aditya kumar's weblog

I have been travelling, this past weekend. Not many places though, touched Mangalore, visited Udupi for a day and 2 days at home in Goa. The Bus and train journeys take the toll but I must say, there is absolutely nothing like travelling in small-town South India. If you like travelling and haven’t yet tasted this experience, you have missed so much!

Besides, this could be the best time for travelling in the small cities of South India. This time, when the small-towns are still “small”, still are able to defy the heavy commercialisation. So, if not now, then when?

Will write more once I am back in Bangalore tomorrow.

Here it is, the testimonial of my travelling and some experiences during the past year and a half in Bangalore!

I must mention here, a couple of pictures have not been taken by me. I wish to thank those who have let these photos be a part of my diary of experiences. They know who they are.

It was wonderful to witness the following images ‘in real’. Capturing these pictures was a magnificent experience. Every single one of them.

Travelling through Maharashtra


The puppy in Kasauli


Out there in Andhra


Above the clouds: Mahabaleshwar


More Mahabaleshwar


The Church in Goa


The Blessing of Pondicherry!


Bullet the Blue Sky: SuryaKirans in formation: AeroIndia Bangalore 2005


Colouring the sky with the tricolor: SuryaKirans in formation: AeroIndia Bangalore 2005


Blending Colors: India versus Pakistan, March 2005, Bangalore


And the best: To have the honour of photographing the Little Master!

Note:This was written on my way to Goa, about 2 weeks ago.

In the long journeys that I undertook for 2 years when I travelled from Indore to Goa during my graduation, I hardly remember travelling on a confirmed ticket. Most of the times I was at the mercy of fellow passengers (Heck, I have even travelled in the Pantry car). But for going home, pains could be taken, should be taken. Scorching sun up above baked the land around me in a shade of plain brown, as Mangla Express paved its way through the Konkan landscape.

The most awaited station in the 36 hour itinerary was Ratnagiri, almost 3 hours before Goa. Ratnagiri was (and is) the only main station on the Konkan track before the train touched Goa. It became almost like a custom, buying myself a 500ml Coca-Cola pet bottle with 2 vada-paus at Ratnagiri. That signified a celebration of sorts. Since it was the only main station before Goa, this was almost homecoming. I could spend all my money at Ratnagiri and not care a thing. As there was no big station throughout the journey, I would be too hungry by the time Ratnagiri came. Besides, starved of Vada-Paus in Indore, here was a treat to have and nothing less.

I am currently going home and writing this in the train, from Bangalore to Goa. So if you are reading this, that means this sloppy, shaky handwriting has finally made it to the blog.

The 14 hour train journeys that I usually undertake to go home to Goa usually happen in the nights. Bombay, Pune or Bangalore, all trains to Goa are usually in the night. There is this certain thing, about travelling by train in the night. It is so much in contrast to a day journey. If you take out the chorus generated by the metal wheels clanging with the shiny tracks, the odyssey is mostly quiet and sometimes full of questions. In the middle of the night, on a railway platform, the only evidence of a (not so) orderly world is the occasionaly chai-wala, booming full of enthusiasm, almost running on the empty veranda. At this odd hour, he is the busiest businessman around, seeking to sell a cup of tea to a train full of asleep people who are conveniently oblivious to something as basic as his existence.

I look out of the window, see the black, moonless sky full of stars and constellations. Far away, I see a hut, or so it seems, with a single bulb burning bright. There is no other light in sight, no other evidence of man’s mediation with nature. If there could be a middle of nowhere, this would be it. I look at it, as it slowly passes by the horizon and I wonder how would it be to be there.

With no pantry car in the train, I wonder what I would be eating for dinner. The train arrives at Davangere and I am able to lay my hands on a soft drink bottle. It seems under these circumstances, this is my best bet. Just then when the hopes are about to fade away, comes a railway-catering man selling Lemon rice, neatly packaged in newspaper sheets. Before I know, I give in and find myself asking for one of those. This is Godsent. A chai-wala hops in too and eyeing a prospective customer in me, comes forward, offers me a cup gesturing towards the kettle he is carrying. I, too glad to have the lemon rice in my posession gesture towards the soft drink bottle on my right. So, we are even. He breaks into a smile, carries on, his shrill voice, chanting “chai-chai”, guranteed to overstep in the sleepy worlds of the people around him.

