Solo traveling - Some perspectives

Full disclosure – I didn’t see the Buckingham palace, didn’t go up the London eye or take a cruise down the Thames, on my 10-day trip to the UK.

Why? So, here’s the best thing about being a solo traveller – you get to do just exactly what you want to do – your time, your interests, your schedules.  

I’ve often been asked about why I travel solo and if I don’t miss company and how safe it is. I started soloing because I did not find like minded folks to travel with. I like off-beat places, history, museums, old forts, dilapidated old structures, cultural interests– especially from a socio aspect. At least for me, this is one of the main reasons. So, my first trip was to McLeod Ganj (abode of the Dalai lama); something just perked my interest about that place.  Was a tad scary but I ended up really enjoying it, that soloing has become my go to travel mode.

I guess the big difference is whether you’re a traveller or a tourist or on a holiday. I don’t consider any of my trips to be holidays; they are experiences. When you travel, it's more about the journey than the destination. You don’t follow the 10 best things to see or do in a place – I mean sure, you do some of them, but its perfectly fine to not do them if you have no interest in them.

When you go off the beaten path, you discover nuggets and treasures that one would never find in any travel guide or could have planned in advance.

Let me list some of my experiences – a film festival (by Tibetan diaspora) at Mcleodganj, a lunch invite to the village headman’s house in Nagaland (I might have ended up being part of the menu, as this was at the village of the supposed fearsome headhunter tribe. Lol. They turned out to be the sweetest people I have met), an impromptu concert by a duo singing a folk Rajasthani song, performed in a story narration style in Bhuj (the two were just bantering among themselves, and when I requested if I could take a video, gave me a 15 minute performance), a special tour in Kutch to the house of an artist who practiced the unique Rogan art (there’s just half a dozen families in the world practicing this art), a 1 hour discussion with a cab driver in Seoul who gave me such insights into Korea, their people, the culture, lifestyle, the aspirations of youth, the socio economic scenario – something I could have maybe looked up and read, but got biased views), an art show – crown to couture – at the Kensington palace, that showed how women – right from 17c queens to modern artists at the met gala - used attire to make political or powerful statements, a pub (which used to be a prison) under the tower of London, still displaying vignettes of the gory bygone times (the tower area used to the ‘adda’ of bootleggers, thugs and prostitutes), a walk along the Thames (the queen’s walk) with a display of unique and quirky art installations by artists who call themselves eco warriors, a quiet little book shop specialising in just cook books, some old and rare (and this is on the same lane as the famous book shop – Notting Hill (of the movie fame, which everyone visits), a museum specialising in brands (even old time Londoners were not aware of this), a beautiful winding walkway through part forest in Yuksom, Sikkim… I’m sure there are more. But my point is, when you are on your own, you end up finding things experiences that you never planned on, which are quirky, interesting and giving unique insights and perspectives about a place and its people. 

  

Being a woman solo traveller, there is an aspect of safety to be considered. Fingers crossed, I have not come across any negative experiences thus far, even when I have ventured completely off-beat and off season. That both emboldens me to explore more but also makes me cautious to ensure that I continue to stay safe. One is more aware and instinctive when travelling alone. I have actually found people to be more friendly and helpful when they know you are travelling alone, contrary to popular belief. One needs to practice this strange dichotomy of being open and trusting while at the same time being cautious (but not wary) of people, places and experiences.  Successfully navigating a totally unknown place can be hugely liberating, a confidence booster, and more importantly an immense learning experience.

