Mornings in Benares

May is rather predictable throughout India. It’s either hand-me-one-more-ice-lolly-hot or so mind-meltingly hot that the said ice-lolly might be in your hands but you just can’t will yourself to raise your hand and bring it to your mouth. You watch half fascinated, as it becomes a gooey mess in your hands, coloured rivulets of sugar water dribbling down your palm in slow-mo, and forming an ungodly puddle on the floor. It also depends on which part of India you’re in. It helps if there’s a river right beside your bed. Just roll out and land straight into the river. A big splash to start the day sort of thing. Kind of motivational if you are one of those who think on those lines. I don’t. And neither do the residents of the city that’s supposed to be as old as time. It’s something as natural as brushing one’s teeth. Every morning, just around the time when the sun is yet to do its surya namaskars and in fact contemplating whether to hit the snooze button, people in Varanasi head out to the ghats (steps) on the banks of the Ganga. Some chant shlokas solemnly, others splash around merrily. The sadhus limber up for the day, striking asanas that’d make renowned chiropractors anxious. The priests take up their positions beneath the wooden umbrellas that dot the banks. The flower sellers, puja essentials vendors, tourist boat operators sip on piping hot cups of chai and stare contemplatively at the river. Another day has begun. It’s going to be blisteringly hot. But it has started in the right manner.

A Goan State Of Mind

Goa is a state of mind. It’s a cliche, yes. And it still holds true. Despite everything that has railroaded this tiny state. There’s a mall now in Calangute. Shocking. Actually, not so surprising. Calangute succumbed first to the monster called 4-day-eff-up-the-place package tourism. Paneer pakoras, tandoori chicken and Yo Yo Honey Singh are mentioned in the same breath as susegad. It’s all right. It’s all right. If you are a true Goa lover, it’s perfectly fine to wince more than a little bit. Disclaimer: I love tandoori chicken - but not in Goa. As for paneer pakora and Yo Yo HS, well, to each one his own, but again - not in Goa. However, Goa and the state of mind still holds true. Despite everything, it’s heartening to know that there are still pockets where the Goa, you and I love, still sits pretty.

Is it Snoopy?

Was Snoopy, Charlie Brown’s sidekick, or was Charlie’s existence totally dependent on Snoopy? This existentialist thought might pop into your head as the unmistakable sight of Snoopy Island comes into view. Snoopy Island, named for obvious reasons, would have just remained one of the many unknown rocky islands dotting the east coast of Fujairah, if someone hadn’t made the connection between the iconic lying down contemplative pose of Snoopy and the shape of the island. Probably that someone was a diver - the waters around Snoopy Island teems with aquatic wildlife - and has been attracting divers for decades. We’re not divers but still had our fill of the famed Snoopy Island experience. The photo featured is exhibit A. 

The Noir Scene

I love the noir genre. The plot twists that keep everyone munching furiously on the popcorn. Cat and mouse games. Detectives with a disposition to chase the bottle more than the bad ones. Anti-heroes with more than fifty shades of grey. Femme fatales who always have a back story and a snub-nosed Beretta handy. The long line-up of suspects. Because hey, it’s noir. Everyone’s guilty till they wake up dead, or proven otherwise. Yes, even that character who gets all the sympathy. Nobody knows who’s who until the very end, when they step out of the shadows. And a source of light - a flickering light bulb, a flare of a matchstick, a grimy street lamp - reveals that it wasn’t really the butler who did it.

The Valley of Pine-scented Breezes

The view of Punakha Dzong from Dhumra Farm Resort.

A longish pit-stop at Do-Chula Pass (3,300m) and its stupendous views of the Himalayan ranges ensured it was almost evening when we reached Punakha, the former capital of Bhutan. Punakha Dzong (fort), the administrative and religious HQ ensconced between two glacier-fed rivers, Mo (female) Chhu (river) and Po (male) Chhu and the second biggest fort in Bhutan is the main attraction followed closely by the Punakha suspension bridge. Punakha is also the base for many treks in the nearby mountains. We made ourselves comfortable at the thoughtfully designed sit-out at Dhumra Farm Resort and drank in the stillness that can be felt only in the mountains. And yes, soaked in a breeze that could only be described using a travel cliche - invigorating. I called it an early night, because I knew it’d be an early morning. I had read enough of the sight of clouds slowly dispersing to reveal the valley in all its glory, so I definitely didn’t want to miss that. As they say, the early bird gets the worm. And in my case, I got the shot. Well, sort of. It was an unusually thick cloud cover. But as the saying goes, something is better than nothing.

