The Great Climb

 

Climbing the Torre Del Mangia or the Tower of the Eater (the eater bit is a reference to eating up profits) involves 400 steps. That's 400 steps up an ancient and extremely narrow stone staircase. Definitely not recommended for those who are a wee bit claustrophobic. Or those who suffer from delusions that they are supremely fit but the the only exercise they have done in the past few months is twiddle their thumbs in anticipation of the next season of GOT. Unfortunately, I ended up qualifying for both the above categories. But as they say, mind over matter. I survived the climb. Enjoyed the stupendous views of Siena from the top. And now have a little appetizer of an anecdote to narrate at dinner parties.

An Affair Colourful

I am fascinated by the concept of fine dining. First, of course, is the cuisine. Not food, kindly note. Describing it as food somehow diminishes the mystique surrounding these hard-to-pronounce dishes. Secondly, the huge dents these culinary works of art make in one’s retirement fund ensure that I admire them from far. They look mouthwatering for sure. But their prices also make the eyes water.

There are occasions though, really special ones, when one lands up at one of these institutions wearing a clean shirt. A quick glance at the right side of the menu almost results in a nervous breakdown. The diligent Google search before the visit had actually thrown up an old menu. The prices are way higher now. Also, it’s an a la carte menu. I tentatively ask for the set menu (with prices that are a bit more reasonable). The maitre d’ beams and divulges a very crucial bit of information - ‘Sir, the set menu is available only on weekdays. Today, Sir, is a Friday.’

With a weary smile of the vanquished, orders are placed. A thought springs to mind. Maybe there’s still a chance to escape, citing some emergency. And then I tell myself - Be a man. Live for the moment. That note to self calms jangling nerves down. And then the food arrives. I stare at it for a long time. It’s like a painting, an edible one. Oysters with fancy names. Prawns that were born in a place far away from Gulf waters. I didn’t dare think about the carbon footprint. Neat slices of tuna with Japanese antecedents. Heck! I felt like a weather-beaten world traveler simply by looking at the plate. And that, my friends, itself was the price of the admission ticket. Everything else was a bonus. 

The Highway Meal

 

Michael wouldn’t take no for an answer. I thought maybe he misheard, so I repeated what I said. ‘We just had breakfast. Just about an hour ago.’ Michael again shook his head. ‘One hour’, he exclaimed, ‘Half of it must have already got digested. I’ll take one hour to prepare lunch. By that time, the other half would have also got digested.’ I realized resistance is futile, and nodded my head weakly. 

We were at Michael’s highway restaurant, just outside Lakhimpur town in upper Assam. An enterprising member of the Mishing tribe, an indigenous community of Assam, Michael had several entrepreneurial ventures including the restaurant where we were currently seating. This was actually a courtesy visit. My mother knew Michael and had dropped in just to say a quick ‘Hello’, on our way back to Guwahati from Lakhimpur after attending a wedding. 

Of course, Michael and his wife had a different idea about that quick ‘Hello’. After ensuring that we were comfortable, they dashed into the kitchen and started slicing and dicing a thousand things at once. Pans sizzled. Pressure cookers whistled. Fire crackled. A heavenly aroma started wafting out. One after another dishes laden with typical Mishing delicacies flew out of the kitchen, whetting appetites further. It didn’t take even an hour to prepare everything – but we realized our stomachs had lightened miraculously. 

A Taxi Full Of Love

From the corner of my eye, I spotted a colourful cape billowing in the wind. ‘Superman exists’ was the first thought. Then I realized that I am a functioning adult and there should be a logical explanation. Well, the cape wasn’t that of Superman. But it belonged to a rather colorfully dressed woman who was tending to a small child. A young boy who was staring open-mouthed at a car straight out of a storybook. I decided to know the story behind why this lady was dressed like a colourful character from a book and her rather eccentric car. A cheerful ‘Ciao!’ was enough to break the ice and a hurried conversation revealed the finer details.