Soloing often has a perception of just picking up a backpack and just going somewhere. It actually involves a lot of planning (most of it well before you actually embark on one). I prefer to do all my bookings – travel, stay etc. by myself; that is, I don’t use any travel consultants or agents.  This again gives one the flexibility to pick what suits you, but also has an element of not following the tried and tested. Be open for some amazing experiences, or not so very - it could go either ways.  I usually do my own travel bookings – to and fro and the stay – what I do once I get there is usually open. I prefer to avoid large hotel chains for stay – again, this can be a trade off between getting something professional and efficient (but cold and standard) and the charm of something homely and authentic.  For me this is part of the whole experience and I have found some gems – Chonor house in McLeod Ganj is actually a guest house that is run by the main temple (next to Dalai Lama’s residence). It has just 6/7 rooms, but each room is a store house of art – every room is luxuriously fitted and has a theme. The food is simple and basic but cooked with care and love by people working with the temple. Deewanji Ni Haveli is a 300-year-old meticulously restored heritage home in old Ahmedabad, complete with a stepwell inside the house.  No intercoms to order your morning coffee – one just opens a jharoka overlooking the courtyard below and calls out for it😊. I must confess, I was initially a bit wary, as it is situated amidst a narrow gully in a crowded marketplace, and the walls and doors so thick that one cannot hear any noise from outside and vice versa.  I was travelling off season and was the only guest in that place. Scary, but I was treated like a royalty in my own haveli. Had a similar experience at Bhuj House, yet another 2/300-year-old Parsi manor. Again, being the only guest, even Imli the kitten treated me like her own and would come into my room to give me company. The staff would ask me what I wanted for breakfast or dinner and prepare to my liking.

 Alone or lonely – do I miss company?  Often, it’s after a long day and back in the room, and most places I stay in do does not have a TV. Or going into a restaurant to eat alone.  Or sometimes, yes, it would be great to share an experience with someone.  There are trade-offs, but well, so does life.  And I have chosen the road less travelled, and more often than not, it has been extremely rewarding.    Try it once, is my advice…you never know if you enjoy it unless you do.

 

A Whistlestop tour in Edinburgh

 

Great Scott, it is cold!!! Was my first thought on getting off Waverly station in Edinburgh from a comparatively sunny London - 12 degrees, chilled rain and a biting cold wind that blew off the Firth of Forth.  And it was only end of September, what would winter be like? Couldn’t be more of a dampener way to begin a 2-day sojourn in the land of legends and castles and poets and scotch, I thought, and boy, glad I was wrong. I looked up to see what Scotland was famous for, and guess what?  Apart from the great Scottish highlands, bagpipes and the bloody ubiquitous tartan chequered kilts (scarfs, jumpers, hats, shirts) – the place is called ‘Land of Oatmeal’!!. Lol. I’m going to give that a miss.

With no particular agenda or checklist in hand, I had decided to stay close to the new town (not sure why it is called that, since it’s a small city with the old and new seemingly mixed) and take in whatever I could in my 2 days there. Walking out of the station, just taking a 360 degree turn, I could see many of the famous landmarks from just where I stood – the Edinburgh castle, the St. Gilles cathedral, the National Art gallery, the Royal Mile, the Botanical gardens, and the Scott monument – a mammoth gothic tower that paid tribute to Scotland's greatest literary figure. To duck out of the rain, I headed to the Gallery – a short sprint away from the station and came to a screeching halt at the very first exhibit. 

Are you serious?? Leonardo da Vinci!! It was a small painting based on a biblical theme, probably something he created in between his more famous works, but still…Rembrandt, Raphael, Vermeer, Titian, Jan Van Eyck, Renoir, Rubens…in less than an hour I had gawked at works of some of the greatest painters of the world.

To get to know a city and its sights, one could read up, ramble around and make your own impressions, or just join a guided tour, which in my experience can either be really interesting – adding flavour to the sights – or be mundanely boring. Given the short time I had, I decided to join a tour – but a slightly offbeat one. Ben and Luca (that I found on GetyourGuide) called themselves storytellers and promised not the usual spiel. The 1^st tour was to the castle and I must say, the guide wove an interesting narrative to make the castle and its stories come alive. I enjoyed it much that I decided to sign up for a scotch and story session later in the day with the same team.

To kill the 4 hours I had in between the sessions, I did what best can be done in UK anyways, ramble. All (or most cities in UK) are great walking cities, where one just walked, stopped for sights or a bite, sat on park benches or town squares, and watched the world go by (weather permitting, of course), darted into interesting shops – selling everything from delicious croissants, vintage clothing, books  (found one specialising in just cook books) trinkets, jewellery, donor kababs, or just go from one museum or art gallery to the other, if that is of your interest. One could, at least in London, do a couple of weeks of this and still not run out of places and sights to see. 

