(E)nchanting Escapade

Spaces on a map, with crooked lines for streets

Are places that dwell in the hearts of men,

Becoming a part of the whole as they move away

But not without memories left lingering long after.


Countless times the streets are drawn,

By hands that have felt the air

Drawn for those who must taste the dust,

And make the journey to this love.


Inexplicable it shall always be

To the unfortunate who live in oblivion

Never for them shall streets of a town conjure up

Feelings of ownership and longing.


As life makes the journey to destinations unknown

Through routes where all else may depart and deceive,

The spaces on maps will enter one’s heart

And bring alive everlasting love.


The Bare-All (B)ucket List. Or simply, “My Birthday is coming, pick a cause to sponsor”. I suggest #2 or #7

These are a few of my favourite things, some of the things I want to do, at some point, before I croak.

1. Read all seven volumes of ‘In Search of Lost Time’.

I’m on the last 100 pages of Volume 3. This one is a slow train, but there’s no rush. It is oh so delightful.

2. Watch Eddie Vedder in concert.

I’ve screamed myself hoarse at The Scorpions, Iron Maiden and Metallica. Eddie Baby Call me soon.

3. Learn to swim.

Okay, in my defence, scuba diving in Havelock has been accomplished. And who cares about the neighbourhood pool. But Robert De Niro swam to safety in Deer Hunter and I feel like I should know how to do it too. Just in case.

4. Finish a Marathon.

Honestly, this one is just so that I can shut the husband and his like. I’d love to throw that in his face the next time he launches the You’re-not-working-out attack. Toddler care and driving in Delhi are legitimate workouts. And fitting into college jeans post baby-pop calls for a celebration. But I think the marathon survivor tee ought to do it.

5. Roll-on-the-floor Laughing.

I have chuckled, grinned, laughed out loud yes, but a floor-roll? Reminds me of a play I was in at kindergarten. It was based on a fairy tale in a Hindi book, the story of a princess who never smiles. Her father, the King, calls people from far and wide to make her smile. Nothing works, not even a monkey dance. And then a man walks in with a pillow disguised as a big belly. The ‘belly’ falls off and the princess laughs and laughs and laughs. I played the princess and I did laugh. So come on world, drop the metaphorical belly so I can show you how I roll.

6. Write a Book.

There are demons in my head, on the road and in the grocery store. They deserve to be heard. And if it can be Wodehouse-funny I’ll kiss my knees. Because they’re saucy and that’s where the books rest on curl-up nights.

7. Visit a new place every year.

This stuff is real. It has worked in the past. May there always be enough cash and whimsy wanderlust to support this cause. Amen.

8. Shake at least some manic depressives out of their sad skins.

Not with fake belly acts but something that lasts; longer than a hookah high, shorter than a lifetime will do.

9. Sky Dive/Bike Ride Tutorials.

Not a stickler for these but if they come my way, hell why not!

10. Kick a Bucket.

Not the metaphorical death sentence. I mean place a bright, big bucket in a field and kick the damn thing. Someone has to do it.


P.S.: See the green badge on the right? I’m participating in the A-to-Z Blogging Challenge. Read all about it here: http://www.a-to-zchallenge.com/

We’re on Day 2 today with the letter ‘B’ for BucketList. Stay tuned, in April and beyond.


Fly Trap

Image Coutesy: The Meta PictureI used to love flying, but two boring flights seven years ago got me here.

Now I don’t want to be told that we’ll be flying at an altitude of 35,000 feet. I just want to take-off and land, spare me the in-betweens please.

It all begins with the bookings. Your wallet agrees with the ‘no-frills’ airline. But once on the flight, your stomach makes you take out the aforementioned wallet to pay for the unexciting sandwich and juice on offer.

Earlier, you could’ve killed for a window seat. Now the airline woman gives you an aisle seat (“because all window seats are booked Ma’am”), and you don’t so much as bat an eyelid.

