What I did in Goa*

1. Got tanned. No, not voluntarily. I never tan voluntarily and frankly, I completely fail to understand this new fascination for us pre-browned Injun types to get even browner. I don’t like being browner, hell it’s taken me a long time to get comfortable with being the colour I am. You can go blame it on the little Kashmiri girl I was friends with when I was five. Her name was Payal and she had light eyes and porcelain skin and when in she came in from the sun, her cheeks and nose would be this adorable bright pink that mine never, *ever* turned. Oh how I longed to have cheeks that turned pink! And then because I hated raw tomatoes and my mum is evil, she told me that if I ate one ripe, red tomato everyday for the next I-don’t-remember-how-many years, I’d have rosy cheeks too. Guess who has yet another grudge to hold against their mommies? Meeeeee!!

2. Bumped into friend from PG who is now officially out of the closet. Way to go G! On an aside, gay men are the best huggers. No seriously, there’s none of that awkward arms and legs and bumping-heads confusion. G just grabbed me in a big bear hug and did not let go until I did. Which was nice because I’m one of those horribly clumsy huggers who are so self-conscious about a) displays of affection and b) any sort of physical contact that is not make-out-related that I’m always worrying about how close, how long and get-out-of-the-way-damned-boobs. Yes I know. Shut up.

3. Was air-kissed by cute French guy and discovered that I’m a sucker for old-world chivalry. Not the pulling-chairs-out, the being paid-for or the hold-open-doors-for-me variety (though I think the last is rather sweet), but show me a guy who leans in to air-kiss you, thus giving you a whiff of sexy cologne and brushing a stubbly cheek against your soft one and I’ll show you a girl who’s fast melting into a puddle of mush. Oh and offer me your arm, or gently switch sides with me so that I’m away from the traffic and I will be your slave. Not sexually, but you know, I can get you coffee and stuff.

4. Consumed more than half of Goa's piscine population. I’m almost convinced I have fully developed gills behind my ears. And I’m sorry fishies, but it was you or my taste buds; I picked my taste buds. And shark xacuti? Mmmmmm!

5. Walked along the beach and watched the raindrops stipple the sand around me. Hypnotic, almost.

6. Had the wind in my hair and the sun in my shades as we rode through miles and miles of chlorophyll-sheltered lanes. Chlorophyll makes me haappyyyy!


Next up, What I did in Bangkok. (And no, S, not who, what. Smartypants)

*Goa is now officially the place where I bump into ghosts from my past. Last year it was A, the guitarist ex who I spotted at Thivim station. And then because I’m the queen of awkward and socially inept, I hid behind a pillar. I’m not proud of it, but not terribly ashamed either. Hey, some us are introverts okay?

Pretty as a...

And this, was the view from our breakfast table. Inexpertly stitched together by yours truly.





I really ought to get myself a flickr account, oughtn't I?

Mountain High, Valley Low

This time last week, I was in Leh.

I don't remember what exactly I was doing; If this was the day we spent curled up under the thick quilt with purple flowers on it, sliding out our hands only to turn pages on the books we were reading, or if this was one of the many mornings we sat at the breakfast table in the rooftop restaurant and breathed in the mountains.

I don't remember if it was this time last week, that we climbed up a million stone steps to reach the gompas, or if this was the day we walked up to the Leh palace, and from its crumbling facade, saw the little valley town spread out before us, like a postcard come to life.

Was this the day we sat at the banks of the Indus, just watching the prayer flags flutter on the wooden bridge above us?

And that is why I take pictures*.

Because memory is fickle, and pictures are real.

But real as they are, they are not enough. Because they tell you only one side of the story.

That picture of the glass of hot ginger-lemon-honey-tea? You can see the steam rising from the glass in misty curls; you can see the chunk of crushed ginger, sitting pretty on the honey that layers the bottom of the glass; you can even see the amber-goldenness of it, as the sunlight filters through it. But what the picture does not, CANnot tell you, is how it felt to hold that warm glass in your cold hands and feel the life flow back into your fingers. It doesn't tell you about the shock your tongue felt at the first scalding sip; the sweet, the sour, the hot and the spicy, all in one kick-your-brain-awake cocktail of taste and sensation.

Those pictures of the apple-cheeked locals. You can probably count every wrinkle on their weather-worn faces. But those pictures tell you nothing about how, every single day, you will be jolted out of your city-dweller-existence-bubble when you're greeted with a cheerful 'Julay!' and smiled at by complete strangers.

Then there are the pictures of the mountains. Which are pointless really. Because you can neither capture their grandeur, nor your feeling of miniscule insignificance, which is inevitable in the face of these magnificent giants.

Those pictures of the cobbled bylanes. That small wooden door, those flowers in the window. The small Kashmiri bakery, the statley poplars, the purple flowers in the monastery. The leh-berry, the brass temple-bells at Khardung La, the mani walls, the ice.

They cannot tell you what it was like to be there.

The next time, I will just have to take you with me.


*Coming soon.

Leeeaaving (or hoping to) on A Jet Plane (and we're taking this hope thing FAR!)

You travel, we pay.

Isn't that a lovely, lovely line? Why don't people say this to us more often?

Well the finalists are up and we happen to be one of the chosen ones (and by golly we're surprised!).

We have no idea on what basis the final selection will be made, but we have our fingers, toes and eyes firmly crossed.

We're also chasing a chicken to sacrifice at the altar of the OTB gods, but the damned thing keeps getting away. There's a slab of wood close at hand and we're making a determined effort to stay away from black cats, ladders and spilled salt. A string of nimbu and mirchi has been duly hung up on our Macintosh and a horseshoe has been pinched from it's owner (let it go darn hoss! You can get another one!).

We think we're all set now. Oh wait, wish us well, blog-people?

Update:

The results are in and it turns out we're not the one. We're a *little* disappointed, after all, spending other people's money is just so much more fun!

Ah well! For those intent on walking, the road goes ever on...