My New Year was no celebration at all, I was browsing the internet on my computer at home. But yes, music is an important aspect of anything that I do on days like these, so I played U2’s “The Unforgettable Fire” and “New Year’s Day”. I needed Bono’s reassuring, full-of-hope voice.

Bono’s like an old friend to me now. So even if he sings a sad song, I manage to pull out some hope everytime I hear him.

We all have our problems, small and big. It has been a tough year for the World as well. The Tsunami aftereffects, The London bombings, the Delhi bombings, the Kashmir Earthquake, to name a few. People have lost, people have grieved. For me, there has been a personal loss as well.

The New Year is hope for all of us. It’s that time when we have the opportunity to start over, to wipe the slate clean and to give everything a fresh start. I hope that it turns out to be a year that is good and full of hope for all of you, the readers of this blog whom I know, and those who choose not to comment and decide against letting their presence felt.

It would be naive to believe that problems shall go away. They will persist, like always. Here, I wish that the “fine balance” is achieved. Its something that is explained below in the post, so please continue reading.

Meanwhile, A Very Happy New Year.

On a lighter note, the Truman Specials for this year. In no particular order.

1. The Best Album Truman listened to

Without doubt, U2’s “How to Dismantle an Atomic Bomb”. It grows on you, and finally gets you! What an album this!

2. Errr.. The Best (Non-U2) Artist/Album Truman listened to

I feel it has to be Coldplay’s X&Y. Oasis comes a close second with “Standing on the shoulder of Giants”. Figures say a little different story though. In the second half of the year, I listened to 285 songs of Oasis and 197 songs of Coldplay. (U2’s count for the second half of the year? 694 songs)

3. Best Hindi movie Truman watched full screen

Iqbal. But do I have a choice? Hardly good movies released this year! (I liked “Sehar” too)

4. Best Hollywood movie Truman watched full screen

Cinderella Man. No doubt. But Harry Potter comes a close second. “Finding Neverland” comes third.

5. “If-only-I-could-see” movie for this year

Anniyan. I wish to see this movie. But I can’t understand Tamil. I wish I could!

6. Cricketing action of the year

The Ashes, what else? But then again, the England-Pakistan series was such a downer.

7. Arrogant Cricketer of the year

Andre Nel of South Africa. Click on the link to see his face and you shall know who we are dealing with.

8. Best place Truman visited this year

Home :)

heh, actually, Kasauli. And I intend to visit it again. A close second comes, Karwar

9. Last but not the least, The Best Indian Author book Truman read this year

Difficult. Very, very difficult. Hmmm.. I would say “A fine balance” by Rohinton Mistry.

This is the “Fine Balance” line I was talking about, something that applies to all of us: “You cannot draw lines and compartments, and refuse to budge beyond them. Sometimes you have to use your failures as stepping-stones to success. You have to maintain a fine balance between hope and despair…In the end, it’s all a question of balance Pg 231, ‘A Fine Balance’ “.

Dr. Amitav Ghosh’s “The Glass Palace” comes very close. These books are very moving, in their own ways. Essentials of Indian Literature, these.

But the common factor in these books, is this feeling that overwhelms you, that is reflected in the words below:

‘Holding this book in your hand, sinking back in your soft arm-chair, you will say to yourself: perhaps it will amuse me. And after you have read this story of the great misfortunes, you will no doubt dine well, blaming the author for your own insensitivity, accusing him of wild exaggeration and flights of fancy. But rest assured: this tragedy is not a fiction. All is true.’

— Honoré de Balzac, Le Pere Goriot

The best thing for me, at a personal level, has been the literature I have read. The treasure is endless and it is priceless. The year gone by, has been the year of the Indian Authors. And no, I am not just talking about the Authors who write books. Just as important, are the Writers who exist in Blogosphere. I want to thank you, to each one of them, for Writing. Writing for a cause, Writing when provoked, Writing to Inspire and more importantly, Writing with responsibility. They know who they are.

Thats it for now, signing off!

To arrive at this town, which has inspired writers like Kushwant Singh and Salman Rushdie, without a book, would almost be a sin, hence not only did I carry a Mistry book with me throughout, I was also able to take time out, reading the book whenever I could, in breaks, while sunshine sprayed on the hills.



The days are cold, the nights chilly. Wind blows on the hills from the west but they could be mistaken to be coming from anywhere, for this chill brings the senses to a halt.