Rinpung Dzong

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I was slaving over some work for a soon-to-be-launched product that somehow fell in love with its soon-to-be-launched status. With each extension of the launch date, new feedback/work became par for the course. Utterly frustrating would be a mild understatement. More so because I was presumably on holiday mode.
The first couple of days, I ended up staring more at my laptop screen rather than the lofty mountains. Shocking, I know. On Day 3, things came to a head. It was late evening when I managed to extricate myself from a web of mail chains and found myself pounding the road that led to Paro town.
When you’re at a height of 2,500 m above sea level and haven’t eaten all day, the energy levels dip lower than the Dead Sea. Thankfully, I got hold of a cab halfway. A quick sandwich-tea combo did the job of a quick pick-me-up. As I walked out of the cafe, I noticed that the sky had become a glorious shade of blue. And the lit up Rinpung Dzong, an ancient fort and the religious and administrative HQ of Paro, was resplendent in the evening light. I took out my camera. But the light was falling fast. I got a couple of clicks, but it was too dark a sky. A day when no satisfactory photos can be taken ranks way up there in sad moments in life.
Next day, I was prepared. I woke up at the crack of dawn. Finished my work well before lunch. And then set out for lunch. After which I made myself comfortable on the wooden bridge leading to Rinpung Dzong for the entire afternoon, watching red-robed monks, selfie-addicted tourists, serious-faced officials, and light-hearted students. The gurgle of the Paro Chu (River) below, and a breeze everywhere were constant companions. As the afternoon segued into evening, the sky became the shade of blue that I was waiting for. I had already set up the camera. The only thing left to do was start clicking. So I started clicking.

The Long Wait

It was a foggy day in Venice. Cold too. A stiff wind whipped the waves into a bit of white-capped frenzy. Dark, moody, utterly captivating. We were ensconced in the coziest corner of a café, hands cupped around steaming cups of tea. Ma sighed, looked at me and repeated her stock phrase throughout our trip, ‘It’s so beautiful. Why don’t you take some photos?’

October 2017 was when we went on a soul-satisfying road trip to Italy – we drove down from the snow-flecked Italian Alps in Bormio (Lombardy) to the beguiling lagoon called Venice and then onwards to the undulating charm of Tuscany. My mother was yet to be diagnosed with what turned out to be a rather cruel disease. Something that has taken away her freedom to not only be mobile but also every aspect of leading a normal life. At that time, however, she had difficulty in walking. Though she could manage short distances with the help of a walking stick, the need of the hour was a wheelchair. In Lombardy and Tuscany, the wheelchair made an appearance at sightseeing spots – rest of the time we were in the car, drinking in the scenery. But when it came to Venice, obviously there was no driving. The wheelchair became a constant companion. Thankfully, the excellent special needs facilities everywhere – from the vaporettos (water buses) to museums – made everything accessible. Venice worked its magic on Ma. At one point in time, she was a promising painter. But then, as they say, life happened. I was hoping the trip, especially Venice, would reignite her lost passion for art. Though Ma was mesmerized by Venice, at the same time she felt bad. She knew how much I love to capture a place through my roving lens. And here my hands were constantly on the handles of the wheelchair, my camera just out of reach in a dangling bag. Correction. She didn’t feel bad; she felt terrible.

I did the next best thing. Explored Venice at night. After a day of soaking in the sights, I dropped Ma off at our B&B, had dinner, tucked her in bed, and went out with my camera. And that's how I got 'The Long Wait' – a gondolier waiting patiently at a gondola station, near the legendary Rialto Bridge. An area that heaves with tourists throughout the day. But late at night, you have the place to yourself.