Then they make you sit in the plane for a good half hour while the pilot informs you “We’re third in line for take-off”. Really? We’re actually going to take-off today?

Unbelievably, the plane is off the ground and the rigmarole begins.

Cabin crew explaining safety instructions used to be funny. Now you watch them for minor fear that the one time you don’t will be the one time you wish you had.

And you also happen to spot the man who will not switch off his cellphone (as instructed during flight). You do manage to shoot him the “We’re all going to die because of you” look.

Call it paranoia or just blame it on National Geographic. When you’ve seen their series on airline disasters (one time too many), any unexplained sight, sound or smell will get you saying “Death, I am ready for you.”

And as it turns out, you happen to be travelling alone. Make no mistake. You will end up sitting next to the person you rejected as part of the ‘most-wanted person on adjoining seat’ survey that you conducted in the waiting lounge. So much for meeting a stranger on the plane, leading to delightful conversation, leading to lifelong friendship.

Clearly, life is not a film.

In many ways, it’s so much better.

Like temporary respite in the form of dashing flight steward with interesting name. It’s Persian he tells you. Delightful.

Or when the sunlight streams in during the flight and you feel like Icarus, only not that stupid.

And happiness knows no bounds when the pilot announces that in 45 minutes we will reach our destination. So that’s five Pink Floyd songs and we’ll be there!

Finally the plane lands. Everyone is alive. You thank the lord up above and the air hostess at the door.

Walking towards the airport exit you spot your personal pick-up and you smile.

That smile right there is what it’s all about. That is the only thing that says “Hey, cruising at 35,000 feet (and the before and after) was not so bad.” Until next time of course.


Dear Delhi

On a dark winter night I met you again,

While waiting for silent dreams to unfold,

We found the words to hang on a string,

You knelt and made promises of gold.


We fought like lovers, discarded memories like friends

Till fate drew swords and made life its prey.


I planned an escape from your confounding ties

You veiled the truth under a jealous sky

The spell cast shadows on twisted stone

Caged tales grew wings that never learned to fly.


You now smell of rain and scattered suns,

Of guilty secrets in crowded trunks.

We share the remains of borrowed time

creating new threads for a forgotten rhyme.


A Date with the Queen

Pachmarhi, sitting atop a plateau within the Satpura Range in Central India, is often referred to as the ‘Queen of Satpura’. And she is full of surprises. The wondrous beauty created by both history and nature can leave many a traveller spellbound.

In 1920, Captain James Forsyth, who is credited with discovering Pachmarhi, described his first glimpse,

We suddenly emerged…on to an open glade, covered with short green grass, and studded with magnificent trees…altogether, the aspect of the plateau was much more that of a fine English park than any scene I had before come across in India.

On an extended weekend in August this year, an overnight train from Delhi got us to Bhopal, the capital of Madhya Pradesh. Two hours of mostly-patient waiting was followed by the second train ride to Pipariya, the closest railway station to Pachmarhi. Scratched windows let in sepia-tinted views of endless greens and curiously-named stations celebrating India’s 66th Independence Day.

Bagra Tawa

Independence Day

Country Road

At noon we stepped into the smoke-filled air of Pipariya amidst shrill cries of ‘Pachmarhi’ from drivers. Options for the one-hour ride to Pachmarhi vary from INR 60 bus ride to INR 900 AC taxi. We settled for a shared taxi in the form of elephant-sized silver vehicles driven by mercenary men intent on squeezing 13 people in a space for 9. Haggling helps as rates per person range from 60 to 100 rupees, depending upon travelling as chickens or in comfort.

Driving through the Satpura National Park, a biosphere reserve that houses Spotted Dear, Indian Bison, Tigers, Leopards, among others, is an experience to be relished in an open vehicle with enough room for wind-swept hair. Countless monkeys and thick forest cover dot the landscape on the 54km stretch. The seamless green expanse is broken only by muddy waters of Denwa River that originates in Hoshangabad district and is often flooded in monsoons, cutting off Pachmarhi from the rest of the state.

