The first time I laid eyes on Gurdwara Darbar Sahib in Kartarpar, it was through a pair of powerful binoculars. Fixed atop a viewing platform
The first time I laid eyes on Gurdwara Darbar Sahib in Kartarpar, it was through a pair of powerful binoculars. Fixed atop a viewing platform
A complete waiver of visas for Indians last year made travel to this Balkan beauty that much easier. With ski resorts and spas, river cruises and cycling holidays, history and heritage, Serbia is an all-season, any-reason destination.
Where the Indus Is Young chronicles the hair-raising exploits of the intrepid, beer-loving travel legend Dervla Murphy, often described as the first lady of Irish cycling. It tells of a mid-1970s winter spent–by choice, no less–in Baltistan, a perilous terrain harsh and inhospitable, by far, even in summer. Keeping her company is her garrulous six-year-old daughter, Rachel, given to scientific query at moments most inopportune, and a sure-footed, even-tempered Balti mule christened Hallam.
It’s out. Actually it’s been out for nearly a month, just didn’t get around to gloating about it. The launch of the Times Food Guide for Chandigarh (Mohali & Panchkula included as separate sections) took place at The Lalit on 29th March at the high decibel Times Food & Nightlife Awards ceremony.
The sea has its moments, yes, but I don’t much care for Goa’s beaches. Nevertheless I gladly wash ashore ever so often for a change of scene and cuisine. Of which the latter, in my mind, remains her irrefutable raison d’être. Languor permitting I have successfully indulged in a spot of exploration in between meals as well. This is how I ended up making the acquaintance of three enormously ardent men when there a couple of months ago.
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“How about a quickie?” a friend had grinned cheekily, emboldened by Dutch courage brought about by more than a few sun-downers. “Why not!” I’d breezed back similarly high-spirited. “Pick a place then!” came his excited riposte. That was all the encouragement I needed. It’d been a while, and I had really begun to miss that fun factor called spontaneity. Time you summoned it, woman, I spurred myself. Next thing, we’re dashing for his car.
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For the longest time I had been unable to fathom the fascination a dear friend, nay two of them, have long displayed for the dead. They’re both doctorates–I have often wondered if that’s grounds–and avid travellers, though many decades apart in age. He, formerly a bureaucrat, currently a graver, plans nearly all his trots across India and the globe around beautiful cemeteries, writes about them even. She, when not teaching English Literature to college-goers, plays tombstone tourist wherever she goes. While I have continually accused them of being macabre for their interest in the interred, they’ve always blamed my immunity towards taphophillia on dread of death.
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Seldom do I recommend an experience sans encounters of the empirical kind; much less if it involves unsuspecting taste-buds. But I had been hearing such wonderful things about this one the past year, I made a rider-hitched–the messenger requests that she please not be shot–exception for it.
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