Milano25 a.k.a Caterina’s lifelong mission to make the world a better place started when life dealt her a bitter blow. She lost her partner to cancer. He was only 39. But before he died, he told Caterina that she should drive his taxi, the aforementioned Milano25. ‘You are now Milano25’ he told her. The grief-stricken Caterina, a regular office-goer till then, became a taxi driver. By ferrying passengers from point A to point B in Milano25, she somehow kept a tenuous connection with the lost love of her life.

One of these passengers, Constanza, a 3-year-old told Caterina that her little brother is in heaven and she misses him a lot. The passenger’s parents then told Caterina he died due to a brain tumour. They further told her about how their family has started a charitable foundation dedicated to the study of paedriatic tumours. The story not only moved her but also gave Caterina a sense of purpose. She decided that she’ll give free rides to children being treated for cancer and other life-threatening illnesses at Meyer Children’s Hospital in Florence. A ride that will make them squeal with joy and make them forget whatever they are going through. Because these rides will not be in any ordinary taxi; but a specially designed car straight out of a child’s fertile imagination. A car that’s painted all over with popular children’s characters, a horn that emits cheerful tunes, stuffed toys, candies liberally strewn around, etc. etc. There’s also a teddy bear named Palmira. Children are told that actually Palmira is the one driving them around. Caterina pulled out all the stops to make it the most memorable ride ever.

Milano25 transformed into a taxi with the power to make anybody smile.

Caterina’s philosophy is simple. You don’t need to spend millions to ease the suffering of children. All you need is the intention to spread some warmth and cheer. Life’s hard. It can hurt. But when you reach out to others who are suffering, and aid the process of healing in any way possible, you somehow end up lessening your own pain. Caterina is not afraid of dying. But her mortal fear is that she’s not living every moment.

I was incredibly lucky to have met Caterina as she came to a popular viewing point in Florence to pick up a child who had flown in from Belgium that day itself. It was the same child that I saw her fussing over. His parents stood silently nearby drinking in the sight of their boy cooing in absolute delight as he explored the interiors of the car. I didn’t have the heart to ask Caterina what he was suffering from. But as she pulled away from the parking lot waving out merrily, the little boy stuck his head out of the window and blasted some cheerful little toots from a horn kept conveniently next to him, his tiny face wreathed in smiles.

So, yes, Superman is a fictional character. But Wonder Woman - well, she's right here in our midst tootling through the streets of Florence. 

Welcome To Gokul Dhaba

Gokul Highway Dhaba was nowhere near a highway. But then it was much more than a dhaba too. It was first and foremost a landmark (Take the third lane from Gokul’s, my house is the fourth one with a ‘Beware of dog’ sign…don’t worry there’s no dog). It was also a meeting point to discuss matters of national importance (Let’s discuss the team composition at Gokul’s – but I am definitely going to open

 the batting). And lastly a rickety bamboo shack where the staple fare of piping hot rotis and plates of tadka dal served with chopped green chillies and peeled onions helped satiate hunger pangs. Only on Sundays, and only during lunch, a thick curry of soya bean nuggets with potatoes would be prepared. Gokul Dhaba had a strict vegetarian food policy and a limited menu thanks to the limitations of the cook. Steaming cups of kadak chai kept tendrils of sleep from snaking over bleary red eyes of the students from the nearby Ajanta Boys Hostel as they got ready for yet another all-nighter before the exams.

Hanging out at Gokul Dhaba was a sort of dream for a group of us. Pranab and I were almost 12 and took most of the decisions for the group. Rintu and Naren were almost six months younger than us. Their opinions didn’t count much due to the age difference. It was sort of an unwritten rule that only boys above 16 were welcome at the dhaba. A rule enforced by the proprietor, Gokulda. ‘The language used here is not always right’ was the reason given. A college drop out, Gokulda never failed to ask us about our grades, as we slowly walked past his dhaba. ‘If you don’t study and you’ll end up like me.’ We nodded our heads. Though we felt his life was more than a bit complete. His cook Rahman, and his assistant, Prahlad, would shop in the morning for the essentials and prepare food for the day, except for the rotis. They were always freshly made. Gokulda would make an appearance around 11 and then sit behind a counter all day long exchanging jokes with customers; watch cricket matches and movies on a battered TV set and sleep whenever he wanted to – his portly frame balancing precariously on a narrow bench – something straight out of Ripley’s Believe it or not. A good life? No, it was a fantastic life.

