To witness a sunrise from the inside of a plane is like having a ringside seat for a magic show in slow motion. 

For a while all you can see is a blanket of haze, and then - through a tiny crack in the clouds way out in the distance - the first glimmer of light, which in turn appears to combine with the smog to set the stage for what is still to come. 

As the eyes adjust, they start to discern shapes and patterns, and the clouds seem to part like curtains to allow for an unobstructed view. The scene now shape-shifts and resembles a shoreline; and while you can just about make out the horizon from the tiny burning filament of light, there is no way to otherwise distinguish between land, sea and sky. 

Some clouds continue to toss and tumble across this aerial arena, while others spontaneously sprout out from the floor of the sky like pillars of steam. Meanwhile, the plane engines act like giant fog machines, heightening the drama by emitting streams of vapour onto this glorious theatre. 

Now the glowing line of light in the distance grows in intensity. Colours mix in with other colours- a bit of gold here, a dash of purple there. The whole scene looks like it’s being stirred in a pot, slowly simmering but not quite coming to a boil, with a consistency that’s simultaneously liquid and gas. It seems both real and breathtakingly fake at the same time. 

And then- without so much as a warning, it appears- the sun in all its blinding brilliance. The sheer artistic scope of it makes it feel as though it should be a rare and unusual event. And yet, twenty-four hours later, it happens again. Similar each time, but, like the best of shows, never the same. 

Magic. The world practically abounds with it.

You know, it just occurred to me that I never wished you a happy new year. Lord knows I wished almost everyone else- and some even more than once. 

It's been an interesting few years since that giddy afternoon in Feb nearly five years ago, hasn't it? All those places we've been; all those miles travelled. I know they've taken their toll. But then again, none of us is getting any younger. Those little creaks and niggles, minor irritants in our younger days, they suddenly feel a lot harder to shake off. I know what it's like, I really do. 

Still, we've come this far. I have no idea how much longer we have together but I'd just like to say I've enjoyed every minute. And despite everything, I'd like to think you have, too. I know I'm a sentimental old fool, but when I put you into fifth gear the other day, I almost felt you smile through the pain. 

So, Dylan, here's to you and me and 2015. The road awaits.

Flight of the Concorde

Over the past few weeks, with the days gradually getting colder and shorter, it has been proving more difficult than usual to haul my creaking body outdoors to keep up with my running. Despite constant reminders of the ultimate goal, the prospect of stepping out first thing on a wet morning has been enough to test even my strongest resolve. 

It was while I was in the midst of this autumnal languor, sliding dangerously down the slope towards complete decrepitude, that I first saw it. I had been always been aware of its presence, and even caught fleeting glimpses of it from out of the car window while driving to the airport, but I had never really seen it, or stopped for long enough to fully take it in. So, when I finally saw it (or is it her?) properly the other day, I was filled with a sense of awe and admiration. There it was, seemingly glowing in what was left of the late afternoon sun- a Concorde. 

Most people know the story of Concorde; the world's first aircraft to transport passengers at supersonic speeds. Only 20 of these planes were manufactured, and for 27 years they flew proudly across the skies before being retired from service in 2003. My own memories of Concorde stretch back to when I was about three years old, when I mainly scurried into the house in a somewhat panic-stricken fashion every time one of these magnificent machines flew by on its way to touch-down in Heathrow. The classic, unmistakeable curves and the full-blooded roar of the engines are still lodged somewhere in the cracks and crevices of the mind. 

As I looked at it now, silent but still just as majestic, I was reminded of what is possible when ambition and hard work intersect. This was a plane that many thought would never get off the ground, yet today it stands proud as testament to human endeavour; a reminder that greatness is always within reach if you strive hard enough to get there. 

Most other days, I might have just cast an admiring glance at it and kept going; but that day, for the first time it became a symbol of something much bigger. With winter just around the corner, I'll take all the inspiration I can get.

A leap of faith

Every time I am in an airplane, taxiing down the runway in preparation for take-off, a battle is raging within. In the red corner is Dread, growling like a caged animal waiting for mealtime. In the blue corner is Anticipation- slightly under-weight but glancing around with hopeful eyes. 

As we begin to gather pace, and the engines start to roar from under the seats, my own Rumble In the Jungle threatens to become a very one-sided contest. Every strange sound and vibrating rivet is like a solid uppercut to the head; at this point Dread clearly has the advantage. 