Some months later, I chanced upon JoAnn Locktov's open call to professional and amateur photographers. She was looking for black and white photos of Venice that captured an unusual side of Venice. I submitted ‘The Long Wait’ and it made the cut to be published in ‘Dream of Venice in Black and White’ – an anthology that celebrates the timeless appeal of Venice through over 50 black and white photos shot by photographers from 10 countries.

Almost a year later since our trip, I showed my mother the book. Her eyes lit up. She first thought it was a book on Venice. I then told her that one of my photos is in it. And despite her condition, she managed a bright smile. She no longer felt guilty that I wasn't able to do justice to Venice through my lens.

(Dream of Venice in Black and White is now available a click away at http://bit.ly/DreamVeniceBlackWhite

Here's one of the latest reviews by Lonely Planet.https://www.lonelyplanet.com/…/timeless-beauty-venice-black…)

The Great Leveler

The DIFC district in Dubai is where financial whiz kids have mergers for breakfast, acquisitions for lunch and then dress up in their fanciest to celebrate the M&As of the day at spiffy restaurants at night. Everything about it evokes a sense of corporate machismo - sleek Wall Street types striding about with a great sense of urgency. If you concentrate hard, you can almost see the thought blurbs buzzing above their heads. ‘Damn! Yet to make a million before lunch’. There are some art galleries in the mix too. I guess frequented by people who have made a million or two before they rolled out of bed and have nothing else to do for the rest of the day. So, hey, let’s stare at a red dot on a blank canvas - it’s a metaphor for life - we’re all dots and life’s an open canvas. But there are days, very rare days, when it rains. And then the balance is restored somewhat between the financial districts and the rest of the world. You might have all the money on the world but that doesn’t mean your shoes won’t get wet. Time is a great leveler. So is nature.

A Quiet One

It was our anniversary a few days back. Quiet meals at low-key restaurants. That was the norm. This time it was a bit different. We are currently living separately in two different time zones, and I was home for a few days. Enough reason I thought. Let’s go all out for the anniversary.

As I always fancied myself as a bit of an intrepid explorer who in another day and age probably was a swashbuckling sailor with a strong sense of wanderlust and a lot of scurvy, I decided that the celebration should happen in the open seas. As luck would have it, the ship synonymous with maritime adventures, the legendary Queen Elizabeth 2, is now currently docked in Port Rashid. As a plan, it was ridiculously simple. Kidnap a millionaire. Use the ransom money to hire the QE2 and take her out for a spin. My co-traveler and I would be dressed in our nautical best. Jack and Rose. Minus the icebergs. It’s the Middle East after all. But we all know what they say about the best-laid plans. In seafaring language, it walked the plank. In short, it sank. All thanks to a technical hitch. The propeller of the QE2, for some unfathomable reason, had been taken out of the ship and kept on the jetty next to the ship so that vacuous selfies can be taken next to it. If I had called them a week ahead, they might have been able to put it back. But as I called a day before, it wasn’t just possible. Thankfully, I hadn’t yet kidnapped any millionaire. It's hard to keep them occupied.

There was a Plan B. Had to be. The vagaries of fate and all that. Look what happened to that Trump fellow. It was fate that made him adopt a platform such as Twitter and showcase his command over English to all and sundry. If he had another plan up his sleeve, he could have become an author and written books such as ‘Covfefe, Smocking & Hamberder: A Komedy Of Erorrs’. You need a plan B. And I had one. It was also related to the high seas. But a tad bit less adventurous.