This town, if it qualifies to be a called a town that is, is just what I had thought it to be. Calm, serene, at peace. People drop by the city, en route to Shimla, maybe just to fulfill a formality of visiting the place, so they could have a “been there, done that” written against Kasauli’s name in a certain diary. The “Glitter, Glamour” has all been stolen by Shimla, 60 Kms away, and that is precisely the reason why I chose to come here.

To be here, is to come home to solitude. Kasauli lets you be alone. It lets you sip a cup of Tea, alone on the pavement made of heavy stones, shining and polished by frequent walkers, as people go by their work. No one comes to you, asking you to look at the winter collection of clothes, no taxiwalla comes to you trying to allure you in one of those sight seeing rides. You are left alone.

But do not mistake this for unfriendliness on the part of the residents of this small town. Talk once, and they will open their world to you.

While the world has moved to multiplexes and malls, Kasauli has chosen to stay back. But not surprisingly, intrusions by a modern world are impending. Glimpses of it were evident as I saw Nokia Phones and Prepaid sim cards being sold inside small toy shops. And clearly, this town is not a fan of movies or it’s stars as I find no evidence or traces left by any bollywood release — no posters, no boards. In a small chamber that exists within one of the few narrow paths that constitute the demography of Kasauli, children play cricket, while behind the batsman is a hand pump, it’s cement cuboid base, serving the players as a makeshift wicket. The ball touching the other end of the wall, is of course, a boundary scored. Passer-by’s like me, act as the wicket keeper.

Evening comes and I return back to the Army Holiday Home, my “base camp”. On the edge, down below, I see the bed of mountains. Northwest of my view, I see Shimla slowly coming to lights and up above I see the even slower formation of a starry night taking over the reins from the Sun. The Sun that has hovered around these mountains of The Shivaliks, the lower range of the Himalayas, is now going down in a way as if choosing a mountain to find it’s abode in. It finally dims down, the mist and fog, giving it cover as it goes to the hiding. Orion is now clearly visible over my head. The wind blows harder, convincing me to go inside the warm indoors. Daisy, the German Shepherd, follows me to my room and stands at the door as if waiting for me to carry out a promise. I am reminded of the Breakfast I had shared with her in the morning. I realise we probably have a silent, mutual understanding. For dinner, I give her three slices of bread, the best I could offer. She walks away and I go inside, turn on the heater.

And this time, I am going up, north, to the hills. Almost 2700 Kms from here, one way, on rail. Will write more.

And, I have just posted 2 new entries, below.

The rain kept on pouring on the bus, in all forms. There were brief periods when the breeze had some private moments with the bus, but overall, the rain intruded most of the time. I could see the windshield and have the driver’s view on some occasions. The wipers kept working overtime.

The view on the Driver’s rear view mirror often revealed the grinning face of our driver. The smile showcasing the bright white set of teeth in the darkness. The smile that also managed to hold a lit bidi that was an important accessory with this man who had already driven us close to 300 kilometers. The same smile that probably had a few hundred stories behind it. Stories that were an important aspect of his life (and probably someone else’s life too), for they fuelled the fire in him to drive 17 hours a day.

I chose to turn my face towards the window. Droplets of water decorated the brown glass pane on my right. The city cars zoomed past, leaving behind a tail of colorful lights, owing to which, the droplets of water, for a moment or two, acquired the effect of hundred mini-rainbows.

And when not mini-rainbows, they were the stars. Small, silvery, glittering and existing within my hand’s reach. I was so much in my own little world. Isn’t that what everyone wants? Isn’t that what you want?

But then the bus stopped, and the imagery acquired a different shape. A beggar child, in the bare minimum of clothes, both hands on the window of a car. His workplace, this muddy, traffic congested road. His plea, in his eyes. His desperations, too many to count. His thoughts, he could not afford.

His hands on the window’s glass were taken to be intrusions into another world. His gestures were met with hatred. On an open window, the glass made way up, securing the world of someone inside. Nothing, but a pure matter of convenience.

If I could make eye contact with the child, all I had to offer was another pair of cold eyes.

The difference between his world and mine? A Glass Pane.

Then I noticed, it was only the breeze now — the rain had gone and so were the droplets. My world looked so bleak without those stars.

My little world now ceased to exist.

PS: Thank you, Mr.Nair, for your suggestions on this.