The Reluctant Nomad

Savouring a sunrise at the Hut Bay, Little Andaman

I’m under a house-arrest. Almost. I hurt myself  thanks to a freak fall from the stairs at the office. Doctor said the ligaments are torn in the foot and ankle and I need to rest for 8 weeks, with the ankle binder firmly in place. The unwarranted break from moving around hasn’t been easy to handle. 

I would like to view myself as an active person (my parents may disagree). I love moving about - sitting still isn’t really me. I easily notch up over 12k steps a day. Plus, I live to travel. If I’m not already packing the bags and heading somewhere, I am planning for one. Money and time were to permit, I would see every part of the world. Even those that nobody wants to go to. Like a scientist examining every cell of a tissue under a microscope! Or, a little kid in a toy store racking through all the dolls, or a candy shop trying every flavour! As I twiddle my thumbs sitting at home (and mind most of my work too from here, unless a meeting warrants me to limp my way to workplace) Sometimes I wonder why I travel.  Is it because I will have some bragging rights, that I have travelled to so many nations/places? Do I crave for some strange validation and attention from people? Yes, I do want to stack up numbers, for gloating within oneself, and not throw the stats at another.  No, ma'am, I don't brag - I am very humble like the Sudha Murty of steel spoons and jasmine flowers fame.  Or, maybe humbler because I don't even carry spoons myself.  Nor sport jasmines in my fast thinning hair!

I am not a foodie, and do not desire to eat like a local when I travel. So, there is no desire to taste sturgeon roe, or whale or horse or any other meat.  Or the smelly blue cheese!  I might of course deign to partake the local spirits and cocktails though. Purely for cultural immersion and/or medicinal purposes, of course! Also, as an introvert, shy person, I don't even travel to make friends - either with other travellers or the local people.  If ever I have made friends while travelling, it solely would be because of the other person's effort, and none mine (imagine how desperate that person must be, to converse, and find and befriend a reticent, nerdy, old(ish) brown person).  So, why this obsession with travel? 

Growing up as a weak child left me with little active hobbies.  I developed reading as my favourite activity.  I would be caught reading at any point of time.  It also was a safety net - I didn't have to deal with bullying (which routinely happened thanks to my teeny-tiny size, back then). Parents had to scream, shout and shake me up to get my nose out of a book, and pay attention to them. When dad couldn't cajole, coax, or placate me to join any sport activity, he relented and bought books to quench my thirst to read more.  Mom didn't object to me reading all those serialised novels coming in the Kannada weeklies that we either got home, or borrowed from someone to read.  

Books that inspired me to read, dream, and travel

The first books that dad bought me were encyclopedia in Kannada, compiled/written by the Jnanapeetha Awardee, Shivaram Karanth. Not some random comics or storybooks for children. “If he’s not going to be active physically, let his brain learn something at least”, must have been his thoughts. Karanth played an important role in my quest for knowing things (knowing anything random, useful or otherwise), apart from making me want to see places.  

As a kid, the first two places that captured my imagination were Salto Angelo (Angel Falls) and the Amazon river.  Salto Angelo is the highest plunge waterfall in the world, which drops from a height of 916 metres. Later, these books stoked a fire in me to participate in quizzes.  So, the desire to see a snow crystal (there were pictures in the book), and stalagmites and stalactites, visit the Galápagos Islands where Darwin did his research for the ‘Origin of Species’ is what drove me to pursue travel as a hobby.  If it were affordable to enroll at SpaceX for a trip into the cosmos, I sure would have done by now.

While Karanth’s books made me imagine the greatness of the physical world vividly and make plans to visit them when I’d grow up, books of history and historical novels created awe and wonder about human creations. K V Iyer’s Roopadarshi made me travel the bylines of Rome and imagine the Sistine chapel and its glory, and his book on Shantala aroused a passion in me to see every Hoysala temple. Books on evolution of civilisations aroused curiosity about the pyramids and other remnants and ruins from the days long past. 

A rock formation somewhere near Manta Point, Bali Islands

However, travel didn't happen just like that after I became an adult.  I had to overcome difficulties that I had in my head - about seeing people in strange places, and deal with them.  It wasn't the same as waking up and going to work (in known, secure surroundings).  I had to find a way to bury the ghosts of past - of my fears of people, of being bullied, or physically assaulted. This sounds silly now as I am a stronger, bulkier man today, but there are times when I don't remember this, and still imagine myself as a puny little thing that needs to hide away. 