Edinburgh’s Royal Mile, is as its name suggests, a mile-long street starting from the Holyrood palace - royal abode of Mary of Scott (I think she and her palace are far more interesting than that of the Elizabeth duo) and going up to the Castle, which has been occupied since 12thC till at least late 1700 by various kings and post that continues to be a military garrison. Every third shop (or second) sold tartan patterned clothing. But other than one gentleman at the castle, no other Scotsman I saw was wearing a kilt. So, I’m presuming all the tourists picked up one of these as a souvenir. 

Most ancient cities have been built on layers over centuries, so often have a labyrinth of structures underground that literally can unearth history. The Mary King Close (situated conveniently on the Royal Mile) is one such treasure. Going down 4 layers and a few eons, this is where the commoners lived and probably gives a true picture of life of those times, History is otherwise mostly relegated to royalty and their shenanigans, bloody murders and war and valour, pomp and splendour, with the town folk usually playing the extras as in with most period movies.   

Close – in Scotland – is like an apartment complex – and this was dark, dingy, desolate, desperately crowded and not surprisingly, the place where the great plague started. The commoners seemed to have been fairly poor and lived in deplorable conditions. But a vague impression of a flowery pattern on the wall or stories of the ghost of a little girl who died there and still seen there as she doesn’t want to leave her doll behind show vignettes of little bits of happiness in their lives. After the plague the place was stuffed with lime and was not inhabited since, at least not in the same conditions.  

You know what they say, when in Scotland…you got to try their scotch. Not being a whiskey drinker (btw, whiskey from Scotland is called Scotch), I did consider giving this a miss. I did say a definite no to their other famous culinary concoction - Haggis - a savoury pudding containing sheep's pluck (heart, liver, and lungs), minced with onion, oatmeal, suet, and spices. But the scotch was accompanied by a 2-hour storytelling session; I much enjoyed the scotch, the stories and the company of the large group that accompanied it.

Edinburgh is small enough to be seen in a couple of days or add in a couple more to do the day side trips to see Nessie (Loch Ness) or Leith.  Or if you like a good hike, you could spend half a day going up to Arthur’s peak for a good top side view of the city. However, a city is not just about its sights, to get to know the pulse of the place, its people, tradition, culture, one would need a lot more time - and that essentially is the difference between being a tourist and a traveller. Though two days is too short a time, some impressions I got were that somehow, the people were more reserved, less friendly than in London. 'The stiff upper lip' that one associates UK with, was something I didnt see much in London; in fact, quite the opposite, almost everybody had a quick friendly smile to offer. And no, most often it wasnt just being polite - people were friendly and quick to help if you needed - which was not what I expected from this supposedly xenophobic nation.    

But as a city, Edinburgh is beautiful, more charming and has much to offer both the tourist and the intrepid traveller. BnBs are plenty and a good option and if you don’t want to spend much on stay. Buses and trams are a good way to get about if you don’t want to walk.  Frequent trains and buses ply between Edinburgh and London – trains being more expensive but gets you there in half the time.   One does not need a separate visa for Scotland. 

Though short but surely sweet.  This is definitely a don't miss city if you are planning UK.

In search of a headhunter

It’s one of those things that just doesn’t get out of your head, a kind of a visual ear or brainworm – about a little known Headhunter tribe, living in remote villages in Northern Nagaland. Their pictures show them in, as with pictures of most tribal in India, a lot of beaded jewelry, elaborate headgears and colourful attire – the difference was however, the lethal spears and machetes that completed their attire. Their headgears were adorned with decorations carved from bones, the large pendants that dangled from their beaded neckpieces were skulls, albeit now made of metal, but till not too long ago were very real. The tattooed faces represented not designs but symbolized their prowess of the number of heads they had scalped.

The ‘headhunter tribe,’ is the Konyak tribe, living in sparsely located villages, chiefly across the Mon district in Nagaland. Among one of the last to let go of their fearsome rituals, to embrace the mainstream, the Konyaks are truly the last of the headhunters.

My tryst with them…

began maybe through an article in national geographic or some other travel magazine. Stories such as this abound maybe in faraway Amazonian jungles or some remote jungle tribe in Borneo. Not in India.  To me, one who looked for the off-beaten path, a glimpse into the bygone era, of culture, of long-lost traditions, this was one that just had to be explored. The stories, the faint fear of the unknown all added to the excitement of the journey.