Three years before I turned 16, I found myself being uprooted to another city. And by the time I was 16, I was in a different universe altogether. Like most memories of childhood, Gokul Dhaba became a pleasant but distant memory. But even today whenever I am home, I often find myself heading to a roadside dhaba for a quick roti-tadka dal meal. With each bite, I find myself becoming a 12-year-old again. Which is not necessarily a bad thing

The Camper

The sun ducked into its secret hiding place, drawing a cloak of darkness over the jagged mountains. Ziad was aiming to be at the campsite way before sunset. The short cut he took turned out to be a path that drew him deeper inside the mountains. A dull thud made him switch on his high beam. The path strewn with rocks came alive with shadows. Despite the ground clearance of his 4x4, Ziad was getting a bit nervous. He had made the cardinal mistake of going off-roading all by himself. He mentally cursed himself. But it’s becoming increasingly hard to find people to head out on impromptu trips. And he had just gone through a rough week. A long-term relationship finally sputtered to an end. Layla had drawn a sad smiley on a Post-It, stuck it on her set of keys, and left it on the dining table. Both of them knew it was over a long time ago. But the heart, more often than not, doesn’t heed the advice of the head. His new MD then decided to make an example of him at their mid-week sales meeting. He was given an ultimatum over his languishing sales figures. To further lend credence to the fact that bad things happen in threes, the week ended with him losing a key client to their archrival. Yes, a rough week is the right description. And the last thing he needed was some company on a road trip to the mountains. When he was much younger and full of optimism, a night under the stars was the perfect time to shape future dreams. Now, it serves as a healing aid.

Ziad realized he was completely lost when the road became rougher and then discarded all pretensions of being one. As he maneuvered around a rock, a flickering campfire came into sight. A wave of relief washed over him. And despite his earlier reluctance for company of any sort, he was glad at the prospect of meeting somebody. As he parked his Jeep, he could make out a couple huddled around the fire. Ziad switched off the ignition, and soaked in the stillness of the surroundings. He grabbed his backpack and walked towards them. Suddenly feeling very hungry, he hoped the couple had something to eat. Lunch was a hurried, and light affair, at a gas station. He had packed one sandwich. But seeing the fire, he was suddenly in the mood for something freshly grilled. He hoped the couple had some water. All he had was one small bottle of water. Ziad grinned to himself. Known among his friends as a camper extraordinaire, he seemed to be making one rookie mistake after another. As he walked towards the couple, he mentally tossed around the anecdotes that have always served him well while breaking the ice with strangers. He switched on his best salesman smile, full of friendly intentions. Within a few strides, he reached the campfire to a perplexing sight. Instead of the place where the couple should be, there was only a log of wood. Before he could register anything, the fire hissed and went out.

Suddenly it was pitch dark. It was when he heard something whisper softly next to his ears that he started screaming. Thing about being lost deep inside the mountains is that there's nobody to hear your screams.

Now serving: Peace and solitude


Reaching Zuruldi, the highest restaurant in Svaneti, Georgia, is a mini adventure by itself. An integral part of the Hatsvali Mountain Ski Resort, you need to take a chair lift that winches slowly and steadily up the mountain bedecked with a frisky carpet of flowers. The wind tugs impishly at your hair while birds chirp away incessantly about all things cheerful.  It takes about 20 minutes to reach the top of the mountain. But even in this short period of time, the generous servings of unadulterated nature makes it possible to banish most of the personal demons that scamper around restlessly in most of us. The remaining demons that had read self-help books on persistence and will power vanish faster than you can say David Copperfield the moment you reach the top. Thanks to the beguiling beauty of the snow-capped Caucasus Mountains that envelops you in an uplifting embrace.

