d be politely asked to step aside and then whisked away in an unmarked car before anyone can say Shawshank Redemption twice. My BMI would reduce from an unhealthy 31 to a respectable 23 as my body violently rejects the daily over-ripe banana served at my solitary cell. My better half would write a bestseller about her struggle to find me. MGM would buy the rights for an astronomical figure. Jackie Chan’s sidekick would win his first Oscar playing me. Well, I’d prefer Matthew McConaughey. But I am not that delusional about my looks. 

The Coral Rock Hotel restaurant serves moments that last forever.
But today was not that day. A few cursory glances (From India? I'd have thought Indonesia.) and some efficient stamping later, we were out of the airport. A sun that would make anybody from the British Isles think he’s Keats reincarnated, welcomed us. We checked into our temporary home, trying to align our energies together, seeking that one reassuring factor. The sweet spot that sort of vindicates our decision to stay in a faraway village resort during low season. The room, tasteful. The bed, firm. The views, spectacular. The vibe was good. But it hadn't hit that spot yet. You know the feeling. You meet a potential partner. There's nothing that you don't like about her/him. But there's that niggling doubt. You still need that one clincher. And then we headed to the restaurant. The rest, as they say, is a subject that we all studied in school.

I Am Sam


Meet Sam, short for Socially Awkward Meow. Sam adopted us when her utterly clueless mom, Hello Kitty, succumbed to peer pressure and went back to her ‘hot-kitty-seeking-divided-attention-from-misguided-toms’ days without even a second glance at Sam. She was last seen hanging out with the highly despicable resident tomcat, Mr. Jinx. It can be said of Mr. Jinx that forget taking him him home for a cup of milk, you won’t bother wishing him a friendly greeting. He is a bad hissing ball of fur.

To get back to Sam, life was quite hunky dory in the beginning. Attention was showered on her, and well, she lapped it up. And then came a sister act - Shashikala (named after the 60’s actress who wouldn’t have recognized a good intention even if it had landed as a juicy sardine on her plate) and Dimple (not named after the sultry actress but after the character named Dimple in the movie ‘99’ – a hired goon) - into the scheme of things. And scheme they did. It so happened that these two sisters were the original inhabitants of the house. They were relocated to another part of town and then unceremoniously dumped back after some months. The sisters were understandably not too pleased with the state of affairs. First of all, they got uprooted from familiar surroundings. No self-respecting cat likes that. All that marking of territories means something. And just when they were getting used to their new surroundings, they found themselves back in their old neighbourhood. Heck! They were just getting used to the second-hand IKEA sofa with questionable stains. After all, it takes time to find the sweet spot. They weren't too happy to find Sam lording over their former pad. Truth be told, in the beginning, they did try a ‘Live and let live’ approach. ‘Hey, there’s plenty of fish around for everyone, capisce?’

But Sam had unresolved anger issues thanks to her abandonment by Hello Kitty. She also suffered from a ‘tough cat’ syndrome. Sam decided on a strategy adopted by the erstwhile East India Company i.e. whatever I see is all mine. It worked for East India Company for a century or two. Sam’s aggressive approach backfired spectacularly, instantly. Trained in the Mao School of Sharp Claws, both Shashikala and Dimple, gave Sam quite a few lessons in paw-to-paw fighting. More Dimple, than Shashikala, actually. Dimple, you see, is quite simple. If this was a theatrical production of Riverdale, no prizes for guessing who would have landed the role of Big Moose. Shashikala would just need to make a threatening snarl and Dimple would fly past her. Shashikala would then calmly groom herself, as fur would fly in all directions.


Sam realized she misjudged the whole situation. Her foes were formidable. She observed other cats quietly pay their respects to Shashikala and Dimple, and share the daily rations quite amiably. But not having grown up with feline company, she didn’t know how to lap the bowl of peace. So, she decided on an approach that most human beings adopt quite successfully – live like a coward. Sam found digs on the roof of our neighbor's house. A vantage point from where she would keep an eye out for Shashikala and Dimple. She soon figured out that they were creatures of habit. Every morning, they would need their S&S – sunbathing and siesta. The moment she spotted their supine bodies stretched out languidly soaking in the warm rays of the morning sun, Sam would make her way very, very, cautiously to our kitchen for her morning chow. After her meal, she would quietly crawl back to her bedroom thinking if only she had approached the situation a bit gently.