I called up a restaurant specializing in seafood. Apparently the fish served is so good that when fishermen go out in the seas, schools of fish wave out to them holding placards – ‘Ready to be grilled, roasted, or batter fried. But only for XXX restaurant.’ It was that kind of restaurant. Good reviews. Great prices. There was nothing fishy about it. Till we got there. The first hint of trouble was when the waitress looked very confused at our choice of soup. There shouldn’t have been any confusion. The menu had a photo of Seafood Chowder and we pointed out to it. She smiled and took the order, only to return a few minutes later, saying that they don’t have it. It's like going to McDonalds. And being told 'Sorry' we're out of fries...would you like to have a salad instead?' Anyway, these things happen. So we ordered some other dishes and took in the surroundings. The restaurant obviously belonged to a singer. The acoustics were really good. The softest of whispers at the furthest table could be heard at the other end. Not that anyone was whispering. There was a group of diners who believed in exercising their vocal chords. ‘SHOULD WE ORDER THE GRILLED SEA BREAM? WHY IS PAT SO LATE? DON’T CALL HIM. HE’S GETTING A ROOT CANAL. I THINK I”LL GO FOR THE STIR FRY CALAMARI. PAT HAS A CRUSH ON THE DENTIST. HE DOESN’T NEED A ROOT CANAL.’ It took all my will not to stomp down to the kitchen, help myself to a pair of sharp knives and stomp out yelling - 'Who's in the mood for some fleshy sashimi?' Thanks to my formative years spent in a Himalayan monastery where for recreation we had to count the hair on our personal Yaks every day during lunch hour, I have vast reserves of patience. A bit of trivia. The phrase Yakety-Yak is actually Tibetan in origin and refers to the aforementioned practice.

Our dishes arrived. The bisque was delicious. And that was the last time; I could have mentioned something complimentary about the food. The squid was so rubbery that it could have given a rubber plantation a run for its money. The prawns, usually, a safe bet when it comes to taste, looked like they got into an almighty wrestling match with some other crustaceans on their way to our table. They tasted like what sweaty wrestlers would taste like. By this time, another group had cornered the other side of the restaurant. Four adults. Three sullen-faced kids. ‘NO MORE FIGHTING. LOOK THEY HAVE FRIES TOO. BUT WE WANT ICE CREAM.’

We settled our bill and stepped out. Sometimes it’s good to acknowledge defeat.

Finally the better half, as her wont, made a suggestion that made sense. Some tea at a quiet place might aid the recovery process of the jangling nerves. And that’s what we did. Headed to a café where the lunch crowd had long vanished leaving behind some much needed stillness. We soaked in the sense of quietude for the better part of an hour, gently nursing our cups of tea. Our anniversary ‘celebration’ was finally back on track. The quiet ones are always the best.

The Lake Of The Elephants

There are more than a couple of highways that lead to the Guwahati International Airport. One of the lesser known is a slightly meandering road through an area that’s a throwback to the times when Guwahati was considered to be a sleepy town. Taking this second route means views of paddy fields and hyacinth covered water bodies are more common than urban settlements plagued by faulty town planning. This route also runs along a stretch of the 40 sq. km. Deepor Beel, or Elephant’s Lake. Herds of elephants actually come down from the nearby hills to frolic in the water as well as feed on a particular flower that blooms amongst the water hyacinth in the shallow stretches. Deepor Beel also supports an amazing variety of local and migratory bird species. And its rich source of fishing species acts as a source of livelihood for several nearby villages since ancient times.

Though this waterbody that was once a port of local Ahom kings (it was connected to the Brahmaputra River) has being anointed the status of a Ramsar Wetland, it is hugely threatened by a modern malaise called ‘unbridled greed meets unplanned development’. The incongruous sight of a huge landfill near the wetland is testament to the incredible shortsightedness of the human race. 
Deepor Beel is one of the largest freshwater lakes in the region. Hope persists that better sense will prevail and stronger measures to protect this fragile wetland ecosystem will be taken.

An Elephant Walked Into A House...

The mosquitoes around House No. 17 strictly believe in the kamikaze doctrine. Any exposed part of the body and it’s a wham-bam-thank-you-wham situation for them. In the beginning, as I mercilessly slaughtered them with the help of my precise karate chops, there was a sense of achievement. Then realization dawned. They just don’t give a damn. Their ultimate high is to stick their proboscis in pliant flesh, suck greedily, and welcome the inevitable slap. Guerilla warfare. Hit and run. Hit and run. Well, more suck and fly. But it doesn’t quite have a ring to it. I am fast by the average mosquito hunter standards. I get one or two. By that time the others have dug deep and sucked hard. Drink for the day over, they fly away sluggishly, just out of reach of my flailing itchy arms (and legs).

