When I Travelled

The waves crashed into the rocks, about a couple of hundred feet below. White suds flew into the air, some returned to the waves to become a part of the next set of crests. Others landed on rocks and turned to water drops. They would stay there till the sun came out the next day and wiped them dry. I stood by the railing with my steaming cup of filter coffee. The chill in the evening air caused the coffee-scented vapours to hold their shape a few seconds longer. I didn’t blow at the coffee to cool it before taking a sip. It would manage that by itself given the space and time. And there was plenty of time here in Kannur, Cannanore for the British. Plenty of time to do nothing. For two days I had slept waking up only to dig into  puttu - kadla  and  appams  and stew fragrant with fresh coconut. R and her friends would spend hours at the table chatting about this, that and the other. You are going back to sleep? one of them asked me as I rose from the table after lunch. It was a fair que

9:30pm~ The road to Abisko is winding ahead of us. Clouds have gathered overhead and the little one cuddles closer to me in the backseat of the car. Up ahead, he has squeezed through some clouds and lit up the road. A baby reindeer makes an appearance by the side of the road. My brother slows down the car and we hold our breath. My sister-in-law reaches for her phone but it scampers away back into the grass. 12:15 am~ We are at Abisko, at the base of Aurora Sky station. We pile on the woollies we have carried with us. The ski lift that will take us up to the Sky Station, a few hundred feet up the mountain, is an open bench on moving ropes and our Indian temperament is already half-frozen. The clouds have blanketed the sky entirely. Have you broken your solstice oath and laid down in bed, I look up. He pierces the clouds, splits into seven colours and frowns, No. 2:00 am~ We settle into the ski lift in twos and descend back towards the base. The clouds and he hav

Ek Ladki Paanch Deewane – the standee proclaims. I had marked Gaiety Theatre as one of the spots to explore on my Google Maps guided walk of Shimla Mall. But, the theatre has been claimed by the aforementioned six and is shut to wayward tourists. The only way to access the theatre is to buy a ticket for the play. The ticket table is womanned by an apple-cheeked girl in a pretty floral salwar kameez and a woollen sweater. Is it a nice play? I ask her. Yes, she smiles. Have you seen it? Many times. Are you the ladki? I ask her, only half-teasing. No, she says. After a couple of theatrical beats, My sister is. Familial loyalty deserves patronage. I buy the ticket and make my way into the two-level Old theatre Hall and take a seat close to the exit. Just in case. The pistachio green walls look fresh but the gilded covings and the old-style seats tie it to its almost 150 years old legacy. The website claims that the stage has been graced by Rudyard Kipling, Prithiviraj Kapoor, K L Sehgal an

What do you mean by sprinkled with 24K gold dust? K asked the waitress her finger scrolling down the variety of teas and coffees listed on the menu. Gold dust is sprinkled on the tea, ma’am. No, but what is it made of? Umm… gold, ma’am. I looked at M and we both rolled our eyes. And how does that taste? K asked her. I am considering jumping into the conversation to help out the waitress. But I figure she is probably used to all these questions about gold, working at the Burj al Arab where all that glitters is gold. Gold paint, gold TV screens, gold thread upholstery, gold shop facades – the place would give King Midas an identity crisis. We have indulged our pockets in a not-worth-its-miniscule-weight-in-gold high tea of assorted tiny sandwiches on gold platters and pastries garnished with gold leaf. I remember from my science lesson that gold falls under the heavy metal category. Not when it is consumed I realize. It rests lightly in the stomach and has me fantasizing about a light-on

Shilparamam is everything that Google had promised. And if I hadn’t looked it up, the cultural symbols at the entrance underscored the handicraft village that lay within. The inspiration for a cultural timeout had struck me somewhere in the middle of the 2-day corporate workshop. It had wavered a little at the sight of IKEA enroute, and I almost asked the taxi to stop there instead. But, I bit my tongue. And here I was to soak in the government’s attempt to encourage traditional crafts. Rings, necklaces, authentic pearls, shouts one. Real pashmina, durrhies, calls out another. I continue my stroll through the lanes of the village. There is another hour to kill before heading for lunch. The calls follow me but I ignore them. A shop piled high with wooden mantle pieces and toys grabs my eye and I wait for him to call out. He catches my eye, holds my gaze for a second and returns to scrolling Insta stories on his phone. He’s smart, the boy, like his phone. He recognises me for

"That has to be the best bowl of pesto pasta I have ever eaten," I pat my tummy, push the bowl away and smile at C. She cocks an eye brow at my hyperbole. "Okay. Definitely in India," I acquiesce. “But that is not a statement I expected to make here.” I twirl my arms around. We are on the second floor of the café-restaurant squeezed among shops and on the narrow pedestrian-only street. The establishments here have jostled with each other to squeeze into a spot and thus can only grow vertically for more space. Kitschy floor cushions placed around squat tables make up the seating plan and the interior décor. But, my ‘here’ is not a condescending reference to the non-fine dining non-Italian themed café. I mean the larger ‘here’. Benares. Varanasi. Kashi. It has many titles – spiritual capital of India, one of the most religious Hindu cities, and the like. The Indian city that serves the best pesto? It had not yet been bestowed with that one. Half an hour ago C and I we