Peace, love and solitude in Stepanavan

I travel to get far away from glitzy city lights. So, unsurprisingly, I often find myself in places that offer more than a quiet moment or two. And whenever I find my way to such a place, I try to capture one moment through my lens. A moment that sums up its essence. A couple of years ago, I was in Stepanavan, an unpretentious Armenian town with the air of a kind relative. The uncle who quietly slips you some money without making a big fuss about it. The aunt who makes your favourite dish after a long day at work. Basically, a small town with a big heart.

Stepanavan is located in the Lori district, a region known for its pine-forested mountains and a climate that injects vital doses of life into sick and tired souls. Especially souls sullied by the world of deadlines, mortgages and smarter-than-the-smartest smartphones. It was popular for its restorative powers during the Soviet era. Influential leaders apparently headed to the town to wrap their heads around concepts such as glasnost and perestroika; and indulge in a bit of R&R while at it. Stepanavan has been cleverly designed not to offer anything much in terms of activities. You can walk the length and breadth of it in about 45 minutes. That is, if you are walking really, really slowly. Everything happens around the Stepanavan town centre, named after its favourite son, Stepan Shahumian, a dashing Bolshevik revolutionary.

Wizened retirees occupy the main square, which is basically a rectangle, during the day. They soak in the mild sun, munching on sunflower seeds, while reminiscing about the Soviet days. Opinion is sharply divided though whether those memories are good or bad. Come afternoon, the older generation gently disappear into the dusky lanes leaving the benches vacant for teenagers in faux leather jackets eager to strike up conversations while, surprise, surprise, munching on sunflower seeds. In between, young couples with or without little ones running in all directions attempt to spend some quiet moments with one another. Yes. Packets of Sunflower seeds make an appearance here too. You can pause to savor this gentle pace of life before heading to spend some quality time in Stepanavan's only restaurant. The time factor comes in for two reasons. 1. It takes time to decipher the Armenian menu. 2. In case, deciphering was unsuccessful, you'll need to wait for other people to be served. That way you can just point to the plate and make motions of eating. A gesture guaranteed to cut through all language barriers.

Stepanavan also acts as a base from which one can explore the countryside.
One day, we ended up training our sights on the Lori Fort, located on the  plateau of the Dzoraget river canyon - a good 5km walk away. What started out as a gentle walk turned into a full-blown trek. All because we decided to trek down a steep canyon to the Dzoraget river and splash around in a pool of icy water. Another day, we went to a botanical park nearby, Dendropark, full of trees big and small. And flowers plenty. While roaming around the park, we came across a painter duo, quietly painting away while some feathered beauties chirped enthusiastically around them. Without much ado, I then captured the essence of Stepanavan. 

What's in a profession?

While travelling by local trains, or ‘locals’ in Bombay, one gets to meet a wide cast of characters. The quiet ones. The serial mutterers. The bhajan singers. The card sharps. The scammers. The ‘let-me-use-your-shoulder-as-a-pillow’ sleep addicts. The newspaper snatchers. The nose miners. It was like a daily lottery. If I found myself next to a quiet one, I’d mentally high-five myself. The most feared amongst these were the talkers. 

Let me give you an example. You had a long day. Maybe you are looking at a working weekend. Your spirits are low. Understandably tired, and more than a bit uncomfortable because you have been wearing tight jeans all day long. You just want to reach home. You caught the 20:15 Andheri slow. You manage to slide into the only empty seat in the compartment. Your weary bottom sighs with relief as it comes into contact with the seat. You find your eyes closing involuntarily. You are just about to surrender yourself to 30 minutes of merciful sleep. And then you find a finger jabbing your rib cage. Your eyes fly open and you find yourself staring into the eyes of a talker. For the remaining part of your journey, you will be answering one inane question after another. Long day? Is that new film starring Uday Chopra worth a watch? Do you want to know why the boss’s secretary arranged for Pepsi to be served at our monthly meeting instead of Coke? Do you have life insurance? Actually, even if you answer in monosyllables, it’s fine. A talker just needs an audience. The question is just a ploy for him to start talking.

