How I got my Not-a-Dog

I'm a kind person. I can say that with honesty. I've always felt pangs of sadness when I've seen another living being inflicted upon. I've wanted to go up and bandage the stray dog that has had its paw run over by a careless bicycle wheel. I've wanted to do many such things. However the courage had always evaded me. That's why, when I walked down to the local shelter and adopted a little dog, my impulsive behavior surprised me. Of course, I didn't have a choice, since I'd promised my daughter a puppy. Yet, this was an occasion where I could have invoked my parental "control," but didn't. 

Close-up of the button

Right now, she's lying next to me, her flat nose snuggled in the space between my body, hip, and elbow. Her snores bellow like those of a retired army captain who has had a few drinks. Every now and then, she adjusts her nose, moving it so that she can breathe, but still maintaining enough contact to enable the constant snore that so belies her form. I've always thought her nose looked like a large wooden button, the kind that fits on the front of a brown peacoat.

She's very funny, this dog. That's how she might be classified in Kingdom Animalia. To my eyes, looking past her nylon-fiber-like facial hair, all I see is a little girl, all of 3 years old.

Seven Years in Tibet

Note: I read Seven Years in Tibet many years ago, when I read enthusiastically but blogged sporadically. Author Heinrich Harrer's account of the rugged terrain and simple, enduring folk who dominated his travel landscape triggered many memories of my own. To imply that I'm likening my experiences to that of Harrer's would be childish folly. Yet, the similarities between the spirit and warmth of these people during my own such travels are permanent in my mind.

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I just finished reading Seven Years in Tibet. Author Heinrich Harrer's long, arduous journey to Tibet triggered by a freak circumstance, and details of his interaction with the Tibetan people along the way, are like none I have ever read before. They bring back many pleasant memories of fleeting encounters during my days trekking in India.

That said, I dare not call myself an adventurer or explorer. Yet my treks in the various mountain ranges of India have left many indelible impressions on my mind. On our way to the Saar Pass from Manali in Himachal Pradesh, we passed humble hutments with poor dwellers. Unused to the altitude, and tired from our treks, we sometimes stopped to chat as a friendly herdsman would greet us. On one such occasion we spoke wistfully of the long distance to our next camp, and a much-needed cup of tea. Before we could protest, the herdsman's wife went in and prepared hot tea for us. When we offered money she refused emphatically ... she almost sounded offended.

As I sit and type these memories at home in California, I am foolishly nostalgic. Here, in the world's great West, I have been inundated with the chant of "Nothing Comes for Free."

A cup of tea drunk in the shade of a hut; one apple sampled from a basket of 15; a warm bed, fire and a hot meal on a rainy night in the Sahyadris. These are the things my world was made of. And they were all given to me free, by some of the poorest people in the world.

Thanks Jer :)

It's been a while.  A long time ... since I posted anything on this blog. I've been traveling. In fact, I've traveled a lot. And I should have had many stories to tell. However, once I'm back and the magical mood of the trip ends, I almost immediately sink into daily life. And slowly, as I unpack and put away my personal effects from the trip, the memories slink into oblivion. The sand on my slippers gets washed off. The wrapper that held a local treat finds its way into the trash can. The stack of brochures, maps, and directions scribbled on hotel notepaper get filed away. A stray reminder in the form of a magnet or charm is all that remains on the refrigerator.

It was in such a state of hard-baked lethargy that I rediscovered writings by my very first writing mentor and travel journalist, Jeroo. (I wonder if she knows that I considered her my writing mentor.) Jeroo is always on the move, traveling, experiencing, writing, ... and sharing those incredible places. She's the kind of hardcore travel journalist who would probably forget her toothbrush (well, maybe not) but never the diary in which she captures her journeys. As the managing editor of the magazine where I had jumped on as the editorial lackey, she once inspired me to write, describe, recreate ... . Two decades later, she's done it again.

Most recently I made a trip to the Mayan ruins at Tulum and Chichén Itzá, a UNESCO World Heritage Site that is a fabulous reminder of the mathematically gifted people who once called it their home. The photos and accounts of that trip deserve a separate post, which I'll try to push online soon.

Thanks Jer for refilling my parched inkwell :)

Everybody's Bombay

I grew up in Bombay. Yet I am always at a loss of words when people ask me about the touristy spots in the city.