Denwa River

Welcome Aboard

Pachmarhi greets newcomers with a busy marketplace close to the main bus station that sells plastic toys, neck-pieces with gods attached on end and other curios found elsewhere. Lord Shiva remains prominent among the figurines on sale, having four main temples in this hill-station. Beyond the bustling lanes lies a small lake with its still and desolate waters, except for a few boats that line the shore.

As the car sped across the bridge overlooking the lake, the views on both sides transformed into flatlands of a vibrant shade of green.

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Pachmarhi Welcome

We chose to stay at Champak Bungalow, a State Tourism property renovated to retain architectural aspects of its colonial past. It lies in a quiet enclosure on Dhupgarh Road, leading to the highest peak in the Satpura Range. Accommodation includes bungalow rooms and AC tents, with rates ranging from INR 2,500 to 3,000 per night. A children’s park and an under-construction swimming pool are added amenities. Behind the compound lies the Pachmarhi Lake, accessible through a narrow road running along the property. Here boating, horse and camel riding are available as leisurely past-times. Peddle boats provide views of misty mountains and greenish waters, punctured only by the eerie silence of bare Nilgiri trees that stand tall in the distance, stripped of their wondrous plume.

Nilgiri trees

As we walked along a narrow path opposite the Pachmarhi lake overlooking an expanse of green, the skies bathed in the glorious evening sun suddenly made way for rain. I shuffled, trying to pull out the umbrella, but in a few minutes the overcast skies had welcomed the sun. Looking up, bewildered at this unexpected change of scene, my eyes shone with the brilliance that filled the sky. Beyond the trees was a giant rainbow.


And it begins

Day tours in Pachmarhi are undertaken by four-wheel drive Gypsy cars for easy uphill riding. Companies that operate taxis from Pipariya station can also help with these tours at INR 1,000 – 1,100 per day.

Day zero was lost getting to Pachmarhi and could only accommodate lazy boating. So we began day two early with a visit to Priyadarshini Point, formerly named Forsyth Point after Captain Forsyth who chanced upon Pachmarhi in 1857 from this spot. The view from this deep ravine is a good way to start the trip but can easily be traded in for superior sites in and around town.

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Forsyth Point

Taking the high road

Serious mountain climbing was next on the agenda and the taxi got us to Mahadev temple at the southern edge of town. This temple is located at the foot of Chauragarh, the second highest peak in the Satpura Range at 1,326 metres. Getting to the top requires traversing endless steps, (approximately 1,260) along a steep 3.5km climb. A hill-top temple dedicated to Lord Shiva beckons pilgrims who can be found singing joyful songs when they’re not waiting to catch their breath. Old women and children, some with bare feet, groups of rowdy young men and scores of monkeys are all fellow climbers. Make-shift shops lie along the path selling water, soft-drinks and packaged snacks. Others advertise freshly prepared lemonade and black chanas.

The sight of the moss covered temple in dark stone sitting resolutely atop the mountain brings cheer to pounding hearts.


Beside the temple stands a colourful array of Trishuls raising their spears up to the sky. These are carried up by devotees who believe that offering a trishul at the temple will answer all prayers.


Outside, the air is thick with the collective feeling of triumph. Within the temple walls worshippers maintain muted tones of reverence. Beyond the boundary wall enclosing the temple are soothing sights of mountains covered in thick green cover.

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The walk downhill is not as easy as it ought to be but the entire trek (up and down hill) can be completed in 4 -5 hours by the relatively fit.

The next stop is Jata Shankar, a cave that derives its name from the peculiar rock formation that looks like the matted dreadlocks of Lord Shiva and requires stepping into a dark cave while watching for head bumps. The only light inside emanates from an incense stick lit by the pujari sitting crossed-legged on a rock, blessing each passer-by as they wade through freezing water.