Despite being from the shiny, happy, world of advertising, I believed in the hype of a dozen mosquito repellent products. Everything from electric swatters to citronella laced incense sticks found its way home. The 30% extra incense sticks (ominously named as Killer Incense) almost choked me one night. I could distinctly hear faint guffaws as I lit the oh-so-traditional mosquito coils. I switched on glowing spaceship shaped devices that promised that mosquitoes would disappear the moment it’s switched on. That night there was a rave party around it. I rubbed mosquito repellent. Other than making me smell like mosquito repellent, it didn’t really make much of a difference to the target audience. The mosquito racquet performed quite adequately at first. My record was snaring half a dozen with one well-timed swat. I displayed the slain comrades on a piece of paper on which I had written ‘You are next’ in serial killer font.

After that momentous occasion, there was peace. The mosquitoes disappeared. For one entire evening. A stupid grin never left my face. Till the next morning. They got me when I was in the loo. It was an ambush. They attacked parts of the body where forget karate chops, even little taps are unbearable. They came in droves. Elite units. Trained to the highest degree. With specially sharpened proboscises. It was diabolical. Stephen King would have been proud.

I swallowed my pride and did the next best thing. Asked Google. The first thing it threw up was – are there tropical plants in the vicinity of the house, specifically banana trees? Yes. Yes. There’s an unruly clump of banana trees. Bit of an eyesore really. I learnt that the part where leaves of the banana tree connect to the trunk serves as a cup that holds water, making it an ideal spot for mosquitoes to breed. 
The banana trees in our compound also were of such an inferior type that apparently monkeys amuse themselves by throwing them at passerby’s. The plan was simple. The execution, not so much.

Despite money being offered, it was ridiculously difficult to find anyone who wanted to take on the responsibility of clearing the grove. The seething mass of mosquitoes also didn’t help. A couple of well wishers mentioned helpfully that as banana trees are the natural food of elephants, it might help if we get some elephants. Thing is, elephants don’t simply hang around in the vicinity, lolling their heads, waiting for someone to call them over for a meal of banana trees. But then life does give a break or two. Two elephants were spotted in the neighbourhood. Without much ado, the mahouts were apprised of the situation. Free food for their plus size wards is always a welcome prospect.

To cut a long story short, never once did I think that there’d be a day when I’d write that I enlisted the help of two elephants to overcome the mosquito menace in my house. But that was precisely what happened. I know there are disbelievers out there. Thankfully, there was a camera handy. 
(As for the mosquitoes, the loss of their breeding habitat has led to a significant decline in their population. There are the occasional skirmishes, but nothing that a skilled hunter like me cannot handle.)

The Not-So-Early Bird

After having one honeydrop too many, which is never advisable, Mr. Cinnamon-Chested Bee-Eater fluffed his chest, and trilled a promise to his ladylove. ‘A special treat for my precious at the crack of dawn, eh.’ Hasty? Undoubtedly. Wild oath? Not really. He had been eyeing a particularly juicy worm at the foot of their tree house. It’d make a difference from chasing those pesky bees for breakfast, lunch and dinner. 
Mr. Bee-Eater had been intently observing the wriggly fellow doing calisthenics early in the morning for the last couple of days. ‘That ain’t going to do you much good, my slimy bro. You’re just gonna die healthy.’ But then next morning, as the sky started to blush a deep pink, he decided, admittedly a bit rashly, to hit the snooze button. The slowest of birdbrain could figure out what happened next. That blasted sun-salutin’ break-dancin' worm had got airlifted by an eager pair of beaks. Not his, of course. And now Mrs. Bee-Eater’s feathers are seriously ruffled. Time to go after some honeybees again. The morning is turning out to be a real buzzkill. Damn. Damn. Damn.