For example, the reasons I wanted to travel to Vietnam were because of its natural beauty; the Ha Long Bay, a UNESCO world heritage site was the primary reason.  Other UNESCO sites like Hue, Hoi An, and Ninh Binh too played a role.  What tipped the scale was my interest in international politics; the Vietnamese war with the Americans, which has figured in so many spy thrillers written by American novelists (usually jingoistic, and one which portrays Vietnamese in either bad light, or as people that needed to be rescued by the White men from the clutches of the big bad Communist wolves).  

Giant Malabar Squirrel, Dandeli

But, my writing would barely touch upon any of these places, how they were, and how I enjoyed being there, or what one must do to see them, etc.  Those inputs would be found all across the web and books and mags (imagine! Even in this digital age there are printed travel mags)! The idea of writing the travelogue is to share my experience of being in another country, and my observations of the places and people there, than describing the monuments (that you can find in umpteen places on the net).  And, all deductions are based on how people conducted - either as tour guides, as people who helped us with luggage, vendors, hotel staff, random strangers who chose to talk to us, and so on. As I said before, I am shy and I do not initiate conversations with people by myself, unless my life (or something close) depends on it.  Else, I mind my business; I even hate asking for directions, unless I am truly lost.  This reticent attitude has put me in danger several times, but I haven't yet learnt any lesson (will one day write about those experiences too, but this post is not about them). 

A Serene View of the Himalayas, somewhere in Tibet

When I was struggling with my life in 2018 post a breakup, I hit upon the idea of making a bucket list.  '50 things to do before I turn 50', was born out of my desperation to survive and get out of the depression that I had gotten myself into.  And, when I made that list, half the things I wanted to do pertained to travel (it helped me in the process of my recovery, apart from hitting the gym, and working out regularly).  This brush with depression also made me less taciturn, and helped me open up about myself with at least the close people in life - my sister (she was instrumental in this), partner, and a couple of close friends.  I didn't do all those 50 things (Covid too played a role in that), but it was terribly helpful to pursue them. They sure helped me stay sane and not turn cuckoo. 

Everyone collects souvenirs when they travel, I guess. “Even memories are souvenirs”, says my sagely partner. My dad keeps all the boarding passes of the travel the has done beyond the borders of India.  He too loves to travel, and enjoys visiting museums (takes copious notes of every exhibit, and comes back and tells everyone the stories of those exhibits). I even know of friends who plan a sex date in every country/city they visit, and keep the scores (yes, believe me, this isn't made up). You might even laugh at the souvenirs I pick up while I travel.  Just those fridge magnets, and nothing else.  I am not a hoarder, nor have any interest in curios, statuettes, or paintings (may be because they are expensive too). My mom is sure I bought a bigger fridge just to accommodate all my fridge magnets!  Collecting fridge magnets, to me, appears to be the extension of my hobby of philately while growing up.  Today I don't actively collect stamps (and I have safeguarded my collection of possibly over 5,000 stamps and first day covers from across the world; one of the few things I have managed to keep and not discard).  

Some of my souvenirs

Travels have helped me each for sure but there have been some bad experiences during too. And they also have taught me some important lessons (will possibly write a separate post on those).  Despite lessons, my spree of committing mistakes during travels continues (I find new ones, to be fair to myself)! As I have so much time to think (and not act) on my hands, I chose to write this long-winding piece of self-flagellation.  And, just share how much I miss travelling. 

  

Modern Love: A Fairy Tale

 

The Unmasking

Bumping into each other on a dating app a decade after college felt like a glitch in the universe. Now, they were in a different city, living different lives. They agreed to meet, but she had set the terms with bureaucratic precision: “Strictly dinner. Not a date. Don’t expect anything else.” She’d added a few smileys to the message, a soft cushion for a hard boundary.

To their mutual surprise, the evening wasn’t labored; it was effortless. In college, they had been silhouettes to one another. He was the "snob"—the golden boy of a vast empire. She was the "bookworm," protected by a 'don’t mess with me' demeanor and a pair of fake, Bollywood-inspired glasses used to hide the strain of poverty and scholarship-induced pressure.

Over delectable food and wine that eased the decade-old tension, the masks began to slip. She decided to prod first.

“I’m surprised to see you actually working a job,” she said, swirling her glass. “Don’t you have an empire to run?”

“The empire wasn't doing well,” he admitted, his voice steady. “And honestly, I didn't have the aptitude for it. But what about you? What’s your story?”

“The first few years were a marathon of debt,” she said, surprising herself with her own honesty. “Repaying loans, securing a roof for my parents. I’ve only just started to look at the horizon beyond the town I grew up in.”

He looked at her, really looked at her. “Your college game kept everyone at bay. We all just assumed you were haughty. Hard to crack.”

“It was a shield,” she admitted. “It hid the complexes and the woes. But that was another life. What’s your real story, Mr. Moneybags?”

