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

Confessions

I sat sipping my green tea.

A few kilometres from where I sat, a bridge distance away to be precise, scientists spoke about the sea level rising twice as fast as was initially predicted. No, I did not panic, even though the town where I live touches the ocean. As the hesitant, conservative, righteous men of science spoke in a tone louder than ever, in a prelude to the much touted Copenhagen summit to be held in the same city later this year, we people poured into our work, for most which involved kicking more greenhouse gases into the atmosphere.

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.

Nitin Chaudhary is a freelance travel writer who has travelled to almost all states of India. He blends his travel experience with the nitty-grities of life, thereby making his travelogues full of tips which are of immense use to readers. Nitin is currently based out of Malmo, Sweden.

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.