I ended up sitting next to one such talker once. After a rather frustrating and long day too. He was dressed in a sherwani that could have given stiff competition to the shiny decor of Daisy Bar, our agency’s favourite watering hole. The talker was regaling his more soberly dressed companions with his exploits at a wedding they attended. How he ensured everything happened smoothly. But forget about  having the decency to offer him a taxi ride back home; they didn't even offer him a second glass of Rooh Afza. He was hurt. But, this is life. You do good. But don't expect anything back in return. Saying this, he turned his attention to me. Usually my modus operandi in these situations is to sport a glazed look, sniff repeatedly, and ask for money. That shuts them up. Maybe because I had a day in which a client was breathing down my neck ramming his unpalatable ideas down my throat, I decided enough is enough. It was time to throw caution to the winds. Live life dangerously, I thought. Take on a talker. The opening gambit was predictably silly.

‘Where are you going?’ Mr. Sherwani Kumar beamed at me.

‘To Mannat.’ I replied with a touch of aplomb.

To the uninitiated, Mannat is the residence of the king of Bollywood, Shah Rukh Khan. Every Mumbaikar knows the residences of big film stars by their names. Jalsa, for example, is Amitabh Bachchan’s residence. Salman Khan lives in Galaxy Apartments. I had judged Sherwani Kumar rightly to be a big Bollywood fan. Who isn’t, actually? The bait was taken. Sherwani looked disbelievingly at me.

‘Shah Rukh’s Mannat?’
‘How many other Mannat’s do you know?’ An attitude helps to lend credence to facts being stated.
‘At this hour?’
‘These are stars, my friend. They snap their fingers and we come running.’
‘What do you do there?’
‘I am part of the kitchen staff. I am a Taste Master’

Befuddled looks all around. Now Sherwani Kumar is obviously a know-it-all. So, it took a lot of courage to ask the next question.

‘What does a Taste Master do?

I looked at him, a bit haughtily.

‘Shah Rukh and I have similar taste buds. Whatever is spicy for me is spicy for him. If I find something salty, rest assured, he would also find it salty. So, whatever food is cooked in the kitchen, first I need to taste it, give my approval and only then it’s served to Shah Rukh. Even Gauri goes by my recommendation. The other day, she made kheer and I told her that’s too sweet. And she didn’t serve it.’

Sherwani Kumar didn’t know what to say. His companions were staring at me open-mouthed. He quickly glanced at his companions with a look that indicated ‘don’t worry, I will figure this fraud out. Taste Master, eh!’

He desperately tried to get the spotlight back to him by questioning my official status.

‘But I have never heard of taste masters before.’

I shot back.

‘Do you work with film stars, my friend? If emperors and kings had personal tasters, can’t the Badshah of Bollywood have a personal taster of his own?’

Sherwani Kumar stared out of the window the rest of the journey. I hardly could stop myself from exulting with joy.


It really felt good to silence a talker.

The Race

I was about to leave for office when a flurry of emails landed in my inbox with the precision of an air strike. My heart sank as I briefly glanced at the subject matter. A launch of a new product is underway. Last-minute jitters. Doubts. Ego battles – why designation XYZ’s suggestion wasn’t incorporated in the communication. Well, Sir, because it made as much sense as civet droppings without coffee beans in it. Of course, the previous sentence existed only as a thought blurb. So yes. It was going to one of those dreaded days. Full of misplaced rage and carefully worded pleas for reworking the entire ad campaign.

I stepped out of the house and headed to my car. A little boy, about 5 years old, had parked his tricycle beside my car and was petting a cat oblivious to the world. As I got into the car, he drew himself up to his full height of 40 inches or so. The moment I switched on the ignition, he started pedaling away furiously. I drove as slowly as I could ensuring there was enough distance between us. Our little cyclist meanwhile had reached the community gate beyond which he was obviously not allowed to venture out. As I slowly passed him, I told him 'Your cycle is faster than my car'. I could almost see his tiny chest swell up in pride. He waved out merrily, smiling broadly all the time.

 Suddenly, the day ahead didn’t seem to matter any longer. Long live innocence.