A Sunset Less Ordinary

Mother Nature has deemed that sunsets are complimentary. But not if you view them from the Marina Bay Sands Hotel in Singapore. Arguably the perfect place to see how far this former swamp has developed in just a few decades. The hotel provides non-guests the chance to admire sweeping views of Singapore from its rooftop viewing deck. For a tidy little sum. Come sunset time, people head to the top to watch the sky turn fifty shades of pink, blue or whatever mood it is in. I was also one of the non-guests all ready to capture some sunset shots. Wide angle lens. Check. Camera batteries. Check. Brand new tripod to capture some long exposures. Check. I also grabbed a vantage position by gently inserting myself between two cooing lovebirds with a fierce my-need-to-photograph-this-moment-is-more-important-than-your-need-to-play-tonsil-hockey attitude. Travis Bickle meets Rocky Balboa kinda combo. With a sprinkling of Tony Jaa.

I was aiming for that particular moment when the lights come on and the sky is still blushing a deep red. The thing about sunsets are that they are mostly on schedule. And the thing about Murphy’s Law is that there’s no escaping it. After clicking a few shots before the sun started its descent, I proceeded to mount the camera on the tripod. I failed miserably. It was a simple enough task. But hey, it’s Murphy. 

On one hand the sun was going down as if there’s no tomorrow, and here I was fumbling with the tripod. I could distinctly hear the temporarily separated couple snigger and then guffaw loudly. I sort of tried to imagine that they were laughing at the antics of their cute unborn spawn. And not at me. Who was I kidding. It was mortifying. Yes, the tripod was a new piece of gear. But even then. I thought about embracing the moment. Soak in the sunset, think of life and how the decision to not read the tripod manual had led to this moment. Who reads a tripod manual anyway? Or, for that matter, any manual. I sucked in a mighty breath. Time to take matters in my own hands. Literally. I steadied myself against a glass pane, grabbed the camera, poked it through a narrow opening and started shooting hand-held long exposures. Most of them came out blurred. But a few turned out all right. It’s a good thing that I don’t smoke. And yes, where there’s a will, there’s a shot. Even if Murphy is breathing down your neck

The Act

Fairy lights twinkled merrily across the trendy waterfront promenade. Eateries and bars were decked up in their Sunday best. Maître ‘ds pranced around busily, beaming at guests and scowling at anything that was out of place. Waiters weaved around tables with practiced ease, holding aloft monogrammed plates laden with delicacies, grilled, steamed, baked and battered. A bracing breeze swept across the wooden decks leaving a trail of smiles in its wake. Right on cue, some spotlights came on soaking everybody in a soft silvery glow. A group of performers appeared next to a makeshift stage. They hovered, a bit nervously, in the background waiting for their signal. And that’s when a little girl decided to scamper onto the platform to perform her own unscripted act. A little jig that nobody noticed. It was over almost before it started. But one that must have given her a lot of joy. She did what she felt like doing at that moment. And sometimes that’s all that really matters.

The Byblos Walk

Way back in 2011, I managed to find myself a bit uncomfortably sandwiched between two cars. A car reversed into my car (parked politely by the side of the road) without taking into account that I was standing in front of it. The damage to both cars was inconsequential. I couldn’t really say the same thing about me though. Despite not having much interest in astronomy, forget stars, I managed to get into Spaceman Spiff mode and explored entire galaxies between the time an ambulance arrived and I reached a hospital. Within three weeks I was back on my feet, due to a not-so-modern invention called crutches and a lot of orthopedic attention. Thanks to the freak accident that almost made me say sayonara to my left leg, the fact that life could be unpredictable was highlighted in triplicate. So, we did the most practical thing under the circumstances – decided to go on a short holiday to think about life. 

The destination was the ancient Phoenician city of Byblos - located about 30 km from downtown Beirut and a thousand miles away from its ‘Paris-of-the-east-so-let’s-party-all-night’ reputation. Which suited us fine. Neither of us was really into happening clubs kind of scene then, and come to think of it, even now. 

Before Greece and Rome stamped their presence on the ancient world map, Byblos was the city-state that everybody was in awe of. Founded around 5000 BC, give or take a few years, Byblos shot to fame as a result of the shipbuilding prowess of its inhabitants as well as for its high quality of timber that found wide acceptance in Egypt. Remember those logs that you saw (in history textbooks) carried by those poor souls involved in making pyramids, as per Mikipedia, they are obviously cedar logs imported from Byblos. 

