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I don’t consider myself a writer of poems. I used to write a lot of poems when words failed me and all I could be was to angrily scribble thoughts that sprawl into insensible metre. This was the next find in my Gmail Drafts. Unfortunately, Google re-saved it before I could check the date. So

A last kiss to Karakoram

July 12 The sun is out already by 4AM. I lie awake for sometime in my yurt. Both Jorg and Birdy are still asleep. Inside the yurt it is pitch black, but I can see little sparkles of light through the netting. I have a few quilts on me, and I feel a bit hot,

A Tale of Two Hotpots

Last Thursday and Friday evenings were hotpot evenings. Katzka from the Czech Republic invited Birdy and I for a hotpot dinner. I was a bit unsure whether to accept or not – I don’t mind going for hotpot with classmates like Julie and Jorg. They are quite willing to conform to our vegetarian specifications. Usually,

Damp Games

Chengdu yesterday was in the midst of what our beloved meteorologists in Bangalore might call a ‘depression.’ And depressing it was too. Dank, dark and damp, it just grew progressively worse. Yoke and Birdy had the brilliant idea of playing some badminton in the evening. Yoke was away in the afternoon at the PSB, but