The Aoling festival, celebrated by the Konyak tribe, in the 1st week of April seemed like the perfect occasion to see them in their true colours; a time when they would be true to their roots. 

Getting there…

is arduous. Amongst the lesser developed states in the nation, north Nagaland especially, is time untouched as far as infrastructure is concerned. The warning that ‘roads are bad,’ is an understatement. Bitumen, if once topped the path that winds up the Naga hills, has been long washed away with successive rains over the years. What remains now, is a gravelly path, which offers a bone rattling 2 1/2 hour journey to cover a distance of about 65 kms from the nearest town of Sonari, on the Assam/Nagaland border.  I’m told that there is a helicopter service from Dimapur, once a week. Stay options are also very limited, if any.  Websites do mention to a couple of places; but my contacts there didn’t seem to know much about them. I stayed at a state-owned guest house through a reference.

First impressions…

are often not very accurate. Reaching there by around 4 in the evening on a Sunday, I found Mon town fairly deserted. Shops were all closed. A few youngsters hung around, fairly aimlessly. I was surprised that they were dressed rather fashionably in western attire; a number of them sporting coloured or streaked hair. I recall noticing on an earlier trip to the North East that youngsters here did have a penchant for experimenting with coloured hair and fashion.  Mon was no different. The town was just a cluster of small shops and a few buildings.  Homes were a mix of concrete buildings and Jhoom (dried long grass) thatched huts. A hospital, an SBI bank, a couple of schools, one petrol bunk and a couple of churches complete the town.

There certainly were no signs of any festivities. I was disappointed in more ways than one. This was neither rustic nor offbeat in any way. In fact, it was a really small town, trying hard not to be one, at least in the minds and demeanor of the youngsters who careened upon sporty bikes around the town, hooting and cheering, and wearing the skull neckpieces either in deference or in imitation. No incident of headhunting has happened here in the last 40 odd years.  

The Aoling festival…

proved elusive.  Research before embarking on my trip, had elicited little information about when and where the festival would be held.  All I got was that it would be in the 1st week of April. Turned out that the festival, though the biggest in Mon district, was celebrated by each village in their own manner. There was no particular schedule. The main purpose of the Aoling Festival is to welcome the spring and new year and to pray for a good harvest. The first 3 days - Hoi Lah Nyih, Yin Mok Pho Nyih and Mok Shek Nyih - are spent preparing for the festival. The fourth day - Lingnyu Nyih, is when members of the Konyak tribe dress up in their best colorful traditional clothes and jewelry and spend the day dancing, singing and feasting as a community.  

Longwa Village…

was the best bet to see some festivities, suggested someone, as it attracted the few tourists who did visit Mon.  Located practically on the Myanmar (Burma) border, its claim to fame was the headman’s house that allegedly straddles the border line; one half of the house being in India and the other in Myanmar. No festivities here either; but the headman’s house is virtually a mini museum giving wonderful insights into the lives of the Konyaks. Children scampered around everywhere, some obligingly posed and even sang for me, while the women were engaged in making handicrafts. It’s a great place to pick up beautifully strung, elaborately beaded neckpieces and carved figurines; and surely it couldn’t get more authentic. You could even pick up one of those the metal skull necklaces and headgear.

While strolling around, waiting for the headman to grace us, a gentleman sporting jeans and jacket came around to greet us. I almost walked past, when I noticed his official badge – ‘headman,’ it said. He couldn’t have been more ordinary looking – young, slim built and dressed, well, just like any of us. I must confess, I was taken aback and disappointed.  But I was ambivalent in my thoughts. Was I being obnoxious in my wanting them to be still following their tribal ways, to satiate my curiosity. On the other hand, me being from an advertising background, wondered how else would they attract the tourists? Surely tourism was a way to economic prosperity. The eternal conundrum of us not wanting them to change vs. them wanting to just move ahead was present here too.  

A drive just a little past the village gets you to the fenced India-Myanmar border, complete with guard post and strangely, liquor bottles strung on the fence. A good photo op.