They: Where can we go clubbing?
I: (Scratching my head) Shrug.
They: (Visibly shocked) You mean you have never visited a pub?
I: (I open my mouth to answer, but they interject.)
They: And you claim to be a Bombayite!!!
I: Of course, I am.
They: What can we see here?
I: Well ... I have been on school picnics to the Hanging Gardens, Gateway of India, Borivili National Park, the Juhu Beach, The Jehangir Art Gallery, the museum ...
They: (Getting impatient) OK we'll get to those later. How about shopping?
I: Ummm ... Fashion Street? (I am almost afraid to mention the stretch of road in South Bombay that is crammed with export-quality rejects and imitations of those rejects. Nevertheless, people come from afar to get a good deal.)
They: We mean designer labels.
I: Not sure. But I can find out if you like. (I am eager to help.)
They: Sure. (Sniggering).

Truth is, I don't know any of the happening places that tourists are looking for in Bombay. I grew up in suburban Bombay where small family-run stores were, and still are, common. Once in a while we took the local train to Dadar where the most heavenly batata vadas (and a variety of other snacks) can be savored.

During my college years I went shopping on D.N. Road in South Bombay, frequently at Khadi Bhandar which is the government-run store that sells handloom fabric. During lunch breaks at work I would stroll over to Flora Fountain and sort through the mounds of used books--fiction, non fiction, technical, textbooks--for sale at dirt cheap prices. Sometimes, before heading home, a few friends and I would get together and walk along Marine Drive. It would rain hard during the monsoons. Umbrellas were a mere customary accessory and never kept the rain out. I can still taste the hot peanuts that vendors would sell along the way.

That was Bombay. It's called Mumbai now, but the city is still the same. It bear the scars of recent bomb blasts. Residents recall the strains of concerts against communalism. And it's pace of life is ever more than before. But it's up to you to find what fascinates you. And hold on to it for the rest of your life.

Home Based

I am a writer by profession and have worked in such capacity for most of my career. Until it hit me a couple of years ago that it would be a great idea to join the travel industry. Of course I love travel! So I went to travel school. I learnt the workings of the industry, mastered the essential tools and came out with great grades. Now I am a home-based travel agent. No, I don’t make tons of money. I don’t get travel freebies. I usually begin my day bright and early (well, ok, not so early). Then I wait for the phone to ring. It’s funny how the phone never rings when you are sitting next to it. Yes, yes, I know you have heard that one before. Anyway I’ve been sitting there a couple of hours in my PJs (it’s against the norm of telecommuters to work in anything else. What’s the point of working from home, anyway if you have to dress up?) and I figure I could spare 10 mins for quick chores. Ever wondered why the phone always rings when you are in the shower?

I rush out. Mad.

The blinking “2” on my answering machine cheers me up, nevertheless.

Message 1: We would like your participation in a brief survey. We will try and reach you at a later time.

Message 2: I am looking for discounted tickets to big-city-in-India. Could you call me back with a quote?

Aaaaaaah. A lead.That’s a challenge I enjoy--trying to find low fares. I quickly get down to the task at hand. I call my suppliers. I run a quick GDS search. I check availability. And I call the prospective client back.

“Hello … this is Friendly, the travel agent you just called about an airfare quote.”

“Ummm … oh, yes yes. I remember now. You have a quote?”

“Yes.” (I quote the price and hastily add, with a spring in my voice, that seats are available for the desired travel dates.)

“OK! The fare looks good to me. So you said the seats are available?”

“Yes they are.”

“Ummmm.” (Silence, I can hear a finger scratching a temple, pen tapping out carry-overs on paper, … )

“What about the taxes?”

I quote a valid 3-digit number.

I hear a gulp.

“Isn’t that too much?”

“But that’s what the airline sets.”

“Can’t the taxes be lower?”

Some days it is better to stay in the shower and let the answering machine blink.

India on My Mind

There is always something in this home of 1 billion that draws me in again and again. The airport at Mumbai could be better. Like searching for Waldo among a sea of images, I try to spot positive changes since my last visit a year ago.

I approach the crowd organized in a serpentine queue by the Thomas Cook dividers. My turn arrives after a not-so-long wait, and a courteous officer nods me onward. Check. Positive change. That polite smile helps me pull through the mad scramble to get a baggage cart, lay temporary claim to it, and make sure it doesn't disappear while I am making rounds of the baggage claim area, trying to identify my luggage. Some impatient passengers peer through the rubber curtain from where the conveyor transfers the bags to the baggage area. Every now and then the conveyor stops. An airport official hops on top and adjusts heavy suitcases that make the belt groan. I have been waiting nearly 45 mins now. I sigh. Then I smile.

This is India. I am home.