The Bonding

It was a lovely summer day at the Hatsvali Mountain Ski Resort in Mestia. We took the chair lift to Zuruldi, a popular restaurant, from where one can soak in magnificent views of snowcapped mountains. The little boy in the photo was on his way to the chair lift with his mother when he spotted this massive dog sitting quietly. Guess he simply loves pets a lot because he walked straight up to the dog and without much ado hugged him. The dog seemed to have a half amused expression on his face. His mother observed the bonding with a smile. She then snapped a picture of both of them. I did the same thing. By the way this huge furry ball of doggy kindness was actually the night guard of Zuruldi restaurant. Which means it has the capability of taking on people with nefarious intentions. But obviously knew the difference between mean people and innocent hearts. A lovely day became lovelier.

The Actors

The casting process for a small film is always tough. Especially if the film has only two characters. Everything hinges on the performance of these actors. Budget constraints also mean that we cannot factor in days of auditioning to ferret out two models who (we hoped) would be able to gel with one another to provide the much-needed chemistry. Our task was cut out for us. One day of auditions to find a ‘father-son’ duo who should be capable enough to fake a genuine relationship on screen. Thankfully, the lure of starring in a film was enough to overcome the lack of moolah. There were many contenders for the roles. After deliberating on some shortlisted candidates, we put our faith on Khalid (father) and Omar (son). Khalid had an air of patience around him – a trait highly sought after while working with child actors. Omar came across as an affable young boy who won’t mind repeating a shot, again and again. These were obviously decisions that had a lot of gut instinct involved too. 

The shoot started. It was a rather hot day. Both ‘father’ and ‘son’ went about it gamely. As the day progressed and we shifted from one location after another, the heat started taking its toll. To our great relief, I could see the actors really bonding. Khalid was really a man of great patience. And good humour. He kept on entertaining and engaging with Omar (a thorough professional despite his age). We headed towards the desert for the last shot of the day. It was a sequence where the father points out the various constellations in the sky as they sit atop a dune. As the team was running all over frantically prepping for the shot, the father/son duo climbed up a dune and spent a few quiet moments soaking in a sunset that makes life a bit more meaningful.

I really hope Khalid and Omar kept in touch after the shoot too. It felt like the start of a truly beautiful relationship

The Balinese Artist

Making Ubud the base in Bali means the quiet downtime you daydream about during your daily commute is finally yours. If you resist the temptation to hire a motorbike and gallivant around the island, you will find yourself lazing around for the better part of the day trying to mimic bird sounds while trying to spot them in the lush tropical foliage. Afternoons are perfect to step out. The sun, not so warm. The breeze, just on the right side of cool. Amiable conditions for a long, rambling walk. Or to chat with a diffident artist working quietly at his roadside workshop.



Wayan Raman had a weather-beaten face creased with wrinkles. As I approached him, a shy yet warm smile spread across his face. His tiny shed cum workshop was decorated with hundreds of paintings on a variety of surfaces ranging from canvas to the typical Balinese ‘eggs’ – hollow wooden structures in the shape of eggs. He was painting one of these eggs. We exchanged ‘hellos’. My pan-Asian features aroused his curiosity. ‘Malay?’ He asked. ‘Indian’ I replied. He chuckled. ‘I have never seen Indians like you. You look so much like us’. This is the point where I launch into a practiced and brief introduction of the part of India I hail from, the ethnographic reasons behind why we look ‘different’, etc. 
Wayan remarked that he had travelled once to Jaipur for a painting workshop. He made some good friends there and is still in touch with them. I asked for his permission to take pictures of his work, and while he worked. He happily obliged. It was quite fascinating to see him hold the egg with one hand as he painted it with deft touches. There’s hardly any room for error. The egg is light, but sitting in a hunched position, while holding it with one hand and painting it with the other definitely doesn’t look easy. 
Wayan who has been painting since his childhood, however, made it look effortless. His images are inspired from nature and the great Hindu epic - the Ramayana. The painted eggs are a typical example of exquisite Balinese craftsmanship. As I watched this little masterpiece being created painstakingly by the side of a sleepy village road, I really hoped in this increasingly modern world of ours, artists like Wayan always find a quiet little corner to call their own.

