The lovely snow capped mountain was staring at me quite audaciously. It was teasing me to come and experience it up, close and personal. I was in two minds—should I, should I not?? That it was a training ground for legends like Edmund Hillary was not lost to me. And there was that mind boggling number—1,085 meter high. It makes Snowdon mountain range in Wales the highest range in the area. It wasn’t a mere tease but flirting with danger. So again the question remained—Should I, Should I not??


But sometimes we all need to man up. This definitely was my time. With my boy prodding me, I rolled up my sleeves and decided to take the hike. We gingerly started our trek on this Alpine topography. The path we chose was easy but still less used because the mountains can be a bit tricky with snow. Perhaps, it was this prospect of danger that kept us going. That the only way is up. With each passing stretch the lovely village of Snowdon seemed to pass away becoming a mere dot in the humungous landscape. The heavenly vista of bluish-white Mountains is beautifully broken by glistening, icy lakes and the mountain train which takes you through the range.



After about five hours we reached the peak and before we knew it, we were enveloped in a cover of snow while wind billowed with full thrust. It’s only with lot of willpower you try to move up to reach the peak. Finally, we reached the peak. And it was like experiencing God, the wind doesn’t kiss here it bites you. You reach top and you feel very humbled. There’s a reason why it’s lonely at the top because no man or beast is quite strong enough for nature. If the peaks decided to unleash its fury; only the unseen God can save you. But then the view, the calmness of mind, the agony of the untrained muscle is worth all the efforts. Mountains are not to be underestimated. If going up is challenging, coming down is equally is tricky. With each step I gingerly took I felt the snow melting right under my feet, the surface stirring me a bit. It was demanding every ounce of attention. Meditation! We reach down in about two hours passing through hordes of pretty little yellow flowers and school of sheep munching away oblivious to everything.Image

When you reach down, it’s a moment of realisation–that  Earth can really hold you down.
It’s strangely calming.


Spring has always been associated with regrowth, rejuvenation and resurrection. In India, there are many festivals that celebrate this season of hope.

In Kerala, situated in India’s southern most part, spring is celebrated with a festival called Pooram–a festival dedicated to goddess Kali or Durga. The invincible goddess of destruction from Hindu mythology.

I was lucky enough to experience the festival for the first time in Malappuram. Here’s a glimpse.

ImageBootham or Pootham: The mythical warrior of the Goddess.


Chaliyan’s (Weaver’s) horse:  The horse which brings prosperity to the town. Four men shoulder this horse and run around, a popular myth is that if the horse breaks during the run, it can bring ill-luck to the town.


dance of the divine

Setting the stage

Setting the stage


Yes, I want some change too

The world is really divided into two groups—one who loves Brick Lane and one who loathes it. One can only sympathise with the latter for Brick Lane is not your ordinary Sunday market but a maelstrom of different cultures, people and persuasions meant for the open-minded and the adventurous at heart. It’s a place where Western promise meets East End madness and the result is truly mind blowing. Get up early on a Sunday morning and head towards the market, located on the northern end of Brick Lane and along Cheshire Street in East London.

Brick Lane market is not easy to miss; it’s a place where posh boutiques stand in comfortable ease with ramshackle stalls selling a plethora of eclectic goods from old books, antique cameras, vintage clothes to cutesy bric-a-brac. A place popularised by bargain hunters, art students and curry houses, Brick Lane is the part skipped by tourists in their luxury cars. It is unpolished, little wild, rough around the edges and absolutely unafraid.

Whatcha looking at?

Don’t miss the Vintage market put up at the Truman Brewery every Sunday between 10AM-5PM. It’s a place where you will find arrays of stalls peppered with accessories, glam fur coats, vintage frocks and men’s suits from 1920s to the 1990s.

Whilst there are many Indian and Bangladeshi curry houses, on Sundays, the market is bustling with food vendors offering cuisines from every corner of the planet. Chomp in some authentic Ethiopian food or sip Turkish coffee, dig in Chowmein from Tibet or have a tasty dish of Pad Thai. The food like everything else here perfectly embodies the rich cultural diversity that London itself offers.

Saunter around its dynamic streets and indulge in shameless people-watching. Wherever you go peppy street music and colourful street art pleasantly accompanies you. In short, Brick Lane is a bundle of contradictions—it’s ordinary yet extraordinary, predictable yet exotic, bizarre yet classic.

Just don’t forget to reach early (around 9AM) to get the best bargains. The nearest tube is Aldgate East and overground is Liverpool Street. And bring some cash; finding a cash machine in this labyrinth is tougher than solving the riddle of Mona Lisa.


