When I Travelled

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...

“Make sure you don’t click the door shut. You’ll be locked out.” And don’t expect me to wake up to let you in – that bit hung there, unsaid between me and this matron-owner-manager of the youth hostel. Her words, said and unsaid, rang in my ears as I contemplated my options. It was 2:00am. Dark and cold. I was the only occupant of the 20-bunkbed female dorm in the hostel. And I had to pee. No, an hour ago I had to pee. Now, I had to twist-my-legs-in-a-knot pee. I contemplated the basin in the corner of the room. The image of the porcelain crashing to the floor stopped that thought. There was no way I was going to be able to hold it in till sun dawn. There was no choice but to woman up and make my way to the facilities in the outhouse. Making sure the latch was holding the door in place, I squiggle, dance, run to the washroom and relieve myself. The bladder at peace, I look around as I walk back to the main house. It is a silence like I have never heard. Bustling with tourists in the da...