A Journey Between Two Capes

‘So, we are going to the Cape of Good Hope?’ I asked Scott, our designated chaperone, a burly Zimbabwean. A bit distracted, he replied ‘Yes. We are heading to Cape Point. We are taking the circular route.’ I got a bit confused and seeing Scott trying to maneuver our car between two directionally challenged drivers, I decided not to bother him. Instead, I opened a guidebook. And everything became clear.

Table Mountain dwarfs everything else in Cape Town. However, what many visitors are not aware of (or maybe, I was the exception), that Table Mountain is a world heritage site that extends all the way from the iconic Signal Hill in the north to Cape Point in the south. If one so desires, one can even trek all the way.
Table Mountain always stands tall.
It takes about five days. That’s five days of trekking through magnificent valleys, glistening bays and windswept beaches with some of the planet’s most diverse flora and fauna for company. Cape Point is part of the Cape peninsula that consists of the Cape of Good Hope too. It sounds simple once one knows the details. So, yes, we were heading to the Cape peninsula where we’d take the funicular to the Cape Point lighthouse and look out to Antarctica and after that head down to the Cape of Good Hope, located just a few minutes drive away. And we are taking a circular route that starts from Cape Town, a distance of almost 150 kilometres.  

Kalk Bay on the M4 highway.
Scenic and dramatic. Two words that describe the M4 coastal route to Cape Point best. Here’s a rider though. It’s a 90-minute drive from Cape Town only if you have the steely determination of Wall Street bankers obsessed with their year-end bonuses. However, if you are blessed with the soul of an explorer, you’ll find that time expands to give you the opportunity to explore the pretty towns and atmospheric fishing villages dotting the coast. All with singularly attractive names – Kalk Bay (great seafood restaurants), Simons Town (naval base), False Bay (whale-spotting opportunities), Muizenberg (magnificent waves), etc.  Dip a toe in one of the many beaches where the surf pounds relentlessly. Or, crack open a couple of cold ones in a restaurant while you wait for the daily catch to arrive at your table, grilled, steamed or fried. And then maybe grab a sundae while peering intelligently at fishing paraphernalia at bait and tackle outlets. Look out for the exit sign though. If they recognize you as an imposter, for all you know, you might end up as shark bait.

I found Scott, a fount of trivia, to be a much better option than the guidebook. I always feel queasy reading while travelling by road. Also, it was much easier to gawk at the passing scenery and pepper him with questions instead of poring down at the guidebook while resisting the urge to regurgitate the sandwich I had for breakfast. When we crossed Muizenberg, Scott mentioned that during the whale-spotting season, one could see whales frolicking in the sun. Seeing us craning our necks eagerly, he added with a wry smile, ‘Well, mates, during whale-spotting season, which is not now’. We sat back, a bit sheepishly.

Boulders Beach is a protected marine environment. 
But penguin spotting was very much on the cards when we pulled into the parking lot at Boulders Beach – home to an African Penguin colony. Scott, however, couldn’t under any circumstances, be described as a big fan of penguins. He didn’t understand why everybody is so fascinated with them. He had on several occasions driven let’s-visit-the-land-our-ancestors-called-home Dutch tourists straight from the airport to Boulders Beach to see the peengooins. Apparently that’s how the Dutch pronounce penguins. The African Penguin colony on Boulders Beach is spread across three pristine beaches and sheltered coves. About 2000 African Penguins live here. We invited Scott to join us on the walkway leading to the penguin viewing points. He made a little kicking motion. Someday, he might just get tempted to kick one. So, it’s better that he keeps his distance. There are park officials around. Plus, it wouldn’t look on his CV, I guess. Spent time in jail for kicking a penguin.

I think Scott was just plain jealous about the penguins. I don’t blame him. They live in a protected
African Penguin. A species endemic to South Africa.
environment. Protected by the government as well as nature. Boulders Beach has big boulders (no surprises there) that stand up to nasty waves and break them down to gentle swells. Not that penguins are afraid of rough seas. They might walk like Charlie Chaplin on land. But in the sea, they are like little Michael Phelps in tuxedos. It’s a safe environment to live, breed, and sunbathe. Plus, they don’t have to pay rent or taxes. Heck! If I was a little shorter, I’d have made a bespoke penguin suit and lived there quietly. Or, maybe performed a tap dance to liven up things. I can just imagine the Dutch squealing. ‘Oh look, a dancing peengooin’. And then I’d have been christened Happy Feet.

