The tunnel was leaking, then that’s how I think tunnels are supposed to be – with little ducts drilled through to act as pressure valves which in turn filters in the outside weather. They could be also the same ones through which the sun sends in vertical beams during daytime which falls on the tarmac like blinding little spotlights. The Chenani-Nashri tunnel bypasses the snow-bound upper reaches, cutting short the distance between Jammu and Srinagar. But going by what lay in store soon after the tunnel I knew those winding
The prettiest things right in front of our eyes often go unnoticed, sometimes literally too. At the tulip festival of Kashmir the milling crowd rarely took a second look at the nearly 20 lakh blooms spread over 30 hectares of lush acreage sweeping into the foothills of the Great Himalayan range. Instead, they busied themselves taking photographs of each other in insta-like poses and I was occupied watching them, marvelling at the brazenly doting couples in a normally conservative place. Newly-weds and lovers went to the farthest corners of the
The Jhelum flowed with nary a ripple; houseboats moored close to the banks remained unmoving. Except when passing beneath the Zero Bridge the water shimmered viridian in the mid noon sun. The rains had come and gone, thankfully without any deluge and destruction, and by April summer was peaking – the river wasn’t running very deep and one could see the green of the algae and other aquatic plants. I leaned over the ornamental balustrades of the recently restored, all-wood historical bridge, gotten used to by now to the reluctant
Like most attempts at chronicling indescribable beauty, Amir Khusro’s much-quoted ‘hamin asto’ is from afar, in passing, removed from close quarters and ground reality. From the perched Taj hotel – itself a peeling, fading relic of what it was just a few years ago, understaffed but brimming with heartening sights symbolic of a changing Kashmir like openly affectionate dating couples and doughty women in western wear – the Dal Lake snuggled mistily into the gelid grey of the Zabarwan sub-mountains. The water wasn’t exactly a shimmery emerald like the Pangong
Discomfort, when it is honestly uncomfortable and makes no nauseous pretensions to the contrary, is a vastly humorous business. (‘Travels with a donkey’ by RL Stevenson) Lighted lanes Lallan* sat maudlin next to me, wracking in sobs that his long, flowing hair bobbed. I put my arms around him, hugging him from the side. Espying the goings on from a distance, my friend thought I had found someone else in her absence and returned to the market to buy more religious trinkets. Under the soft neon lights that beaded the
There is nothing like piping hot jalebis on winter dusks. Some of my fondest memories of Delhi itself revolve around the anticipation as vendors take their sweet time churning these syrupy love knots over and over in large cauldrons of fiery oil with cautious ennui. My habitual reticence gives way to an ebullient prattle, suddenly agog at the goings on around me but my eyes glued to the oil frothing at the sensuous curves like sizzling lace. At the Singhu border I watched as little Arsh distributed steaming jalebis in
To paraphrase a Victor Hugo, nothing can stop an idea whose time has come. Farmfrnd is just that – an idea most pertinent to our times. ‘The app seeks to network the farmers with local shopkeepers and end-customers by avoiding middlemen who typically hinder fair trading.’ (The Hindu, Oct 30, 2020). From ideation to fruition, the application took almost two years. I know, it doesn’t take that long but the trip was memorable, a humungous learning. And hopefully only the beginning. Tapioca in the trunk ‘If it weren’t for the
Willys meant cops. So when the jeep stopped outside her house the new bride peered outside the window a lot anxious. The big burly with twirled moustache and rolled up shirt sleeves sat with one leg out on the footboard so he could jump out even before the vehicle came to a complete stop and take off after the criminal – at least that was the image enforced in her mind by the movies. A muscled man with neatly parted hair and curled up sleeves sat at the driver’s seat,
Peregrination follows ruination. When Naropa decided to leave Nalanda it was because of a devastation of epic physical proportions – the ancient university lay razed by a series of invader ransacking and burning of texts that took Buddhism itself back by several centuries. Born into a Brahmin family in Bengal he was a dutiful son and a devout husband, living the family way for nearly a decade before giving it all up and embarking on a path of freedom and enlightenment. At the age of 28, he entered Nalanda University
Day 3 Jhansi – Nagpur: 594 km Distances and midway points Jhansi – Lalitpur – Sagar: 202 km Sagar – Narsinghpur – Seoni: 265 km Seoni – Nagpur: 127 km (From the diary of my Delhi to Kerala motorcycle ride, December 2019. The third day was the coldest and the longest leg of the six-day run along the most wintry, desolate stretches. ‘I left a foggy Jhansi where the Betwa flowed in clouds early morning. By the time I reached Narsinghpur, my whole body was juddering and my boots dripping