History in stone

As the sun began its slow descent behind the mountains, we trespassed onto the park encircling the Protestant Church built in 1875. This Gothic style red stand-stone structure stands quietly hidden behind thick tree cover and the steeple looks over empty green fields where cows had stopped to rest. The door was closed and the windows were barred with barbed wire. Our driver had spoken of regular Sunday mass but the silence belied any congregation for several years past.




In search of the sun

The next morning, our last day in Pachmarhi, we awoke to the sounds of rain that did not bode well for a visit to Dhoopgarh, the highest peak in Satpura Range. It held promises of breath-taking views of sunrise, which had been missed in Pachmarhi for the last few months. Not to be undone by the weather, we drove to the hill on a rocky road, with the fog following us a few metres behind. The top of the hill was covered in thick fog, even as the rain had taken mercy and was reduced to a light drizzle. After walking to the edge of what should have been wondrous views of the mountain range, we returned to the pot-holed road, having taken in only the white blanket views around us.



Centre of gravity

The next stop was Reechgarh, so named for the ferocious bears that once roamed these deep caves and ravines. After walking a few steps on flat ground with deep tree roots running through, we reached the top of a giant cave. Treacherous stones took us deeper and what appeared out of the clearing was right at the centre of the earth, preferably middle earth, conjured up for a scene from Lord of the Rings. Precariously balanced moss-covered boulders lay atop each other, leaving room only for tall trees that all but blocked the light from above. On the left, two large rocks had put their heads together and welcomed lone travellers to pass through. Standing in the centre, looking up and around at the rocks, one could experience the utterly bearable smallness of being.



The buzz stops here

Once outside, the sky, and life, looked larger. The car was making its way to yet another attraction created by nature. The Bee falls, also called Jamuna Prapat, begins as a stream that jumps into the valley with a buzzing sound (hence the name) and can be enjoyed by those who don’t mind cold, very public, showers. Getting to the bottom involves walking down steep steps, making the post-shower climb up its uninteresting side-effect.

Bees Fall

Brothers in arms

The last place on our Pachmarhi trail was a quick visit to Pandav caves. Legend has it that Pachmarhi dates back to the period of the Mahabharata, the name panch (five) madhis (caves) referring to the five caves where the Pandav brothers are said to have spent a considerable part of their years of exile. Conspiracy theorists, however, allege that this story is hogwash and Hindu propaganda, as these caves are actually Buddhist caves from another time. For countless visitors to these caves in the centre of Pachmarhi town, the origins matter little. With panoramic views of the manicured gardens below and the mountains beyond, it is perhaps the perfect place to round up a visit to this hill town in Central India.

View from Pandav Caves



Sun, Sand and Snafu

Life is what happens between holidays.

Or so I thought, till a February trip this year made me realize that on occasion life packs itself into carry bags and pops out at inopportune moments, bringing along many first-time-worsts.

For the first time in her seventeen month life, my little girl threw up in the car on our way to the airport. A forty minute early morning drive in the city had done what a ten day road trip from Srinagar to Leh to Manali had NOT done six months earlier. I should have been forewarned of the trials to come even though the twenty dollar now-smelly t-shirt was screaming ‘Frankie says relax’.

Since the darling and I now smelled like rotten vegetables, we needed to change barely one hour into the trip-not-yet-begun. For the second time in one hour, there was another first. I had not packed an extra set of clothes in the baby bag, which is the sort of rule that invites you’re-too-irresponsible-to-be-a-mother sort of looks. In my defence, these looks were accompanied by disbelief over how an always meticulous (and ardent-bordering-on-obsessive-compulsive) packer like me could have screwed up so bad.

And then it got better. I couldn’t find the keys to our suitcase. I could’ve sworn they were in the baby bag in that easy-to-reach pocket right next to the prayer book. As it turns out, no amount of earnest chanting (and carrying prayer books to holidays) can save you from the travails of life, or self-inflicted torture. Karma bites.

