Athirapilly waterfalls presents a stunning visual extravagance to visitors. A very popular and scenic picnic spot, Athirapilly is located close to Chalakudy in Kerala. Athirapilly-Vazhachal waterfalls are situated on the edge Sholayar forest ranges, just 5 kms apart.

Located to the west of the Himalayas, the Valley of Flowers is exactly that: brimming with blooms of all kinds, shapes and sizes. It is known for its meadows of endemic alpine flowers and outstanding natural beauty. A haven for rare and endangered animals, including the Asiatic black bear, brown bear, blue sheep and the snow leopard, this place has a great landscape which, in turn, complements the rugged mountain wilderness of the Nanda Devi National Park.

The guard fidgets nervously with his gun as he patrols the sanctum sanctorum of India’s monument to the Unknown Soldier. In his early twenties, he keeps a sharp lookout for tourists who might cross the chain link fence. Delhi, in recent years, has been the target of several terrorist attacks and the administration is understandably cautious.

Walking in the clouds

Standing there, at the edge of the narrow, wild grass carpeted pathway, I looked down into the valley. For few seconds I searched for the bottom but could not find anything; a vagabond cloud had thinly veiled the bottom and the valley appeared to be a through gateway to the inner world. More out of habit than necessity, I searched for known words to describe what I felt. Somehow, the words didn’t come; perhaps, the experience was not entirely unoriginal. I took a step backward from the edge and continued upwards. There was more to be experienced on the way.

Rushdiec Years

I browsed through the library touching the line of books with fingertips. A blue cover read: Midnight’s Children, Salman Rushdie

A city of stories

The story of a city is no definite story, only a loosely fused collage of impressions; impressions appreciable enough to shape a past, a past potent enough to define a significant story, an individual’s story. There is no story from a rootless past.

End of road, where are we to go now?

There was no history before me, and there would be no future after me.

One late afternoon in Leh, allowing the naked amber sun to bake my skin red, I walked down to the polo field from where one could stand and raise his head to witness the Leh Palace.

There were long nights spent driving on the desolate desert roads in the month of summer. Caring little for food and sleep, with all the concentration on keeping my eyes open and taking the right maneuvering decisions, among primarily trucks, in the fast moving traffic on national highways, marked long summer nights of that journey.

I had heard a lot about it and for last three years was waiting for the right time to go there – the right time being when it rained and in ample amount. Sadly, the right time never came and this time I decided to still go to the Keoladeo National Park.

It was still dark. The air was laden and hinting rain. There, in the early morning silence, I could hear my footsteps hitting the graveled, narrow lanes of Rishikesh. From a distance, came the sad, lonely song of the river. Soon, I would be by her side.