Mon Village…

was where I found my holy grail. The festivities were in full swing as a prelude to their annual sports fest. The dais was replete with men and women, all in their traditional best. The village elders proudly wore their finery, the youngsters followed suit too. As the only outsider, I was honoured as a guest and invited on stage, much embarrassed and elated at the same time. Here was a group of people, portrayed to be fearsome and xenophobic, who guarded their terrain and traditions with a zeal that bordered on fanaticism, welcoming me with warm handshakes, and giving me a front row seat in their midst.  The elders spoke only Nagamese, but some of the youngsters spoke English and Hindi, and enthusiastically took me through their history, culture, their lack of opportunities, their wanting for progress. 

This was followed by lunch at the headman’s house. Being predominantly vegetarian, the array of meat dishes, gave me not much opportunity to try the local cuisine. “We eat anything that crawls or walks,” explained an army captain, who originally from the village, was the guest of honour for the day at their sports meet. But I did try the sticky rice, which was their main dish, and a dish made of some wild beans. It was spicy and I did enjoy it. The complete absence of any sweet dishes was conspicuous. They apparently use very less or no sugar in their cuisine. Even their tea was black – no milk, no sugar, and brewed till jet black. A joke that the people of Mon were darker than the rest of people in Nagaland was attributed to the tea. 

 

An amazing day with the most amazing experiences…much more than I could have imagined or dared to hope for.  But sadly, the true headhunter was still missing.

Mon town…

Day 4 is when villagers from across Mon district gather as a community to sing and dance and give praise and obeisance to Wangwan – the divine spirit, seeking blessings for crop prosperity the following year. Aoling or Aoleang is also a time to mark young boys and girls into adulthood.

The whole town and villagers from over a dozen villages had gathered in the town central ground to mark the festivities. Riotous colours mingled with warrior accessories; comely girls flashed their beaded finery; elders proudly carried their tradition on their shoulders and head with ceremonial headdresses and sashes. Ritualistic drumbeats on a long, hollowed bark thumped in tune with low chants and singing, while the feet kept time in a rhythmic shuffle.

The ceremony and celebrations lasted for just a couple of hours. The memories though would last me a lifetime.

Reflections…

No, I still didn’t find my headhunter. Maybe on another day, another trip. Maybe their facial tattoos that marked their passage of right as a headhunter has faded with time, along with the fierce traditions of scalping their enemy head in their fights for territorial rights.

Today their fight is for something else. For the Greater Nagalim, a country of their own. Double barreled rifles have replaced the spears and machetes…the youngsters seek their own passage of right. The advent of Christianity and conversions had given them a new path forward into the 21st century world. Yet deep down still runs the blood of the true Naga – the headhunter, albeit in a different form will survive. 

An ode to the molagha bajji

In its plain avatar, it is a thinly gram (chickpea) flour coated large chilli, deep fried in a sizzling wok of oil to a crisp, served up on an old piece of newspaper that aids to be a throwaway serviette, while acting as an effective blotter that soaks up the excess oil from the fritter. Yet, especially come the rains, there’s nothing that’s more drool worthy to warm your innards - both stomach and soul.

Growing up in Chennai in the 80’s, before the advent of the desi pizza and burger that first stirred the winds of western aspirations, a Sunday outing meant a trip to the Marina beach, where after letting the waves wash up to the knees, beyond which even the waves backed down in obeisance to propriety, one trundled back with sand crusted feet to the lure of the bajji carts. Strings of the long light green chillies hung down like shapely garlands both serving as decoration as well advertisement.

This molagha bajji, deep fried in the ration-shop palm oil that gets used repeatedly, trans fats be damned, is redolent with the special added flavour and texture of a few grains of beach sand that just can’t be avoided. But for those of us who have tasted this slice of heaven, no other bajji can stake claim to be better.

However, the reason that kindled my fingers to tap out this ode was a visit to ‘Thindi Beedi (pronounced Beedhi) at VV Puram in Bangalore where after stopovers at various other cities, I now reside. I lived for a while in Gurgaon before this and nearby Delhi is a mecca for street food and I had set out to see what Bangalore had to offer. The street is fairly non-descriptive at least during the day; but come the evening and it’s a bustling 200m of sweets and savouries, chaats and chinese and authentic kannadiga oota. It is here that I encountered what is

arguably one of the best molagha bajji or chilli bajji that I’ve ever had. Once I managed to shove my way to the front of the raucous crowd around the shop all shouting and pointing to the various bajjis of their choice, I point to my choice of the humble chilli bajji that lay innocuously to the side of its richer cousin, the capsicum bajji. The chef here, with no lesser flair and finesse than Gary Mehigan of Masterchef fame, deftly picks and palms a precooked bajji, adroitly slices open one side of it, smears a dollop of masala potato paste into its innards, garnishes it with a sprinkle of finely chopped onion and then ends with a flourish of a squeeze of lemon to seal in all the flavours.  He then slices it down to bite sized bits, wraps them in newspaper and sends me off on one of the most delightful culinary experience I was to experience. What can I say? Masterchef would have been speechless.