To prove a point to the voice in my head (which was the ME certain people want me to be), I decided to carry my daughter’s and my stuff in one cabin-size bag. “Then we won’t have to wait at baggage claim”, exclaimed the imposter, still in my head. Trusting other people’s instincts can only get you so far and no matter how hard you try it will not allow you to fit an oversized bag in cabin space. Like a harried version of myself, I was exchanging items between bags and struggling to squeeze things into tiny places, all the while smelling like a rat or a cat or our dog that has been out in the rain too long.

I settled into my seat dreaming of the shower I would take as soon as we got to the hotel. The dreary drumrolls of air flight routines had begun and we were off.


Two significantly uneventful flights and five hours later, we were at the Veer Savarkar International Airport at Port Blair. A few minutes before landing we had been warned against taking pictures of the airport as it was a defence base. As with all instructions in this country, there were men with enough bravado (and little sense) to unashamedly flout them.

From the early morning winter chill of Delhi, we had travelled to the sultry sun of the Andaman Islands. My efforts to save my little baby’s pearly white face from the tropical sun were all in vain. She refused to wear a cap. It was yet another failed attempt at satisfying the imposter in my head.

We made our way through undulating streets and very well-behaved traffic. There were no red lights, only sweet postured traffic policemen and women maneuvering sensible drivers. It was a whole new world from the mainland madness of the country’s capital city.

At the hotel the tour manager exchanged identity cards for room keys while we drank an orange colored drink that was an excessively sweet and bizarre version of something else. The clock chimed in the afternoon note for twelve. Before heading to our rooms we were instructed to rest and be downstairs by three.

At the room I dug into the baby bag to find the suitcase keys while the little girl busied herself at the desk phone, making imaginary calls to real people.

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Sure enough the truant keys had found their way at the bottom of the bag. I raised my arm in triumph, “See I told you I hadn’t messed up”, trying to satisfy the imposter in my head more than anyone else.

Then we washed and washed, scrubbing all scent of early morning Delhi off of us. Mother dear also went ahead and washed all the messy clothes. God bless her. I decided to inaugurate the funky dress that a friend had picked up in Goa. This wasn’t Delhi. I could wear what I wanted, baring as much skin as my heart permitted.


The blazing afternoon sun signaled lunch time and we were ready to experiment. Bengali guests provided express instructions for fish replacement; tuna for surmai please. Prawns and assortment of fish completed the table settings and we ate like hungry hyenas.

With heavy stomachs and happy hearts we set off in the direction of the Cellular Jail. Once inside, there was no escape from history. It was in the brick columns and tiny cellars. Countless names etched on stone walls bore testimony to the reality of the horrors. Everything begged the question: What made one human being treat another in this manner? And the vacant corridors shared their secret: A man will treat another in any manner only because he can.

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We stepped inside solitary cells and stared out the window above. If walls did indeed have ears what stories could they tell us?

We were peeking into history at the lives lost within the Cellular Jail but would it all count for something? It was easy to take a moment out of our humdrum lives and pretend like we were heartbroken at the sacrifices. But feelings of nationalism that arise in memorial tourist spots stay within the stone walls. Once outside the reality of our own lives take over.

Like the fact that for the first time in my daughter’s seventeen month life, I had packed everything in the baby bag but left her milk bottle on the table in the room. That was a jolt from the blue. It didn’t help that I had never done this before. I didn’t want to believe that I had lost all semblance of functional behavior. Fortunately most of our tour group hadn’t returned from the Jail environs so I begged the cab driver to rush to the hotel. We were back just in time to catch the group headed towards the Corbyn Cove Beach.

For someone who has seen beaches dime a dozen, this garbage loaded beach in Port Blair was a significant let down. But it was a start to the adventure trail we were to follow over the next few days. My little darling slept through most part of our time at the beach. We posed for pictures, bargained (unsuccessfully) for hats and got the “Are you from Delhi?” comment for the first among many times during the trip. “You always know a Delhi-ite” the hat-seller added with a smile that made us believe it was all meant in good humour and was not a disparaging comment on our bashfulness.

