Wayfarer's window!

 Every 15th of August, my thoughts return to Kalimpong. That sleepy little Himalayan town, tucked away among Bhutan, Sikkim, Nepal and the plains of Bengal, somehow awakens into a different world on Independence Day. The green slopes, the winding roads and the familiar old buildings seem to put on their finest clothes. Long tricolour festoons stretch across the streets, covering even some of those rather unlovely buildings with a sudden splash of colour and pride. The streets that are usually choked with cars competing for every possible parking space are transformed. The cars give way to children. And it is the children who tug most strongly at my heart. I see my nephews and nieces today, but somehow, in every child marching past, I also see myself—and my friends, cousins and schoolmates from many years ago. Children from every school in town, dressed in their uniforms and colours, marching proudly to the music of bagpipes, drums and flutes. From every lane and hillside they conve...

 It's Cool in Kenya When I set off for a short trip to Kenya from the sweltering summer heat of northern India, my first thought was, "How much worse can the weather be in Africa?" After all, Africa and scorching heat seem almost inseparable in our imagination. I couldn't have been more mistaken. The moment I landed in Nairobi, I was greeted by a delightful surprise. July in Kenya is beautifully cool. With temperatures ranging between 13°C and 20°C, the weather was simply perfect—a refreshing gift after weeks of oppressive heat back home. There was a gentle nip in the air, crisp mornings, pleasant afternoons, and an enchanting freshness that made every walk a pleasure. But it wasn't just the weather that was cool. The first few days were spent in an engrossing workshop alongside some of the coolest colleagues from Kenya and across Africa. They had the remarkable ability to turn long technical sessions into enjoyable conversations, peppered with infectious humour a...

  Mango Memories Mixups Summer and mangoes have a way of making otherwise sensible people do strange things. One minute you're eating a perfectly respectable slice of mango, and the next you're conducting culinary experiments worthy of a mad scientist. I plead guilty. This season's adventures produced two rather unlikely creations, each carrying its own cargo of memories. "Bittersweet Memories" Some drinks quench thirst. This one stirs the soul. Into the shaker went a peg of espresso coffee for life's wake-up calls, a peg of rhododendron juice lovingly preserved from my last trip home to the hills, and a peg of passion fruit juice that instantly transports me back to my grandmother's orchard, where childhood seemed endless and fruits mysteriously tasted sweeter. Then came generous chunks of freshly cut mango and a handful of ice cubes. Shake. Stir. Sip. The result? A strangely delightful blend of sweet, tart and bitter notes—rather like memory itself. Ever...

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 ...

This visit to Lucknow was a tad different.  The reason: I had local friends to guide me.  To restaurants with the choicest kebabs and parathas; to shops which has the best selections and most reasonably priced chikan-kari kurtas: and to some historic places along crowded markets.  While it happend all in a frenzy, my quickly clicked photos did not come out too well. But as I reached home, I tried a little bit of AI to spruce them up. So here goes my Ai enhanced pictures of the visit, along with an AI generated  limerick.   A visit to Lucknow, city of nawabs and kebabs so fine, With chikankari kurtis, kurtas and sarees in every line, My friends led me through markets and history untold, Where ancient monuments whispered stories of old, And tall modern buildings rose proudly, perfectly aligned.

The long and winding Lebong Cart Road of Darjeeling turns around at its northern most point. At this exact point, unescapable on good and clear days, emerges the amazing sight of the rolling blue hills giving way to the white majestic mountains crowned by the grand Kanchenjunga. Also at this very point, almost as colossal for their legacy and contribution of educating generations of young men, stands St Joseph's College and School, which are more popularly known as North Point College and School, Darjeeling. I was a special invitee to the Jubilee celebrations of the school and enjoyed my two days of festivities there. Day one, to enjoy the spectacular play, "Jesus Christ Superstar". Day two, for the sports meet and the awards night.  What I retained from the visit, were thoughts of gratitude towards the school, for having shaped the destinies of the students who studied there. Many of them went on to become nation builders, of not just India, but several neighbouring nati...

I must have been all of ten, when we first came to Mumbai. It was called "Bombay" then, a scintillating city of dreams, with superstars of celluloid, walking the streets as mere humans. Our hosts recommended that we visit the popular hotel "Sun-n-Sand" where we would surely encounter some of these stars. I don't quite remember seeing any such stars at the hotel, but unknowingly some scenes etched into my memories: the famous Juhu beach on which the hotel stood, the sun setting on the the Arabian Ocean where we took our photos, and the tables by the swimming pool where we sipped our cool drinks and enjoyed our ice-creams. Today, as I walked into the hotel, after a good forty years or so, the scenes came flooding back. I ran towards the pool, but it was under repair. Then the beach, almost nothing had changed. Then the sunset, vivid and enduring as ever, reminding me once again of a song: Carpenters "Its Yesterday Once More!" "All my best memories c...