Anticipation, however, fights gamely on, because it knows from experience that once the initial flurry of blows have subsided, Dread's deadly grip is gradually loosened. And then, it happens- the plane has suddenly reached cruising altitude, the vibrating sounds stop, the seatbelt lights go off. Bruised and bloodied though it may be, Anticipation is unbowed and ultimately victorious. 

It seems to me that anything truly meaningful that is worth doing with all your heart and spirit, would (and should) produce a similar battle within yourself. This is because it requires a leap; of faith, and of imagination. There is always an element of fear when setting off to an unfamiliar place; particularly when the journey involves putting a bit of yourself out into the wild where critics, cynics, trolls and other dream-eating creatures lie in wait for their next prey. 

Just like when you're on a plane, though, with no control over what's going on in the cockpit ahead of you, I guess the only option is to sit back, enjoy the fight/flight as best you can, and know that if you see this thing through, there is going to be only one winner. The fear is always scary (it wouldn't be fear otherwise), but put your money on the little guy in the blue corner and you will be quids in every time. 

Sometimes, maybe even all the time, you need to believe that no matter how painful it seems, the journey will be worth it, and the place you arrive at will be better than the one you are leaving behind. That might just make all the difference. 

PS: I recently took a somewhat more literal leap of faith; but more on that later...

Just to prove that this blog is as committed to meaningful journalism as it is to the finer details of toilet bowls (see previous post), I would like to mention that I ran into the Indian shooting team on their way home from the shooting World Cup in Spain. They were extremely friendly, and happy to stop and chat, even though it seemed like they were on the most roundabout route back to India imaginable. They were also excited that one of their team had won a silver medal.

After chatting for a few minutes, they headed off to catch their flight while I stood and watched these unsung journeymen in their blue 'India Shooting' shirts, far away from the glare of the media, with only their dreams and rifles for company.

Munich Airport, 9:30 am

All the toilets seem to have a single fly painted on them. Not sure why - perhaps a target to aim at? Or a reminder to unzip your fly before you let fly? Despite the inherent risk of dragging the standard of this blog slowly and steadily down the drain, here are some photos of the aforementioned fly.

(forgive the quality- when you’re brandishing a camera in an airport toilet, composition is not your main priority)

The Good Stuff

My favourite family trip is one we didn't actually go on.
And I mean that literally, not as a mildly philosophical reflection. The year was 2004. We arrived at the train station to travel to a wedding the next day, with a few days of holiday added on. For a change, we were an hour early. For those who know us well, that would have come as a particularly surprising bit of detail. Yes, you read that right: we were an hour early. So we found a bench, watched mice run along the tracks, and chatted till our train arrived. It was 10 pm.

When the train pulled in, it was mostly dark, and the only people stirring were the ones about to get off. Everyone else was comfortably asleep, even the passengers in our berths. We checked the numbers again and, yes, they were definitely our berths (who were these people? not just sitting in our seats, sleeping in them!) So as my dad and I proceeded to gently prod them to life while also moaning about the state of the Indian Railways (which, we both agreed, suffered from the same problem as the rest of the country- i.e. a worrying lack of berth control), somebody checked the passenger list stuck beside the door. Our names weren't on there. Surely there was some mistake? Maybe this was the wrong carriage? Checked again, not on there. And so off we got, before waking up any more passengers - sleeping peacefully in their rightful seats- for no reason whatsoever.

And there we stood, huddled around a sheet of dot matrix printed paper stuck to a train that was about to pull away into the night, wondering how not even one of our five names were on there. Surely this new computerised system wasn’t that bad? We looked at the tickets again. And this time checked the date. And then the date on the screen above. Our tickets were for the previous day. We hadn't been one hour early. We were 23 hours late.

Still, looking back at it now, there was something about those sixty minutes spent at the train station and the approximately sixty seconds spent on the train. Sure, we were going to miss the wedding. And of course, we couldn't really tell people exactly why we were going to miss it (at least, not for another seven years, after which I was going to put it up on this blog, and even then it's not like anyone’s going to actually read it on here).