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Lounging on chairs by the beach cost us ten rupees so we decided to vacate them instead of paying the exorbitant amount (in good natured Delhi spirit). The almost forty grand holiday was fine but no ten rupees for chairs please.

Soon it was dark and the beach was in closure mode. The last item on the day’s agenda was the Light and Sound Show at the Cellular Jail. I had never been to a light and sound show and was thrilled at this opportunity. As we made our way to the second row from the front, I prepared for a wondrous night under the open sky of Port Blair.

The show began well past the printed start time. The story of the island and how a beautiful place could turn into a witness of man’s excesses against man unfolded before other people’s eyes. I experienced more through my ears as I spent the entire one hour walking in and out of the venue (via the back door) in order to entertain my dear daughter who did not sit still for more than 30 seconds. While the voiceover (which sounded like Om Puri) took everyone on a journey through history, the two of us climbed up some stairs then down some stairs then out the door behind a dog.

Maybe it was the day that had started too early or the warm breeze and twinkling stars but all I really wanted to do was head back to the hotel and sleep. Perhaps it was a wonderful show. Based on what I heard but couldn’t see, I thought it dragged on for too long and our collective pity couldn’t keep up. I had already tagged it under ‘Hand me a copy of the transcript instead’.


The next morning began with checking the alarm to see whether all was alright with the world. Bright sunlight streaming into your room at four in the morning is not a normal occurrence for Delhi dwellers. Who knew we wouldn’t need the alarm here at all and the sun would suffice. After a round of daily ablutions we were out and about on our way to the islands of yore.

In life-jackets and happy hats we stepped onto wobbly boats that would be our transport for the day.  After running amok on land the little one hated to be confined on a speed boat with her ill-fitting jacket and adult company. But she had no choice. Her mother was going to take her everywhere. After feeling like actors in a done-to-death drug movie racing forth in speed boats, we reached the shores of Ross Island. We were greeted by a deer rummaging through broken coconut shells and the man selling the fruit-water for twenty bucks a piece. This we would pay for, to create our tropical holiday picture postcard.

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Now on land and out of the bright red life jacket, my daughter was happy to be so close to an animal that wasn’t human. She ran after it when it wasn’t looking and shrieked when it looked in her direction. After several wasted photo opportunities of fitting the baby and the deer in a frame, we walked on towards other sights.

Giant creepers had captured the once alive printing press where the British establishment presumably wrote stories explaining their presence on another’s soil. The hollow chambers were left to fulfill a photographer’s desires of the perfect shot.

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The empty swimming pool spoke of extravagant luxuries of certain men while others languished in tiny cells on another island not far away. But somewhere beyond the lost world was a feast; the eyes mesmerized by the colors nature could conjure up, the slanting trees, the distant lighthouse and the ubiquitous spoiler – a honeymoon couple with the hennaed hands covered in dutiful bangles and the curious look of the beloved whose eyes wandered elsewhere. Having been warned against countless mosquitoes, I was surprised to find more marriage malaria around me than the repellant creams could cure.

It was early afternoon and the sun had begun to make us uncomfortable. Not to be undone by nature, we made our way to what sounded like a dangerous place. Viper Island was an open jail for women during the British reign and derived its name from the snakes that infested its jungles. Our guide informed us that three to four women were tied together and abandoned on this island to fend for themselves, it being generally accepted that they would die of hunger or from snake bite if they ventured into the jungle looking for food. Just as we stepped off the boat a signboard warned us against throwing garbage on the island and implored us to use the dustbins. Something had happened here since that signboard came up because there wasn’t a dustbin in sight and everything from plastic bottles to food wrappers found its (un)rightful place on the island.

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And of course there was a dog. What was his story I wondered? Was he born on this island of doom and had his ancestors lived to see the certain deaths of their female human companions?

The thick jungle cover in the center of the island looked every bit the snake infested place that gave the island it’s name. With nothing to do except imagine the deaths that we couldn’t really imagine, we were on the boat again, making our way to North Bay.