The 'Bhut Bhuti' Factor

The Brahmaputra River starts its sinuous journey as the Yarlung Tsangpo in Tibet, gurgles through Arunachal Pradesh as the Dihang, bifurcates Assam as the Brahmaputra, enters Bangladesh as the Jamuna and ultimately flows into the Bay of Bengal, creating vast and fertile deltaic plains throughout its journey. A total distance of over 3500 km. 

Along with swish cruise ships where wine is stocked from a place where every year is a good year and humble goods trawlers transports your favourite blend of tea; the river and its tributaries are peppered with rickety country boats. During monsoons, when the river repeatedly flexes its muscles, destroying roads and bridges, these boats remain the only means of transport for thousands of people. They glide above the waves, fragile as a twig, buoyed by the strength of a thousand prayers. 

If you happen to board one of these ubiquitous country boats, or 'Bhut bhutis’, that crisscross the mighty Brahmaputra River, I’d advise you to immediately head to the deck. Despite the wide expanse of water around, the ‘cabin’ below can get a bit claustrophobic. It is also almost at the water level, the swirling currents just a quick splash away. Not advisable for those who are a little skittish. Add to this the constant ‘bhut bhut’ of the noisy diesel engines (hence the name 'bhut bhuti'), and the not-so-pleasant diesel fumes, and you are well on your way to turn a sickly shade of green. However, the top deck - corrugated strips of iron bound together by a framework of wood - is a far more pleasant space to be in. You can take part in low-stakes card games, join an impromptu debate on which politician is the most corrupt, watch sly egrets try to steal fish from the fishermen’s baskets, look out for shy river dolphins or simply whisper secrets to the ever-present playful breeze.

Rollin' With The Punches

Recently I had the opportunity to get up, close and personal with some boxers at a local club. Not in the ring, but from outside it. This was probably the closest I'll ever come to my fantasy of being a boxer. Like millions around the world, I have grown up shadow boxing, thinking I am the next Ali. Without even getting within sniffing distance of a ring. 

Thing is, despite the admiration I have for boxers, the grueling training regime and the prospect of getting my face rearranged every time the gong starts, was enough to keep me more than an arm's length away from the nearest boxer. Unless, of course, it's through a camera lens. 
Coming back to my fantasy, it's a great one, and has enough repeat value to keep me entertained any time of the day. Especially during meetings.
The one and only Ali (who else) is at his peak. I am an unknown challenger. We are fighting on a hot muggy night in Kinshasa. The crowd is baying for my blood. Ali's punches rain on me like a torrential Indian monsoon downpour. Each blow turns my insides into mush. Like a chef tendering a piece of meat with a club. But he doesn't deliver a KO. He's toying with me. He's a well fed cat, bored out of his skull. I am a rat running ragged. 

He's floating around me like a butterfly on steroids and stinging like a bee raised on a steady diet of bullet ants (Trivia: Bullet ant stings are considered the nastiest). But I hang on in there. My body recoils in disgust at my inability to admit defeat. Years of Shaolin training has made me very focused. My left eyelid is cut and closed shut. I am wearing a mask of blood. But despite everything, I keep on absorbing the sledgehammer blows, waiting for the right moment. 
Round 13 starts. Ali gets ready to deliver the coup de grace. He smiles at me. But the smile stays fixed. His eyes start glazing over. Because I just took him out with a right uppercut that was faster than greased lightning. I become famous as Micky 'Greased Lightning' Kalita. 

Millions are thrown at me. Including a custom-made pink Cadillac and stock options at a company named after the fruit that made Adam look differently at Eve. But I leave everything and go back to my mastah in the Jade Mountains. And live happily ever after on a steady diet of dumplings.

Blue-sky Thinking


The mail from the client contained six terse words. ‘Blue skies, white beach, happy couple.’ The client, sorry, ex-client, found great delight in making the agency present multiple ad options and then ram his own ‘creative’ interpretation down our throats at the last possible minute. Which would be a route that would scream cliché from every pore. As fifteen versions of the ad had already been rejected, patience was running thin and the deadline was drawing inexorably closer. We drowned our sorrows in a couple of takeaway coffee cups and got down to business.

