Clouds in the valley...

The other day I was looking at the articles on my website, and I found some in particular, that really touched me. As in really made me feel connected enough, to smile at the moments of joy and feel melancholic at words of yearning and despair.   When I looked at the other articles, they were good, but didn't seem quite as intense. It was then that I realized that the fault was not perhaps in the words - c'mon, I can't criticize my own works, after all - but rather in the content. Most articles were describing places or events, while a handful were more philosophical. At this point in time, I realized I could categorize most travel essays into three categories: Descriptive, Narrative and Contemplative (you see, years of consulting will make you classify even the most banal of objects around you into something apparently spectacular, either making some 5Ts or ending in 3 similar sounding words!)   Descriptive essays would be those where you end up talking about the plac...

If you are lucky, Life sometimes takes you back to the most vibrant of your down memory lanes. If you can withstand the overwhelmia and still breathe in peace to savor a fresh set of memories, you can't get luckier... Why do I write this, you might wonder? After seven years, Nishant has gone back to Paris! Paris - the place where the insanity for Bohemia all began. Sometimes it all feels like fast moving scenes in some old pastel colored movie set - an imposing cathedral here, an art noveau edifice there; small, artistic shops selling bits and pieces of nostalgia by the Seine; gargoyles frozen in time trying helplessly to show onlookers what it means to gaze at the cityscapes from that altitude atop the imposing Notre Dame; the smell of musty books in Shakepeare, walking about in the autumnal rains in the imposing gardens (and rushing in to an old seemingly decrepit house only to discover gigantic canvases of Monet). Then, the first snows of winter - falling,...

Isn't it one of the best times of the week - a Sunday morning? I do agree that a Saturday evening wins the race by a slight margin, but yes, a Sunday morning is still a close contender! As I drink a strongly concocted Tata tea in a vibrant red cup, and contrast it to the blue skies of a sunny Sunday, there is a peaceful smile on my lips, content in my eyes  and a flurry of thoughts in my mind. I start going back to the library of my life, and search for Sunday mornings in various times of my life, amidst myriad places that I have called home. My first flashback brings back memories from Shillong - the Scotland of the East, where I was lucky to have spent my kindergarten years, thereby allowing the hills to forever emblazon me as a 'mountain man.' Those were days when dawn and early bright mornings would attract the little child in me (rather than the pensive fading melancholy of dusky evenings that became such a salvation as years passed by). Those were days when I...

Not far from the more popular camping havens of Nelson Bay and Myall Lakes lie the postcard perfect beach town of Seal Rocks, in the mid coast of New South Wales, and 275 km north of Sydney. Having camped at Myall Lakes the night before, we couldn't help bring ourselves to this beautiful gem of a place. Named apparently after a family of seals that perhaps lived here, Seal Rocks today is devoid of these furry critters, leaving the beach to practically yourself. The long expanse of the Lighthouse Beach The Seal Rocks beach or the Boat Beach as the locals call it, is a crescent shaped beach in gold that easily steals your heart from miles afar, when you realize quite easily why this place was included in your to-do list in the first place. Sitting on a low hill with well trimmed grass carpets, overlooking this crescent shaped beauty, I had practically had one of my best Sunday morning coffees ever! But before I could actually get down on those sands and hug the turquoi...

Unstoppable Force was very happy. He was, well, unstoppable. He won in every match and was literally undisputed. There was none who could beat him. Life was going great, until one day he heard renewed murmurs of an age old legend – Immovable Object. People started saying that if there ever was a match, the legendary Immovable Object would definitely win! This started bothering Unstoppable Force. His impression as the undisputed champion was at stake and he needed to prove to the world that he was the greatest. So Unstoppable Force packed his bags and began his journey to seek out Immovable Object and show the world the true champion he was. But alas, is quest was difficult. He moved on for days and days but never found immovable Object. He roamed all around the world but in vain. Much to his chagrin, everywhere he went, Unstoppable Force heard rumours that people had seen Immovable Object but he could never trace him. Slowly, he lost the vigour and enthusiasm of his journey an...

The next destination for the day was Culburra Beach – a sleepy yet rejuvenating hamlet, south east of Nowra, and just north of the Jervis Bay National Park. It is a quintessential watery paradise – to its north lies the Crookhaven River, to its south is Lake Woollumboola while its east is wrapped by the magnificent Pacific dotted with myriad sun and sea laden sandy stretches happily justifying the name of the place (Curbulla is aboriginal for sand) We first headed to the  Culburra Beach Mote l located at the heart of the town. I met Gail who runs the place along with her husband Grant – Gail was a very cheery lady who happily talked to me about her hometown. In my opinion, this is one of the best parts of travelling – catching up with the local folks and hearing them talk with pride about their world, its unknown history and those hidden nooks and bejewelled corners that are well hidden from the Lonely Planets and the Tripadvisors of the world. Gail and Grant had bo...

They say, if you really want to understand something – anything, a person, a place, or even an environment, you need to give it time. Time to observe, understand, introspect and then finally decide whether to love or hate the same. Without which, any judgement  becomes a flurry of an observation. I would say the same deeply of any traveler’s tales. He needs to spend some real time to feel the wind on the hill, hear the call of its denizens in the bush lands and smell the sea-breeze as the waves lash and crash on the isolation of the cliffs of chalk. If it is a good experience, he needs to live and relive it so much that his heart aches on his departure. Otherwise what’s the difference between the armchair traveler who flips through his glossy monthly magazine and the hasty traveler who just has megabytes of memories on his Nikon, but himself is bereft of any emotional attachment to the place he has been to? Sadly, when we are travelling, time becomes a luxury. It is such an i...