Yesterday, while I was on the Namma Metro, I was trying to read. The book was a crime novel and I was immersed in the details of a decapitated head when the train stopped at a station. Now, I have been on many trains in different parts of the world. But the Bengaluru Metro is
I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference. I am sipping black tea with a tinge of sugar (just decoction, as they called it), sitting on the stone bench in front of a small shop selling groceries in a village called Devi Gere. I have just finished my bottle
I tried hard to think of something that would resonate with this word. Traditions. I have shirked them all my life. I live in the past too much for me to honor its traditions. I am not a Christian. I am also not much of a Hindu. Religious traditions hold little significance for me. I
The last time I came to Ooty was when I was graduating from high school. I was a certified loner then, and I remember thinking that my biggest fear then was if anyone would agree to be my roommate. I don’t remember anything of Ooty. Not its hills, not its climate, not its gorgeous chocolates.
I am sitting cross-legged in a fairly large meditation hall, my knees resting awkwardly on two pillows. I am propped up on two other pillows. Outside, I hear birds and a grass-cutting machine hypnotically whirring its way through. Inside the hall, someone coughs. I hear the person next to me deeply sigh. I bend over,
It was one of those evenings when you travel when you have no plans. I had just finished a tiring day of snorkeling, my first ever. In the port city of Dumaguete, I sit by the promenade. The sun is just about to set, as I listen to music and watch a steady stream of
It’s not often that you meet a man called Dante. Come to think of it, I have never met anyone called Dante. Dante the playwright, yes, through his works. But this Dante, I meet in the beautiful Philippines island of Siquijor. On my way to visit Mt. Bandilaan, I see this little sign that says
It’s morning but the heat is already enervating. A dry, barren plain stretches out before me. The air is dry. The landscape almost like a surreal scene from a dystopian flick. The odd patch of green struggling against the aridness. Your car turns the corner, off the Sholapur-Pune highway, onto a rough road, and then
I get back on the bike to find Nanay. Outside, the rain has stopped. A few men are out on the street, playing basketball. I stop and ask about directions to Nanay’s house. I get four different directions from four drunk guys. “You need bolo-bolo? “asks the only one who speaks a bit of English.
Siquijor has healers of all kinds. Herbolarios like Ann, who you read about in my previous post. Then, there are bolo-bolo healers. There are also the darker mambabarang – the ones who will cast a curse with their potions. But the ones I want to find are the bolo-bolo healers. Bolo-bolo healers use a drinking