This kind of information gleaned from tourism leaflets in hotel lobbies, however interesting it might be, can occupy one’s mind for only a limited period of time. So, despite a persistent dull ache, I started hobbling up and down the charming tree-lined cobbled lanes of Byblos. Stately houses, stylish eating joints, quaint bookshops, churches and mosques, big and small, a castle that had collapsed in parts yet maintained its regal air – these walks didn’t really take long, but allowed a fascinating sneak peek into the glorious past of Byblos. My favourite part was the promenade though. Families, lovers, lost souls would gather quietly every evening to soak in Technicolor sunsets over the Mediterranean. Nothing too fancy. Nothing too dramatic. But a great sense of calm and atmosphere that makes you feel good to be alive.

The Karma Quotient

If you don’t ask, you’ll never get it. Despite agreeing wholeheartedly with this philosophy, I hardly ever embraced it. Maybe I was born diffident, or perhaps it was a side effect of being raised up on hard-core working class values such as ‘What you get, or don’t get in life, is as per your KQ (Karma Quotient).’ So I watched. Not so happily. As things that matter in life - promotions, plum assignments, the extra aloo paratha with a generous dollop of melting butter balancing precariously on it - sneered and waltzed past me. All because I desired but didn’t ask for them. 
And then the penny dropped. Thanks to a pan-chewing gentleman that passed off as the entire accounts department in a production house that was famous for outwitting its employees out of raises (We are helping you build your careers, and you want money for it? Go and do another 16-hour shift. And remember to flush only after three of you use the loo. Water is precious.) 
Mr. Paanwala snorted as he observed my dismay at the promised raise that magically disappeared from the pay cheque. ‘You are digging a well on top of a hill. And you expect water to gush out. Hah! You should first look for the source of water and then dig a well next to it.’ It was deep, vague and would have made absolute sense being uttered by a skinny Mastah in a badly-dubbed Kung-Fu flick. But it did strike a chord. Years later though. When I took up photography, I made a promise to myself. Never shy away from asking someone’s permission to take a photo. Once a moment is gone, it’s gone forever. I hesitated just for a moment before asking the sadhu featured here whether I can take his photo. The hesitation was not because of anything else but for the fact that he looked rather stern and I didn’t want his third eye to open up and grill me into a human version of a KFC bucket meal. I love photography; but there are limits. Anyway despite the constant strict look, the sadhu gently nodded his head and allowed me to take not one or two, but several photographs. 
If you don’t ask, you’ll never get it. Now only if I can apply this philosophy to some other aspects of life.

The Sabkha Drive

Dubai is known for its glass and steel skyscrapers that gleam with unbridled ambition and malls that act as metaphors for a life devoted to wants. However, just a few minutes drive away from the city limits reveals vistas serene. Amongst undulating shapeshifting dunes lies vast sabkhas (salt flats) - remnants of the erstwhile Tethys Sea. Trivia: Eons ago, this entire region was submerged under it. While doing a recce for a shoot, my friend and I landed up in one of these sabkhas. I was in a sedan that looked suspiciously like a getaway car with a faulty GPS. Ok. Scratch that. A getaway car should at least be a 1969 Mustang with a glowering Steve McQueen behind the wheel. Not a 2014 Fiesta with a man who believes that he’s the next incarnation of Jackie Chan, minus the moves. What I am trying to say in a convoluted manner is that my Fiesta might be feisty but it looked definitely out of place. But my friend was in his pride and joy, a Dodge Ram - a pick-up that made its rugged presence felt in an environment that can make toys out of cars. 

And speaking of pick-ups, if I was 6 foot and a couple of inches tall, with a six pack, and a scar across the right cheek (optional) the car of my choice would have been, well, a pick-up truck. Nothing spells out open spaces and adventure in a large old fashioned font as one of these rugged drives. They combine the best of many worlds - from making the great outdoors feel that they have met a worthy adversary to carrying home a mini IKEA. And of course, the view from the comfortable cabin is that of a world more agreeable.

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.