The staring contest is a regular event here.
As we walked further down the walkway, I spotted my first penguin. Actually, it spotted me first and waddled under the walkway. And then as I walked further on, I realized that the penguin was walking right below me. When I stopped, it stopped. When I resumed walking, it also started walking. I was fascinated. When we reached the viewing point, I saw dozens of penguins staring back patiently at the gawking tourists clicking away with cameras of all shapes and sizes. It was a pretty funny sight actually. It was a staring game that the penguins always won.

After Boulders Beach, the road started climbing upwards leaving the heaving sea far below while clinging to the side of a lofty mountain range. Scott also got into Grand Theft Auto mode and I started getting a bit nervous. But within 20 minutes or so, we were inside the Cape Point National Park.

There's a different kind of energy at Cape Point.
Apparently, it was a pretty stormy day when a Portuguese explorer named Bartolomeau Dias, set his sights upon the Cape of Good Hope. However, it wasn’t known as the Cape of Good Hope then. It was left to the limited imagination of Bartolomeau to name it as Cabo das Tormentas or the Cape of Storms. I guess a young sailor who was entrusted with the responsibility of jotting down names of the places would have rushed to Bartolomeau’s side the moment they saw the cape. He must have been agog with excitement and like most young people, impatient to carry out his duties. He must have pestered Bartolomeau to name the cape. Bartolomeau, tired and hungry after battling the waves, must have glared at his young aide and might have muttered something to the effect of  ‘Well, my lad, didn’t you notice that it was a bit stormy today. And I can bet you my last guinea that sure it’ll be stormy tomorrow also. And the day after too. So, let’s name it – Cabo das Tormentas. Now put that down in triplicate and get my bath ready.’

John II, also from Portugal, later renamed it as the Cape of Good Hope. Named because, all of a
Cape of Good Hope. As seen from Cape Point lighthouse.
sudden, there was a route and consequently, access to the fabulous riches of the Orient. See, all these explorers knew they had to take a left somewhere from the continent of Africa to reach India. Point is, they didn’t have any reference. With the Cape of Good Hope landmark, the directions became very easy. ‘Just take a left from Cape of Good Hope and keep on going east. Mind the scurvy though.
Take lots of reading material. I’d recommend the Ulysses. Good to swat those pesky flies. By the way, let me know when you establish a colony.’

I heard at least three people exclaim at the colour of the two oceans. On a day when the wind doesn’t threaten to sweep one off from the Cape Point lighthouse built in 1859, one can apparently spot the different shades of the Indian and Atlantic oceans. I tried hard. But couldn’t really differentiate between the two oceans. Later I read that the oceans merge all along the coast and not abruptly at Cape Point. Another fact that often gets buried under the excitement of standing at the southernmost point of the African continent is that it is not really the southernmost point. Cape Aguilhas, located 155km southeast of Cape Point is actually the southernmost point.

Looking out for the ghost ship - The Flying Dutchman.
As we know when two massive corporations merge, things shake up a bit. It’s similar when two oceans meet. Obviously there’s going to be some churn. Where only the fittest survive. The rough seas around the cape have sent several ships to the bottom. Most famous of them is the Flying Dutchman, a Dutch warship. The ship battled long against the stormy seas but ultimately perished. Regular ghostly sightings of the Flying Dutchman in full sail were officially reported till the turn of the 19th century. Even now, when the wind howls for days on end, the clouds darken and the waves rear high, people try to spot the Flying Dutchman cutting through the waves. This is despite the fact that it’s supposed to be a bad omen to spot it. I guess some do like to live their lives a bit dangerously.

I didn’t see the Flying Dutchman. It wasn’t that kind of day. Thankfully. But it was difficult not to feel a different kind of energy while looking across the Atlantic from the cliffs overlooking the Cape of Good Hope. There’s a funicular that takes people to the Cape Point lighthouse. Manned by staff that dole out funny instructions with a straight face. The name of the funicular – The Flying Dutchman.