But the fact remained that we had just found ourselves in a ridiculous situation. Together. And despite the fact that family life is, for the most part, a series of ridiculous situations, this was a shared experience that we were unlikely to forget. Which is just as well, because the five of us have never been together on a railway platform since.

Point is, sometimes the stuff you think is getting in the way of good stuff is the good stuff. I suspect that even my mum, who had inadvertently booked our tickets for the previous day, will smile every time she thinks of this. And so will the rest of us.

Wedding or no wedding, that's the kind of thing you just can't put a price on.

Your moment is waiting, honest

This is the latest film by Kerala Tourism to promote God's Own Country which i came across at some point last year and I stumbled upon again a few days ago. I'm still not sure what i think about it though. It's clearly an ambitious attempt to depart from the cliched coconuts-ayurveda-backwaters formula, but I suspect God himself might struggle to recognise his country as depicted in this super-slick art-house production.

And if He is (for argument's sake) scratching his head over this one, what will the average western traveller, at whom this campaign is presumably aimed, make of some of the images? Or is there an exclusive group of theatre-going, gin and tonic-drinking travellers out there who will 'get' this kind of thing? I don't know. Have a look for yourself.

As for me, I can't get past the whiff of dull sophistication. Maybe i just miss the coconuts.

Going Underground

The travelling circus is coming to town,
Plenty of freaks and I'm the clown,
Mind the gap please, mind the gap-
I'm going Underground.

*Alight here for New Zealand and the Royal Albert Hall*

*Ladies and gents, this train will not be stopping at the next station. This is due to planned engineering works that I was not aware of.*

(Girl on phone): Did you see his face when I glassed him?
(Assumed response): No, what was it like?
(Girl on phone): I dunno, I wasn't looking, was I?

*There is a good service on all lines on the London Underground today except where there is a bad service.*

(Same girl on phone): Wat u wearing 2nite luv?..I'm worried mine's ova-da-top... yeh, it's a dress, like, what u call da type of thing dat goes round your neck?
"A noose?" I offer, hopefully.

My mind wanders.
The girl in the next seat catches me reading her texts in the reflection in the window.
She shoots me a look.
Oh, for a book.

The travelling circus is coming to town,
Plenty of freaks and I'm the clown,
Mind the gap please, mind the gap-
I'm going Underground.

!ndia in under 2 Minutes

The latest Incredible !ndia video...If you're homesick, that makes two of us.

Mumbai International Airport, 2 a.m.

And so, a journey that began on a rainy morning in Mumbai comes to an end in the same city with another midnight downpour. I arrived on the first day of the Ganesh festival- the day on which clay statues of the beloved half-man, half-elephant diety are installed in homes and temples across the region- and here I am now, watching them being led in endless procession back to the sea where the smaller, less expensive versions dissolve almost immediately while the larger incarnations bob up and down, trunks and limbs flailing in the brackish water before eventually being reclaimed for another year. Ashes to ashes, tusk to tusk. In India, even ten days is like a lifetime.
I will miss home.

It was a strange feeling, being a guest inside my own house. Visiting for a few days and then returning. 'Feel at home', they said jokingly- but I'm not sure I did.

Sure, it was beautiful- a little slice of heaven, set in the woods, with a brook and large screen tv. My new permanent address.
Except there was nothing permanent about it.

While my sisters pretended to sleep, I sat out in the back and sipped orange coke. Soon it would be time to hit the road again.

Those who travel are always guests. And everywhere is home.

Two hours to Kottayam

I stare out the window
as we cross the border.
Brown earth slowly turns to green.

I reach for my notebook;
This is what being ‘moved to poetry’ is like.

For so long she’s hoped for my return,
She’s waited patiently,
The wait’s over, and she’s preparing now-
To warmly welcome me.

Wind-blown and wide-eyed,
Sticking out like driftwood,
A tourist in the land of his birth.

But this is a land of a billion sons,
And each minute more are born,
How will she possibly welcome me back,
When she doesn’t know I’ve been gone?

I breathe in the smells,
Coffee, cocoa, a hint of pepper,
Boats float like dead fish on water.

Coconut palms line the tracks.
Beauty, too heavy to be contained,
Falls like invisible rain.

A child waves from beside the lake.
I wave back-
He grins and tells his brother.

A tiny leaf lands on my palm.
Fragile and so full of promise,
Like the land itself.

