(This is the update from day four of the Hornbill Festival, December 4, 2011) “It is not a very advisable thing to do,” a worried Dr Thorsie said. The pork eating competition was about to start in a few minutes. “But the participants are mostly members of the cultural troupes you know,” he added as a consolation. “Doing some dancing or sports all the time.” The Hornbill Festival is the biggest drain on pigs in pork-loving Nagaland. Since morning, I have been watching pork minced for momos, boiled for chowmein

(This update is from day three of Hornbill Festival. Dear reader, apologies for the delay in the update as businesses take a strict break in Christian-dominated Nagaland.) Petering out crowd is a challenge to any festival. Keeping the audience interest alive is a comment on the organisers’ ingenuity and imagination. Day three of the Hornbill was hence a test; the teasers had done their job, the flitters had left and the real festival junkies slouched around to check whether the varnish peeled. With the honeymoon over and the real business

(This is the third update from the Hornbill Festival, 2011.) In Nagaland there are no bad drivers; there are only good drivers and there are those who don’t drive. This is a terrain where simple manoeuvring calls for exceptional skill at the wheel. The adrenaline rush is everyday. For some, it is a living. For others, it is passing youth. For everybody, it becomes the cause de celebre during the Hornbill rally. This is probably the only rally where your steering skills rub shoulders with your punk quotient. Or your

The bull and the bolero became one. Colour charged the air. You could touch the permeating pride. The fine film of dust that hung about added to the surrealism of a whole culture played out over centuries compacted and capsulated in the confines of a fair ground. Each of the 16 tribes gathered from all over Nagaland put their best foot forward – with a war cry. Strings of tatiphe, the wordless houtho songs of the Angamis and the engrossing mooung songs by the elderly Changs…the first day of the

(This is the first in the regular series of updates from the Hornbill Festival, 2011. I am trying to make this daily for the 500 and counting subscribers of Wanderink.com. Did I say daily? Got to see if I can push my 8pm deadline…) The setting sun was sending out jagged rays through the cotton clouds floating in festival disarray. I could smell the gaiety in the air. And the rice wine, of course. My watch said two o’clock in the afternoon. With disbelief confounded by intoxication, I asked my

History of branding says that you try harder when you are number two. ‘Blue City’, ‘Sun City’, ‘cultural capital’ – epithets attributed to Jodhpur, the second largest city in Rajasthan, are industrious at best. But they also give the impression of trying too hard – something which they don’t have to. As long as the city holds the Mehrangarh Fort with its wonderful, wonderful museum, we travellers will continue to flock. Paul Theroux said that ‘the conceit of the long distance traveller is the belief that he is going so

“Park…park…park.” Only one of them could read, two figured out from the familiar shape of the words and one just parodied the chorus. “Park…park…park…” the boys screamed with a maniacal unison like frenzied rock fans in an upper-fuelled concert. We were only 25km out of Mussoorie, on our way to Rishikesh. The only thing on our adult minds was rafting. “Park…park…park…” Swirly white water creating those ominously inviting whirlpools… “Park…park…park…” Plunging at precarious angles through spray screens with shiny, lovat boulders looming half-a-hand away… “Park…park…park…” Dhanaulti was early even for

“‘Where are you headed to?” “Rishikesh.” “What’s up?” “Rafting, of course.” Now try this. “What’s up this weekend?” “Going rafting.” “Where?” “Rishikesh, of course.” Once upon a time famed as the ‘world capital of yoga’, The Beatles came visiting Rishikesh in 1968 and John Lennon recorded the memorable The Happy Rishikesh Song. Amidst lots of blue-grey smoke, hallowed chants and exhilarating yoga, the group went on to compose nearly 50 songs during their stay at a now-closed ashram. Such was the lure. And the lore. Today, though numerous ashrams cloak

Pierce Brosnan fixes his Remington gaze – slightly more sullen drunk – on you as you flip through the menu of the most popular eatery in town. It is almost like he is quietly challenging you to a binge. After a couple of hours I look around and the entire world is smiling at me and I am in love with everyone there. There is this white dude with a guitar strumming country songs whom I want to kiss. I settle to buy a beer for him but there is

You buy vegetables from a market overlooked by snow-capped mountains. You pray standing amongst the heavens. A gush of pure and cool breeze greets you as you get off the bus. Look around and your pert, pretty little town is hemmed in by bosky barrancas and mountains awash in a thousand hues. It was early morning and I watched the sun soak the ice tips high above the slopes and slowly wash down the forests a tad darker than the virid valley. As the milky haze that lazily hung over