My travel tales from around the world and my best ideas about life
Irrespective of from where and with whom you watch a sunset, each sunset is of its own kind and is perfect in its own way.
I witnessed the golden beauty submerging in the Indian ocean from the island of Nusa Penida, near Bali, and in the zen state that followed, I wrote this piece of writing which I am publishing here (with some editing).
When we descended the stairs of a cliff to reach this turquoise beach visible in the distance, my nut-brown eyes first quickly scanned through the different colors that had spread themselves onto the landscape, and then they insisted on exploring each hue for prolonged periods of time and stopped listening to me.
White cottony clouds floated in a light-blue sky, which gave way to a deep-blue sea, whose green waves rolled towards us, and then they washed over the brown moss to run into the fluorescent-green corals and mix with the ink-blue pools in which black and golden stripped tiny fishes darted to and fro from one rock to another.
Today is the independence day of Chile, which is also called Fiestas Patrias or dieciocho, the 18th. Having celebrated this grand day in its mother country, I promise you that the one week of celebrations preceding the independence day and on the day itself are unmatchable. And why shouldn’t they be?
On this date in 1820, Chile overthrew Spain and freed herself from 300-year-long captivity.
Chileans are thrilled around their independence day and celebrate it with honesty, love, and passion. Children, students, adults, grandparents all dress up, decorate, cook, visit their families, talk, celebrate, drink, host barbeques, dance, sing, and act.
As I move onto a new journey that takes me outside India for a couple of months (watch out for a more detailed post on Monday), I couldn’t help but reminisce about the places that I have lived in and visited in the last one year I have been in India.
India — a country with distinct religions from the ancient Hindu to the declining Zoroastrianism, with a myriad of languages and dialects from Konkani to Jarawa, with a plethora of geographies from fathomless deserts to treacherous glaciers, with a vast network from modern sea links to old hanging bridges, with a wide assortment of food from homely dal roti to mouth-watering, overnight-cooked chicken biryanis, with a range of commutes from rusted Hero bicycles, serene camels, and obedient bullock carts to fancy Rolls Royces, from peaceful Tamil marriages that are held for two hours during daylight to exciting Punjabi wedding functions sprawled over many days in luxurious hotels spread across India; we have it all.
This large and miscellaneous congregation of people — that India is — sometimes makes me proud, but sometimes the restrictions of this collectivist society suffocate me.
Oh dear friend, would you convey my message if you travel to the mystical land of the Incas.
Could you find that old lady who guided me to the bus and tell her that I dream of her hair as I dream about the Himalayan snow.
Could you find that little mystery-eyed girl who would be bigger by now and whisper to her that I would come again to play the game of “donde estas” with her in her home.
We went on a one day drive to the Ranganathittu bird sanctuary. And I was overwhelmed by its beauty.
I penned down my experience in a poem. After all, what is better than nature and poetry?
Writing down that poem here.
As we entered the sanctuary, painted storks glided above us in the clouded sky,
and with our heads tilted towards the heavens,
we walked by the side of the muddy Kaveri,
to see flocks and flocks of white and grey birds just perched onto the canopies of the Arjuna and the Acacia on the islets.
The crisp air buzzed with their songs and shrieks,
though I couldn’t identify even one of those notes.
We gazed at the distant foliage to recognize the winged-ones,
but our eyes instead discovered three crocodiles who rested on the rocks with their powerful jaws wide open,
as if they were waiting for a fish to dive into their mouth.
Their stillness made us wonder if they were real or fake,
and then we saw one of them gracefully gliding into the coolness of the water,
alluring us to go behind him.
As promised in the photo diary of the bustling street life and delicious food of Vietnam, I am back with a Vietnam photo album which showcases the country’s painting-like greenery and its rich temples.
Certain days at work, when I sit in a room and work from my desk for hours at a stretch, these photos make me feel that I am out in the green, running with the water stream, or bathing in the sunshine, or singing with the rain, or listening to the tall waterfall falling over the stones, or fine-tuning with the birds that flew above my head under the vast blue sky of those foreign lands.
Do you also long for a place that you visited in the past when you look at your travel photos? Do you still feel connected to that place?
Vietnam was alive.
With blue skies and bustling streets.
With bowls full of colorful noodle soup in which greens and mushrooms dived in.
With ladies serving soup on the street side and road junctions while sitting on the smallest stools you could ever imagine.
With the Bánh Mì sandwiches that erupted into my taste buds and the beautiful blend of the Vietnamese coffee served with condensed milk.
With the death that lingered in the war museums that crushed me to the core and I took days to recover.
With the long-curvy rides in the toiletless buses to reach one city from another.
With the streets crowded with millions of red, blue, green scooters that must have looked like crawling painted ants when seen from the top.
