Wayfarer's window!

We belonged to a generation that grew up before televisions, the internet, and mobile phones slowly invaded our homes, our hands, and eventually our minds: in that order. Childhood was spent outdoors, among games, excursions, and endless adventures. But there was another world that captivated us just as much: comics. Trips to the market were rare, perhaps once a month, but they always came with one sacred ritual—a visit to the bookstore. We would stand before the shelves, eyes wide with wonder, secretly coveting the newest arrivals. There was never enough money for more than one comic, bought for the princely sum of five rupees. Amar Chitra Katha introduced us to India's myths, legends, and history, while Indrajal Comics opened doors to Mandrake the Magician, the Phantom, the man who never died, and Bahadur, our homegrown hero. The glossy DC and Marvel comics looked magnificent but belonged to another world, one we admired from afar. Like all resourceful children, we found ways aro...

Summer in the vast plains of Northern India is not for the faint-hearted. The sun blazes relentlessly, temperatures soar, and stepping outdoors can feel like volunteering for a slow roast. But just when the season seems unbearable, nature offers its sweetest consolation prize: mangoes. And not just a few mangoes. This year, mango season arrived with the enthusiasm of an overgenerous colleague. Living in the city, where mango trees are about as common as parking spaces, we depend on friends who still have orchards in their backyards. Thankfully, they remember us every summer. The mango invasion began innocently enough with three crates. Then came a bulging bagful. Then another. Add to that the daily temptation from the friendly fruit vendor down the street, and before long, our home looked less like a residence and more like a wholesale mango warehouse. The question was no longer "Do we have mangoes?" but rather "What shall we do with all these mangoes?" Naturally, ...

On a round metal moon I stand, Barefoot, bronze, and bravely canned. Upon my shoulders—what a sight!— A parliament of pots in polite delight. I carry many compartments in my head, They clang like empty kettles instead. Lids rattle with important steam, Spouts point outward as if to dream. Oh, how I fancy I’m brewing tea For thirsty crowds who look to me. I tilt my thoughts, I strike a pose, I pour from every eager nose. But listen close—no liquid flows. Just echoing tins and windy prose. The glasses dangle in my hand, Clear as truth I barely understand. For kettles shine and kettles boast, They promise warmth, they host the toast. Yet empty vessels only sing A hollow, hopeful, tinny ring. So here I stand, all noise and show, A stovetop sage with little to bestow. Until I fill what I contain, My tea is thunder without rain. Perhaps one day I’ll learn the art— To heat the water of the heart. And then these clanging thoughts above Will steep in silence… and pour out love.

While returning from office last evening, I halted at a traffic signal behind a small but unusual goods vehicle. The rear carriage, meant for transporting cargo, had been ingeniously divided into vertical tiers. On the lowest level, two family members sat among neatly stacked clay pots arranged almost like a storefront. The middle tier resembled a compact storeroom. Above, bedding, clothes, and curtains hung along the frame, forming what appeared to be a makeshift bedroom. This was not merely transport: it was home, shop, warehouse, and livelihood woven into one moving structure. In my travels across India, I have often seen travelling trader families walking with tents and bundles balanced on their heads. This vehicle felt like an “upgrade”: a mobile ecosystem of survival. Yet mobility for such tradespeople is not adventure; it is economic necessity. They move from town to town selling pottery, utensils, tools, toys, or offering repair services. Weekly haats, roadside halts, and vil...

I usually prefer the aisle seat when I fly. Yet, on my last two journeys, fate placed me by the window—and what a difference that made! Both times, the aircraft’s higher window opened to a canvas of clear, azure winter skies. But the stories those skies told were worlds apart. Flight One: A Grey Blanket Over Delhi My earlier flight to Delhi was tinged with dismay. As we cruised above the clouds, the upper skies were a serene blue, but as we descended, a thick grey shroud of smog swallowed the city below. The aerial view was almost obliterated, leaving only a dull haze where vibrant streets should have been. Later, friends in Delhi remarked that they hadn’t seen blue skies for years—an unfortunate testament to the city’s worsening air quality. During my trip, the smog seemed omnipresent, clinging to every corner I visited. It was a sobering experience, and here are a few pictures from that journey: Flight Two: A Himalayan Surprise My next flight was a revelation. Somewhere above Gorakhp...

Some songs get etched in your memory, only to discover one day, that you got the song wrong all these years! I remember quite distinctly my cousins singing it, when we were children. They were just back from their winter break from the Assam-Nagaland area, and had learnt a brand new song from their uncle who was in the army. The song sounded like it was about a monkey "Kalloram" who has stored peanuts under-ground. "Kalooram-ka badam zameen ka neeche hai!". The song had a wonderful interlude, sabash Helleluyah, and much later I came to know it used the popular tune of "the saints go marching on!" Only today, I came to know the actual story behind the song and the lyrics, which were entirely different. It was about a soldier Badluram whose was buried in the earth"Badluram ka badan zameen ke neeche hai!" Here goes actual lyrics and the transation of the song.... Ek Khuburat ladki thi… Usko dekh ke rifleman… Chindi khichna bhul gaya… Havaldar Major ...