We searched for ‘blue skies, white beach, happy couple’ and while at it also ‘blue seas’. A package deal for the most hackneyed of images for a print ad. Stock photo sites threw up hundreds of options. But even in this sea of sameness, one visual stood out. A wide curving stretch of pristine beach, fringed by a shimmering aquamarine sea, swaying palm trees in the distance. The couple was in the foreground – the woman was looking at the man adoringly as he smilingly pointed out to something totally insignificant somewhere on the horizon. But the pièce de résistance was the fluffy clouds that peppered the blue sky. They added what we thought was some much needed character. We were obviously clutching at straws here. We revised the layout, added the copy elements (also provided much helpfully by the client), made it the agency recommendation (there was still a bit of pride left) and mailed it along with some other images of blue skies, blue seas, etc. We still had 12 hours left to catch the deadline. A lifetime in an agency’s timeline.

Within seconds, we received a mail. ‘This is not happening. I am coming down.’

This is a client who strongly believes that he’s of a creative bent of mind because eons ago some agency had invited him to be part of an ideation workshop. Apparently, everybody liked the ideas he cracked at the event. It was obviously an agency desperate to retain that particular business. Unfortunately, that incident made him a strong believer in ‘ideating’ with the creative. Well, as long as all the ideas were his.


The client rushed in with the air of acute importance with a junior colleague whose sole duty was to nod and say ‘yes’. We laid out the various versions of the ad on the conference table. Including the rejected ones. He brushed everything aside and took our recommended ad in his hands. He looked around the room enjoying the undivided attention on him. He fixed his gaze on me.

‘Tell me why you think this image works.’

Having done the homework, I stated confidently.

‘Well, as per your brief, this image has everything – blue skies, blue seas, a happy couple – we thought this image is way better than the other images. Plus, it’s also royalty-free.’ (For the uninitiated – royalty-free images cost way lesser than rights-managed images. It’s hard to get high quality royalty-free images.)

The client gave one of his all-knowing smiles – an equivalent of a squeaky chalk on a blackboard – and explained.

'This image has clouds. Did I ask for clouds? Don’t you know that clouds signify that something bad is soon going to happen? Who knows this couple might become victims of a shark attack? Also, these are cirrus clouds. If I somehow had to use clouds, I’d always go for cirrocumulus.'

I wanted to tell him that sharks are not usually in the habit of sliding up a sandy beach and chomping on bodies. Also, in this age of 3-second attention spans, people don’t really notice the type of clouds floating in the background. But this was a lost case.

An hour later we found yet another series of images that satisfied the creative standards of the client. There was not a single cloud in one of them.

And that’s why during those rare occasions when the weather forecast says overcast skies, strong winds, choppy seas; I venture out to capture a beach or two in all their inclement glory. The conditions may not be perfect. But the soul is at peace.

Showdown In The Serengeti

The heavy downpours were down to a trickle. The vast rolling expanse of the Serengeti savannahs was carpeted with a vibrant green cover. A pleasant breeze blew over the plains; whistling merrily. The grass grew long and thick, a source of food along ancient migration routes for great herds of wildebeest. Herds that plod on resolutely to a destination that’s imprinted on their DNA. Zebras, elands, gazelles, ambled alongside the wildebeest, also seeking greener pastures. Elephants remained their usual impassive selfs. Though their young ran around chortling with glee, their trunks punctuating the air with joyous squeals. The rivers gurgled joyfully. Hippos, despite their lethargic leanings, actually frolicked in flooded waterholes. Wildflowers were in full bloom. And birds trilled their immense delight at the prettiness of it all. 
The mood was intense though for a pack of hyenas. For two days they were shadowing a small herd
of Cape Buffaloes - a species so feared that even lions despite their overwhelming bravado wouldn’t dare to cross paths. The hyenas were not interested in taking on the buffaloes. Truth be told, they could take down a buffalo if the need arises. But the risks are great. They also knew the ailing calf that was stumbling alongside the herd would sooner than later cease to stumble. So, they tracked the herd patiently. Stopped where they stopped. Drank where they drank. A safe distance was always maintained. They respected the surly reputations of Cape Buffalos and their ferocious charges. Many have misjudged the speed of these charges and have found themselves flung high in the air with a mere flick of the horns. Wicked gleaming horns that are the stuff of nightmares. For both animals and big game hunters. 
The hyenas knew the dangers well. And they knew how to avoid unnecessary trouble. The heavens again opened up, signaling that the rainy season is not officially over. The hyenas made themselves comfortable beneath an Acacia tree. And waited. Always keeping the hulking beasts in sight. The hunger was great. But patience was in spades too. The waiting game continued.
As dawn broke on the third day, the calf finally sank to its knees, and collapsed. A final gust of breath became one with the morning mist. The hyenas sprang into action. Within minutes they successfully implemented their divide and conquer policy and split the herd. They basically ran around the herd (again keeping a safe distance) and enticed them to chase. A maneuver that always helps in scattering the herd in all directions. This approach also created an opportunity for their leader and another hyena to head straight for the dead calf. Their powerful jaws firmly clamped around the calf’s neck and leg, the two hyenas half-dragged half-carried the calf away before the herd realized what happened. The hyenas ran themselves ragged but managed to get the calf behind a kopje or a rocky outcrop. It was then they realized that the kopje was home to a pride of lions.