Over the years I have come across various avatars of this humble chilli bajji (or pakora as it is called above the Vindhyas.) The stuffed version is the most popular with it being filled usually with potato or sometimes paneer (cottage cheese). A recent trip to Chennai had me visiting a newly opened gastro-pub near the Besant Nagar beach. Here the humble molagha bajji had upgraded to a most ‘gastro’ suitable version, and so was filled with cheese and served in a tall beaker-like apparatus, suitably arranged with accompaniments. Pretentious as it may have been, not to mention expensive, it did taste quite good; actually pretty good with a shot of gin to accompany. Interestingly, the still humble original version was available just a few meters across the road and on the beach.

BTW. Did you know that this chilli, which we know as bajji or pakora chilli is actually called banana chilli or banana pepper? Guess it must be the shape that inspires the moniker; thankfully has no taste of banana. I have trawled through the omnipotent Google to find the origins of this tasty fritter, but failed to find any. If anybody does know, please do share. The banana pepper or chilli does not seem to have any geographical ties to any place in particular, have come across recipes using it from Europe and Australia. Being not spicy but veering towards slightly sweet in its yellowed form, a number of western recipes use it for pickling in brine.  

Talking about recipes, I have tried making the humble desi chickpea-coated chilli bajji a number of times at home, but failed. I just can’t get the batter to stick to the smooth skin of the chilli; it always slides off and forms a puddle of batter quite resolutely away from the chilli. And the chilli just cooks to an uninspiring brown limp thingie which even I wouldn’t eat, let alone the rest of the family. I have tried adding cornflour and rice flour, but no avail.

And just for this, I do have an added degree of respect for the effortless way that the street and beach cart cooks dish it out – the amazingly crisp and thickly batter coated molagha bajji nee pakora nee fritter. 

Brindavan Express – bringing back the romance of day train journeys

Living in Bangalore and with family in Chennai, the Bangalore-Chennai trips was something I did often; but usually by the Shatabdi.  Recently, a last minute programme during Christmas had me doing the onward by bus and return by Brindavan Express as nothing else was available. 

I may have done this journey during my college days, but have forgotten it in the annals of time and upgraded train journeys and discounted flights, so was in for a rude shock.  I had pictured the 2^nd class sitting as the one with the usual compartment layout, but with a luggage rack above instead of the berths; was taken aback at the suburban train (local train) layout. And was soon for a bigger shock when I saw that a reserved compartment held no such pretentions as people thronged in at every station and occupied every standing and sitting position, including the floor space in front of the bathrooms.

Squished between the open window (thank god for a window seat) and a rather corpulently endowed lady on the other left me little wiggle room for comfort. A barely 6 ft long x 11/2 feet broad thinly cushioned seat was to hold 3 people; it held 4.  Bags and baggage liberally occupied the 1 feet leg space between my seat and the one opposite, hung from hooks and the narrow luggage rack above and squeezed into every nook and cranny available.  All in all it was cosy, euphemistically speaking. 

But once I looked beyond the discomfort, I started taking in the cacophony of life around me – pulsating, animated, and effervescent – something that one would never find in the almost sterile cocoons of the air-conditioned shatabdis.  Idlivadaipongaaal sellers reminded people that the train had no pantry cars. I must admit that the leaf and paper wrapped packages of the south Indian staple breakfast did look a lot more appetising than the affectations of an English breakfast with plastic wrapped slices of bread and little packets of butter and jam that is served in Shatabdis.