The last and final stop for the day was the North Bay beach near Port Blair famous for water sports. The plan was to indulge in all activities of the getting-wet variety. For someone who is often breathless under a cold shower, I was walking on eggshells as I signed up for scuba diving. This was going to be a big personal win for me, if I could tick it off the still-under-consideration bucket list.

Full of false bravado I decided to be among the first four to walk into the ocean. This was no Woolfian walk with stones in my pocket. I had the comfort of the oxygen cylinder strapped at all times and the diving instructor attached to the hand. It took me several head-under-water practice sessions to be comfortable enough to float along. What finally did the trick was telling myself to meditate. The slow breathing pattern of this land activity (which I’ve been meaning to do for all goodness sake but have never begun) helped in calming nerves that don’t like trying to swim in the pool back home. The slow rhythm of my breath and the colorful sights that greeted my eyes made me forget land-life’s travails. I met my mother ten feet under and we posed for posterity before floating back to shore. The water hadn’t been as clear as I’d imagined and there really weren’t too many fish in this sea, but I was happy for having faced the water enemy.

Quick lunch and diving stories made way for the remaining activities of jet-ski and something called a ‘sofa ride’. While the former was an exhilarating riding experience, the latter was the opposite of a sit-back-and-relax-on-the-sofa deal. It was horrible. With space for three, my brother, mother and I sat in, with only two soft side-handles to hold. The ride made us jump off the seats and was bumpier than any surface transport I’ve been on. A splitting headache resulted from this misadventure and was only cured when the damn thing dropped us ashore.

Dry land and dry clothes helped me back to good cheer and we rocked our way back to Port Blair in the speed boat just as the sun danced in orange hues across the sky.

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Back at the hotel, it was hog time galore with endless arrays of fish, prawn, crab and lobster dishes. Fully satiated and tired, we slept soundly till the next day awoke us.


Mission Havelock began with a choppy two hour ride on a private ferry, which made many a lady request for a sick-bag. My little girl of the throwing-up-in-car fame was surprisingly stable and kept her fluids within. As we disembarked at Havelock, the pleasant winds were a welcome change from the burning sun of Port Blair.

The day was supposed to be take-a-rest day, with no pre-planned activities. My family was the first to reach the hotel and before stepping into the rooms we strode towards the private beach. When we reached the clearing, past the cottages and coconut tree, time stood still and then there was light. We knew why this was no-activity day. The spectacular view of the quiet sea, with the solitary boat in the centre, made for perfect lazy day activity. In case someone had doubts, the hotel had placed hammocks everywhere. They really wanted you to lie back and relax. After several wide-mouthed wow’s we rushed to our cottage to change into water friendly clothes and quickly ran back to the beach.

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Sitting in the shallow green sea, I could hear my cousin say, “We had wished not to find our way back home” when I’d asked about his Havelock trip two years before. While the adults in the family practiced their swimming routine, I entreated my darling girl to enter the water. Every attempt at lowering her feet into water was followed by loud wails that broke all codes of acceptable beach behavior. It was finally her grandfather who ignored the wails for a second and wet her feet just a little before handing her into mommy’s arms. Who would have thought that this little girl now splashing and smiling away had been howling at the thought of the same only a few seconds ago.

We were only drawn out of the water after an hour by hunger and the plans to explore two other beaches on the island, with the promise of a perfect sunset at one of them. Racing through the bath and sea-food special biryani, we split into scooter and auto-rickshaw riders, with the mother and toddler settling for the boring three-wheeler.  Narrow lanes lined with coconut trees on one end and the rocky beach front on the other carried us through. I ached and sighed at how amazing the ride would be on a bike. Before we stopped at the Kala Pathar beach, I had decided to trade places with my father seated behind my brother on a scooter. Surely granddaddy could babysit till our next stop while young and wild and free mommy enjoyed the sights astride a scooter.