I thought the high point of the day was over as we headed back to Cape Town by the other part of
The magnificent Noordhoek beach. 
the circular route. But without hurting sentiments of the folks that live on the Kalk Bay-Simons Town-False Bay-Boulders Beach route or the M4, I’d like to say that this stretch of coastline (Noordhoek-Chapman’s Peak-Hout Bay-Llandudno-Camps Bay route) was even better. The towns and villages were prettier. The beaches were grander. But the piece de resistance was the drive to Chapman's Peak or ‘Chappies’ as it is fondly referred to. A magnificent winding road carved out of steep cliff faces. A road that is often seen in TV commercials that features flashy cars. A road that has starred in many Hollywood productions.

The drive to Chapman's Peak. Unforgettable. 
Scott used to race up and down this road when it was really narrow and the chances of overshooting a bend and plummeting down to the Atlantic was greater. But then the government had to play party-pooper. It broadened the road, strung massive iron nets on the rocks that often threatened to crush puny cars (incidents did occur, hence the nets) and basically killed the spirit of the road. ‘Nowadays, cyclists race this road.’ Scott muttered with utter disdain. ‘Whenever I cross them in their shiny bicycles, safety helmets and tight shorts, I feel a deep pain inside.’ He then made a quick swerving gesture with the steering wheel.

I fear one day some cyclist will end up in a lot of pain.  Just like a penguin.

Sunset from Chapman's Peak overlooking Hout Bay.
We made it to Chapman’s Peak just in time for a sunset in technicolour. As I soaked in a glorious palette of orange stretching across the Atlantic, I came to a conclusion. I think I know now where I want to settle down forever. 

The Pause That Refreshes

Once upon a time, much before Facebook and DVD box sets, and just after I had transited to the claustrophobic world of cubicles in big, bad Bombay, weekends suddenly got a status they never enjoyed throughout school and college days. In a manner reminiscent of a telecommercial where a decidedly chubby adult loses his baby fat due to a special magical formula and transforms into a hip model launching a new brand of ultra-hip jeans, weekends became extremely trendy. And precious. After a hard week of trying to live up to expectations of being an adult, weekends were the only time when we could throw away all appearances of being an adult.

But a typical weekend was like the fizz from the Ginger Lemonade, I used to enjoy at Iranian eateries. It would pop frenetically for five seconds or so before fizzing away to nothingness. There were reasons behind why precious weekends were frittered away with the grandiosity of a bad gambler. And all of them were valid.

There were weekends when I’d find myself watching vague European films at some friend’s pad. It would always be the director's cut. So, add another 30 odd minutes or so. The film’s plot would be grilled over a slow fire of misplaced faith in one’s cinematic sensibilities and intellectual pretensions. Words like ‘Kafkaesque’ would be bandied about liberally till the first local rolled out sleepily from its yard at 4:00 am. Sometimes, I’d drop in at a friend’s place for dinner on Friday night and then stay there the entire weekend. Or, friends would land up at my place and stay the entire weekend. See the pattern there. In between, there would be lunches at Lokhandwala’s Food-Inn Restaurant, evenings at Cafe Mondegar, dinners at Adarsh Bar and Restaurant, observing wannabe stuntmen perform stunts at Versova’s rocky beach and the occasional instance of wearing a freshly laundered shirt to Bandra’s (then) happening night clubs – Toto’s or Club 9. And before you know it, the weekend had flown over our heads like a refreshing, but really short shower, on a hot muggy day.

This hectic and almost forced social life meant frenzied weeks started seguing into equally hectic weekends. Everything became a blur. It was fun, no doubt. But it was a bit disorienting too. And then one day the solution presented itself. I came across a second-hand bookstore in the neighbourhood. A steady access to some old favourites and new dalliances suddenly opened up a much-needed escape hatch. I started devoting a few hours every weekend to lose myself in a world conjured up by a writer’s febrile imagination. This was the pause I needed to recharge, to think, to ponder possibilities, or simply to unwind.

And then I moved to Dubai. There was a temporary blip. But soon enough, the Bombay cycle started getting repeated here too. Clock in long hours at work. Clock in long hours with friends. Again, that happy blur. Again, that slightly disoriented feeling. But now I (or rather we – since life has progressed) know how to deal with it. We just clock in some quality time with authors, old, new or obscure. And this is truly the pause we need to rejuvenate, to refresh. Not Coca Cola