   How Welcoming

The skies are bright again but the mind knows no relief. I am bleary eyed, ridden with insomnia and a doubtful mind; I look for a quick out from the mundanity. Sometimes, escapism brings a great joy, calmness and clarity of mind. Introspection, I call it.  The beauty of the ocean, its greatness, the sound of waves lashing against the rocks calms me, uplifts me, inspires me, awes me and definitely humbles me.
With the rays of sun slowly teasing my senses and my heart fluttering at the prospect of yet another new discovery I step out hopeful and head towards South sea beach in the water front city of Portsmouth.  The sea comes in many tantalizing forms as I discovered. Here there is no sand but the beach is made of many  different types of stones, scattered and littered. I gingerly walk on them collecting some which catch my attention. They are pink, jade, sea green and some with a bit of sea weed on them. As French explorer, Jacques Yves Cousteau famously said, “the sea, once it casts its spell, holds one in its net of wonder forever.”
Yes, it has me firm in its net.  In the horizon, somewhere where the sky meets the sea line, I see piers. There are two piers, I am told. The south parade pier and the Clarence Pier; the sites are now amusement centers. But to me from this distance the sight looks like a picture perfect postcard evoking great wonderment.

People come and go. Some are running, some are cycling, and many are even flying kites.  As for me, I am once again lost in my bubble. I am at the safe place where the sea and its waves is my biggest comfort. Once again, the sea has succeeded in wrapping me around its safe arms. I feel uplifted, a tiny smile plays on my lips and the former frown lines are disappearing. The sea whispers to me to march on with head held high and that everything will be alright.
The dark clouds which were hovering around me are long gone and I am at a beautiful, happy place.
Just me, my thoughts and of course the ever calming sea.

A city always on the move.
A bustling, bubbling cauldron of many cultures, much to the chagrin of certain tram ladies.
A city characterised by the spiffy hum of several relentless minds.
The time is morning rush hour. Between sips of strong coffee and stretching; I stand waiting patiently to get my daily tube ticket. The sun was certainly out but the mist in the air was audaciously challenging it to shine brighter. Suddenly, there is a chorus of deafening booms. Westminster, the Houses of Parliament and the Big Ben lets out a screeching alarm reminding us to rise and shine, to shake off the last signs of snooze. I take the ticket; the helpful ticket-teller gives me necessary directions about which line to take. I am alert…at least for the moment. There are so many lines—Victoria, Jubilee, Metropolitan etc, so many changes and so less time to process it all.
I somnambulate and find myself amidst busy silhouettes jostling their way in a mélange of stylish suits, polished shoes and boots. With newspaper tucked on one side, a suitcase in one hand and the-all-important coffee on the other, they are an epitome of style. As the tube chugs in, everyone experiences a collective sense of alertness. Ready, steady and go. From somewhere a sharp voice reminds us to–MIND THE GAP.
Minding the gap, in less than ten seconds, I am in. Hurray. In the closed somewhat intimate space of the tube, everyone seems to be in some unconscious synchronized choreography, darting the headlines on their I-phones, rhythmically moving their head to the I-pod, reading the free newspaper Metro, skimming through their Kindle. I take out my own, try to get lost in the pages of my e-book. I think I look nonchalant; I hope I have blended in. Soon it is time to step out. Step out I did; only to get enveloped in a streak of grey. Grey skies were at it again! The streets were getting wet with the slow pitter-patter of raindrops. But thank God, I had the accessory dearest to every Londoner—the quintessential umbrella. Snooty yet a savior.  I unwrap it, smoothen my skirt, tighten the jacket and march forward. I look London, I feel London.
Walking down the Queen’s memorial walk near Green Park, crisp autumn air kisses my face. The park is full of men and women dressed in stylish leggings and the shortest shorts running despite the nip in the air. Welcome to another slice of London life.  I reach the famous Buckingham Palace after crossing the War memorial and find myself surrounded by ebullient tourists hopping around feverishly, snapping pictures, hoping to get a glimpse of the Queen or Kate Middleton. Suddenly, it all goes silent. It’s time to change the guards; I am told.  The air is filled with guards’ bands and military music; new set of guards come out to take over the duties from old ones. With their red jackets and huge bearskins; they are an eye-catching sight. All of us look around, laugh and smile at each other; the differences of race, colour, and language are kept aside.
Time to move on; I walk along the St. James’ Palace catching in the local sights. On the streets, I can hear a myriad of faces of different races lending the city a beautiful, vibrant charm. Perhaps, it’s this variety which makes London a global hotspot. I find myself near St. Paul’s Cathedral, an ornate structure built between 1675 and 1710, a centre for arts, spiritualism, learning and public debate. The cathedral which was in news in 2011 for the anti-capitalism protests is said to attract people of all faith. Its legacy cannot be contained in the narrow borders of religion and perhaps is another testimony of the city’s multicultural fabric .
I still don’t know who is a true Londoner, but I am mesmerized by the variety the city offers, where each different culture comes together, integrate and become something greater.
As I step into the tube; I feel my cheeks flushed.
I think I am in love and it is going to be an affair to remember.