A pack of hyenas can also take on a lion. But a pride was a different matter altogether. It was a no-contest. A few angry snarls later, the hyenas beat a hasty retreat. They rejoined their pack. However, disheartened by the entire experience, the leader flopped down in the middle of the dirt track that passes itself off as the Serengeti highway.

A Cape Jackal who prided itself on its ability to find food anywhere - big insects, rodents and even plants are part of its diet - appeared out of the bush. It trotted over to the hyena, locking eyes with it, emitting a few yelps. I may be wrong. But it almost seemed like the jackal was mocking the hyena for losing its meal despite the Herculean efforts and Machiavellian planning. 

The Sentinel Of Hope


A hush fell over the crowd at the popular 'secret beach' - a name that stems from the fact that locals know about it, not tourists. In a place like Dubai, the world's fourth most visited city, this makes a huge difference. The fireworks to ring in 2017 had just ended. A few were gazing straight ahead - probably still reminiscing about the year that passed by. The more practical souls were strategising their exit from the packed beach. And then a gentleman started lighting up Chinese sky lanterns. 
The first one decided not to bow down to convention and take a stand against something in the New Year. So, it decided not to light up. The second one lit up beautifully but refused to float. Instead, it became a tidy little bonfire that didn’t result in much warmth. The third one lit up, floated sideways and decided to go for a swim. Which, of course, went against the entire principle of sky lanterns. A brief powwow later to figure out whether they have got the basics right, the fourth (and apparently the last) lantern was lit. The lantern wobbled quite a bit, hovering a couple of inches above the ground. The crowd started cheering. Probably encouraged by the air of positivity all around, the lantern latched on to a gust of wind. It started floating up, a lone bright sentinel of hope against the dark sky. The gathering broke into spontaneous applause. Merry shouts of 'Happy New Year' started again.

Finding little moments of magic in everyday life? Now that could be my NY resolution.

Lost In Jatiluwih

The rice fields of Jatiluwih in Bali have been carefully designed to make people forget who they are and where they have come from. And then that feeling quickly passes when one receives an SMS reminder about the next rent cheque.

Nosing Around In Chinatown

While wandering around the lanes of Chinatown, Singapore, I stumbled across a gastronomic heaven of sorts – a buzzing food court or a hawker’s centre advertising all things good and tasty. As I dodged diners holding bowls and plates heaped with delectable food, I felt like the proverbial kid at a candy store. One question came repeatedly to mind – how could I do justice to these culinary masterpieces? But in the end, I decided to let my sense of vision and olfactory glands guide me. Whatever looked good and had an appetizing aroma found its way to my plate.

The Active Lot

'Habibi, we're one player short. Would you like to join us in a game?'
'Sorry, I don't play volleyball.'
'Ok, my friend. What are doing here then?'
'Oh, I want to take some photos.'
'Yalla, then take photos.'

So, I took photos of people who don't believe in afternoon naps.