We didn’t have much time to spare as the sunset awaited us at Radha Nagar Beach. Off we rode, with my cotton dress between by legs and both hands fighting to keep it from baring all. This wasn’t Delhi, but it wasn’t my bedroom either. After the longest scooter ride of my life (which I was inappropriately dressed for), we reached the world famous Radha Nagar beach. TIME Magazine had voted it Asia’s best. Although that was in 2004, this little note always found its way into tour listings. Nine years was a long time for anything, and for nature to preserve itself while humankind came calling, was a difficult feat indeed.

I couldn’t say whether TIME’s nine year old proclamation still held true. I hadn’t seen enough to be fair enough. It didn’t matter as I was not going to let magazine awards decide whether I liked some place. And I did like this one.

We walked along the beach, clicking pictures, watching revelers and laughing at comments such as “Aunty is wearing a diaper” from my daughter, with reference to a lady in a bikini. The cliché sunset for which we had made this journey seemed elusive as clouds blocked our view. An avid photographer struggled with a tripod and a log, setting the latter in desired directions without being happy about the result. A lady stood guard with a digital camera waiting for the perfect sunset. But the sun bid us an abrupt goodbye and we began to walk back, just as my brother made a comment about how all Indian tourists were confined to the area of the beach right beside the entrance while the foreigners had walked along the beach and could be found at the distant end. It was a curious observation and he was right.

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We returned to the hotel with sand in our shoes and the customary holiday tee (which would become a night dress back home) in our bags. The ladies settled in to cane chairs to play cards under the moonlit sky. Never a fan of the game, my girl and I sank into to the hammock and watched the stars as they hid behind the leaves above us. It was the sort of night that made you believe in magic and fairy tales. The wind finally rocked my baby to sleep and I stayed there for a while, cherishing the closeness of her body on my chest and the incomparable beauty of this moment that she would never remember.


I’m not the biggest fan of early mornings but this was important. After having been denied a very good diving view at North Bay, we had found a great deal for scuba diving at Havelock Island. We just had to be at the site by six. We reached half an hour after our scheduled time, not without marking another (unexpected) first on the list, the little girl’s scooter ride sandwiched between her mother and her uncle. Her outstretched hands, flowing hair and glorious laughter signaled pure joy, even though it was a five minute ride.

After filling out forms stating that we were fit as a fiddle and wouldn’t kill anyone if we died, I stepped forward again to be among the first three to float away. This time there was no fear, only pure excitement. I decided not to forgo the diving instructions and practice session and acted every bit the novice. While one of my companions decided to drop the diving idea and the other struggled with breathing exercises, my instructor and I began our journey.

The early morning sea was clear and brought forth beautiful sites. We saw an octopus resting among the corals and a sea anemone swaying to our hand wave. A clown fish greeted me with a pinch on my palm while a school of bright blue fish led the way. I could have stayed there forever but land life was calling. As we bobbed our heads out of the water, my instructor looked my way and smiled.

“You did great” he said while beginning to prepare for his next dive.

I thanked him for being the best guide and then told him the secret, “I did this two days ago.”

I was the first to return to the waiting area where everyone eagerly awaited comments. My beaming face answered most of their queries and they were visibly excited for how their dive would go. Every dive was different and brought forth new stories, like my brother who’s instructor asked his name by writing in the sand down below or the friend who hit her father’s bald head with a coral under water.

We were to leave Havelock Island that afternoon by ferry and head back to Delhi the next morning. It was the familiar feeling of leaving behind an old friend. Pleasant memories and forgettable blunders had come together to make a wonderful trip. And now it was over.


While planning this holiday, I had a picture in my mind that I wanted to bring home and frame. I knew what angle I wanted and how the light would be. I had decided how we would stand and where we would look. I wanted this picture for us, my daughter who wouldn’t remember anything from the trip and me with nostalgia-laced stories about everything that would really happen.

As with everything else in life, the perfect picture was not the one I had in mind all this time but the one that was clicked when I wasn’t even aware of it.

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