No, no red carpet awaits me,
I’m just a face in the teeming crowd;
But she will hear about me somehow,
And for a fleeting moment she’ll be proud.

I close my eyes.
It smells like home.

I am off to Wales tomorrow.
Swansea Bay, glistening in the sun, awaits.

My Train Journey from Hell

I boarded the train from Bangalore with two bags and a smile, only to find that my ticket was for the previous day. Although I’ve been late for trains before, at twenty-four hours, this was comfortably a new record...

And so, after two weeks of living in four and five star accommodation, I found myself standing in a train compartment unlike any other I had seen up to that point. I was going to travel unreserved.

I placed my bags behind the door and surveyed the area half-heartedly for a place to sit. Surprisingly, many of the berths were vacant and for a few fleeting moments I had visions of myself sleeping comfortably till we reached Pune, while others jostled for space to rest at least half their backsides on the custom made wooden seats.

However, the minute I got within a few meters of one of these empty berths, huge hairy men began to leap from nowhere at me, their eyes conveying what I already feared- these berths were taken. Like lions defending their territory, the men were prowling the compartment, making sure other skinnier, impertinent males wouldn’t dare take over the places they had either reserved for themselves, or were planning to sell for money. I slinked back to my corner with my tail tucked in firmly between my legs, and the law of the jungle prevailed. This was clearly the survival of the fittest.

It had now become adequately clear that I would have to spend the next twenty hours crouched in the space between the main door and the sink. As I attempted to come to terms with the thought, I realized that there was another more pressing problem. One of the toilet doors was jammed. Lucky me. I now had a room with a view. And a smell.

I sat down and glanced at my watch. The time was 2:30 pm. There were exactly eighteen hours to go. I watched the trees and fields whiz past and took strange comfort from the fact that with each passing moment I was a little bit closer to home.

I soon noticed that the sink above my head was blocked and had now become a little pond, the water stained red with paan that people were spitting into it at regular intervals. I also noticed the looks of pleasure on their faces when the contents of their mouths made a splashing sound as it hit the water. Cheap thrills. Empty cigarette packs floated on the surface like dead fish. Pretty soon someone was going to have to put their hands in and unblock it, or the floor, which was already dirty, would soon be dirty and wet. I couldn’t believe things could get any worse.

Meanwhile the train kept moving, thankfully, at a decent speed and we had no lengthy hold-ups on the way, as is often the norm on these long journeys. About every hour or so we arrived at a station and I jumped out of my cramped space, eager to move my already aching muscles and to allow the blood to flow again.

But soon even this periodic exercise would prove futile as my body refused to make the change from five-star-bed to minus-ten-star-floor. By 6:00 pm I was starting to feel dizzy and I felt as if I had lost sensation in my left leg. A wave of panic rose inside me. I was twenty-four years old with no history of medical conditions. But for the first time that day, I wondered whether I would survive.

It was then that I noticed the little boy. It is strange how someone else’s suffering makes you realize how insignificant your own minor discomfort is. He must have been about twelve, but his eyes were those of an old man’s. I stared at them, those windows to his soul, and wondered at what they had seen. I glimpsed sadness in the one eye and defiance in the other as he pulled his tattered shirt off his back and began to sweep the floor. People shifted first their feet, then their faces, as he slowly swept the rubbish from under each seat, before stopping for the briefest moment beside each passenger to beg for some change. A few dropped coins into his grubby hands while others, as if on cue, began to tie and untie their shoelaces. The boy shuffled on, bent over by hunger and a deepening sense of resignation. His shirt was not the most effective broom, but when it is your only possession, what else can you use?

Watching the boy renewed my strength and resolve. I was going to make it after all, what was I complaining about? I looked out of the train, and felt the wind in my hair. It was then that we pulled into Raichur.

Now I’m not sure exactly what the population of this sleepy little town is, but it seemed to me as if every single resident was waiting to board the general compartment. They appeared to be fleeing, en masse, like rats fleeing a sinking ship. The train hadn’t even come to a halt before two of the more enterprising fugitives climbed over my head and got in. Minutes later, it was chaos.

Men, women, and children of all ages began to pour in, all yelling and screaming in a language that I probably would have understood if someone wasn’t standing on my ears. I just about managed to get out of the way as the crowds continued to appear out of thin air. I was sitting right under the sink now, and it was threatening to overflow any minute. The feeling of panic came back to me; after the briefest of interludes, my nightmare had resumed.