The jamboree started in earnest an hour into the ride. Roasted groundnut sellers raised octave in synchronisation with hot ginger cardamom tea sellers. The childrensbooks-colouringbooks-moralstorybooks-numberbooks seller, who intoned his wares in the same order and tune every time had parents perking in interest; the children preferred the nodding doggies and ingenuously put together plastic helicopter drones. Mobile holder stands, earphones, chargers I hues and variety of shapes added to the melee.   

The blind and handicap singers duo was not far behind – their repertoire was truly eclectic – effortlessly moving from Hindi to Tamil to Kannada. A single clap, a defiant stare and a synchronised thrust of a bony hip and outstretched hand that demanded attention and remuneration had people scrabbling for the scarce loose change in the times of demonatisation, to appease the transgenders; non-payment would have earned a tongue lash and wrath in equal

measures. Somebody brought in shallots to sell. Why would someone buy shallots on a train!! The mami in madisara thought it as a good idea, and so did the couple with 3 kids in tow. Shallots were followed by green cooking bananas. The combination I must admit is mouth wateringly appetising; guess the ones who bought it thought so too.

Once again, I was flummoxed at why someone would need to buy purple kanakambarams  (firecracker flower) in the train. Why ever not seems to be the repartee.  Traditional South Indian ladies do love flowers in their hair.

At rupees 150/- not only could I travel 350 kms from Chennai Central to Krantivira Sangolli Rayanna railway station in Bangalore, I wasn’t bored for a single second. There was drama, entertainment, music all packed in a 7 hr (yes, the train is invariably late) capsule.

And it has done so for 53 years now. The Brindavan Express train was introduced in 1964 as the first intercity express in the southern Railways.

I guess the Brindavan Express is going to feature more in my travels. Trains especially the day journeys are certainly alluring - they pack in so much more than just getting one from point A to point B. It’s the epitome of travel romance – next up, a day bus journey. 

Goa - a monsoon walk

Turns out I wasn’t the only one who thought of it. My flight which actually landed 10 minutes ahead of schedule, ultimately reached the parking bay 20 minutes later. That’s how crowded the airport was.  This apparently is standard because the Goa airport is actually owned by the navy and is open to civil aviation only after 12 in the afternoon. So all commercial flights arriving that time are actually either circling around like buzzards or waiting patiently in line on the runway to find a parking slot.

Having made an impromptu plan for a holiday, I put my finger on Goa,

presuming that it was off season, hence less crowded, hence cheaper. Nope, wrong again. Goa tourism has been promoted as an all-weather destination for a while now, the romance of frolicking on the beaches in the rains being especially irresistible. So my hi-end hotel reservation rates were equally hi-end (but less than half of what it would be in season.)   And I must admit, the decision to splurge on a good stay was well worth it – the Lemontree @

Candolim is one of the most charmingly designed places I’ve stayed in – Portuguese colonial architecture, gorgeous painted tile work, stained glass windows, wrought iron balcony balustrades and all. The food and service

was equally charming too (but go only for the free breakfast buffet. Lunch and dinner is really pricey.)

Staying @ Candolim was a good idea, because it is one of the nicer stretchesof beaches in Goa, clean, expansive and not crowded; at least the stretch right behind the hotel was, as there weren’t any beach shacks there - so it was just me, a few other fellow monsoon beach trawlers, a few fishermen casting their nets from the beach (deep sea fishing is banned in this season) and lots of really friendly stray dogs. If you go in early enough and there is no rain, you could even have the whole sandy stretch to yourself.    And a lovely vast stretch of sand it is.

Other than hit all the beaches here’s some other things you can do. Sit at one of the few open

beachside shacks and drink beer while you watch the beach through the downpour; cavort in the choppy grey waters while getting drenched in the downpour; take a slippery trek up the Dudhsagar waterfalls (if the officials allow u to); white water raft on the Mandovi in the downpour; hit the few clubs that are open (usually weekends); Old goa (all weather);

stroll down old quarter in Fontainas in Panaji (wearing a raincoat of course); take the ferry to Divar Island (of Finding fanny fame) and drive around (this drive is awesome anytime); take part in some monsoon-time festivals (there are a couple of

them); try a quad car (or beach buggy, in this case) drive; hire a bike or car and just drive around – the beaches are great, the beer is cheap, the food is awesome. That’s Goa and it doesn’t change – rain or no rain.