The most remarkable thing about those five minutes of madness was that while an entire city seemed to board our compartment, not one person got off. Not even one.

Just a thought: Do people know that you are allowed to get off the train at these stations? Did they think it was illegal to (shudder) disembark? Perhaps, I thought, if notices assuring them it was ok were put up in our compartments, the days of crowded trains would be behind us once and for all. I smiled at my own warped logic; I was losing my mind.

Meanwhile, I continued to sit under the sink, with my heart sinking down into my shoes. I realized that I had never seen the underside of a sink before. But the thought did nothing to improve my mood. In fact, for the first time, I contemplated getting off at the next station (to show people that it can be done) and walking the rest of the way. It can’t be that far, I would reach in a week. As soon as I managed to get rid of that crazy idea, the visions started up again. This time it was of me being carried away in an ambulance at Pune station, frozen stiff in the position I was sitting in now. They would strap on an oxygen mask onto my mouth and try to massage the life back into my lifeless limbs...

All my steely resolve was gone; I was going to die, in a general compartment of all places, sitting beside a drunken old man, and underneath an overflowing sink.

When I woke up, the sun was up, the old man was gone and the sink was empty. The train pulled in to Pune station at exactly eight am. The dirty platforms of the station had never looked as good as they did that morning. Wiping the grime from my face, I blinked in the sun. I was home.

I had slept for about twenty-five minutes through the entire journey and just the thought of my warm bed and soft pillow sent an intense rush of pleasure (or was it pain?) through my body. After twenty hours of wishing I were dead, it felt great to be alive. I got to my feet, half expecting to fall. I didn’t. I laughed out loud, mindful of the stares that the other passengers were directing at me. I didn’t care. The nightmare was over.

As I walked out into a waiting auto rickshaw it occurred to me that unless the fates conspire again, I would never have to endure such an ordeal again. Soon this will be just a slowly fading memory; another story to tell friends about, with more details added each time I told it.

But what of those for whom the ordeal never ends? Those countless millions for whom everyday is a recurring nightmare, from which they will never wake. For whom the entire world is a general compartment. And the end of one journey is merely the beginning of another.

I closed my eyes and went to sleep...I was too tired to think.

The Cup of Hope (2002)

When you're twenty years old and living in India, it's difficult to feel optimistic about life. The future (and indeed, the present) seems about as bright as India's chances of winning the FIFA World Cup. In 2006. And every time an Ayodhya flares up and a Gujarat burns, slowly, bit-by-bit, our collective faith is reduced to ashes.

It is one of the great ironies of our times that when we lose life and property, we lose it in full public view; but when hope is lost, it is lost quietly, without the fanfare. But it is without doubt the greatest loss of all.

Which is why seemingly non-descript events like the one that took place last week on a bus from Pune to Bombay assume significance. As with most buses across our vast land, this one too proved hopelessly inadequate to accommodate the large numbers that thronged to make the four-hour journey. As they jostled in the aisles and wedged themselves into whatever space was available, I whispered thanks for my seat and leaned back into it. It was going to be a long ride.

Twenty minutes later I was almost asleep when the elderly woman seated next to me slowly got to her feet. She then motioned to one of the women standing to take her seat, which she gratefully accepted. “I'm still strong”, the elderly woman then told me, smiling. “And when we help others, God makes us stronger.” I nodded dumbly, unsure of how to deal with the unexpectedly awkward moment. Nothing, however, could have prepared me for what happened next.

Inspired by the woman's gesture, people all over the bus began standing up and offering their seats to those closest to them. Transfixed, I watched this strange pantomime playing out in front of me; one set of people sitting down and another taking their place in the aisles. I finally got to my feet, as if compelled by some invisible force, and kept standing till we reached our stop.

As I got off the bus and watched it disappear into the distance, I could not help but smile, despite my aching feet. This was no historic event that I had just witnessed; and yet, standing by the side of the road that night, I had found faith again. I knew that fuelled by our own belief, a spark could still burst into flame. And in the dying embers of our disillusionment, there might still be a flicker of hope.

When you're twenty years old and living in India, that's worth a whole lot more than an elusive World Cup.