There was a faint, heavy hesitation before he opened up. “The business losses… it was too much for my father. He took his own life. My mother almost followed suit; she couldn't find a reason to stay. It took me years to untangle the mess and show her that life was still worth living.”

The air at the table shifted. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “I shouldn’t have pushed.”

“Don’t be,” he smiled, and it was the first real one she’d seen. “I had never known money troubles before that. It was a sobering, brutal education. It taught me what struggle actually looks like for everyone else. I think I’m a much wiser man for it.”

“More attractive too”, she muttered under her breath. He pretended he didn’t listen, but his smile gave him away. 

The Authentic Run

It was a weekend morning date, a deliberate shift from the heavy evening wine of their first meeting. They had chosen a run in the expansive park followed by a leisurely breakfast—a plan that felt as fresh as the season. The winter chill was finally yielding to the creeping warmth of spring, making every breath feel invigorating.

They matched each other step-for-step over the seven-kilometer trail, a slow-burn pace that left them energized rather than exhausted. Afterward, they headed to a neighborhood institution—a bustling eatery where the air was thick with the scent of steaming idlis, crispy ghee masala dosas, and the sharp aroma of filter coffee.

“They serve truly authentic food here,” he beamed, taking a deep breath of the wafting steam.

She offered a noncommittal smile, watching the coffee being poured.

“I particularly love their sambar,” he continued. “It couldn’t get anymore South Indian than this.”

She took a slow, deliberate sip of her coffee before speaking. “What is ‘authentic’ is defined by time and space. What we call authentic today might be a stranger to the future, or a foreigner elsewhere.”

He paused, wondering for a second if she was being confrontational. But when he looked at her, he saw an open, reflective expression—she wasn't challenging him so much as sharing a realization. He suppressed the itch to argue and leaned in instead. “You’ve got me intrigued. Care to explain that?”

“You think this is authentic sambar and coffee,” she said. “But a century ago, it wouldn’t have been recognized as such. Our notions of cooking evolve. Even coffee is a different language depending on geography—Mysore versus Madras, for instance.”

“But we claim these things are passed down through generations,” he countered. “We exclaim that it’s just like how our Ajji or Paati used to make it.”

“And yet, sambar is likely Maharashtrian in origin,” she pointed out with a glint in her eye. “And there wouldn’t even be a sambar as we know it without the Portuguese bringing chillies to India. Yet, we’re ready to fight over whose version is the ‘real’ one.”

Understanding dawned on him, and he let out a laugh. “True! There’d be no masala dosa without the Portuguese bringing the potato, either. We crib about every variation we find, clinging to a version of history that's only a few hundred years old.”

She ribbed him then, her voice dropping into a playful quip. “Well, everyone knows the only truly authentic thing is Gobi Manchurian.”

“Ouch,” he chuckled. “That hurts.”

The Quiet Legacy

“I can’t admire this enough,” she gushed, her eyes tracing the canvas. “The play of colors... it’s both interesting and alluring.”

He could feel the sincerity in her voice, a physical rush of warmth that made him feel more seen than the art itself. “Thank you,” he said softly.

This was her first time at his home since they had reconnected, and the walls were a revelation. “I had no idea you were this accomplished,” she said, turning to him. “You never post your work. I haven't seen a single stroke on your social media.”

“I don’t make much of an effort to show it,” he admitted. “I don’t even paint that frequently. It takes a lot of internal push to actually pick up the brushes.”

“But look around! There are enough pieces here to fill a gallery!”

He shrugged, a modest movement. “They were done over a long time.”

“You should share this with the world,” she pressed, her excitement growing. “Why don’t you approach a curator? Don’t you want to be known? Anyone else in your position would be desperate for that kind of recognition.”

“I enjoy being recognized,” he said, meeting her eyes. “Like how you appreciated my art just now. But I can’t handle large-scale attention. I’m much happier with smaller doses.”

“It’s strange,” she countered. “Don’t you want these hanging in museums? Don’t you want to be remembered after you’re gone?”

“It wouldn’t much matter to me once I’m dead, would it?”

She recoiled slightly. “Gosh. That’s a morbid philosophy.”

A quiet settled between them as they left the studio. In the living room, the smell of fresh coffee filled the space between them. He sat beside her, his voice low and steady. “You and I have both lost people,” he began. “At first, the loss is all you see. Then, gradually, the memories fade into the background. We continue to live. We have to.”

“What’s the point you’re making?” she asked.

“Just that even the people closest to us don’t remember the dead every hour of every day. What matters—to them and to us—is the living. The here and now. It’s fine for some people to want a legacy, but I don't desire one.”

There was a long pause as she let his words sink in. She looked at his paintings, then back at him, seeing the man who didn't need the world's applause because he was content in his own skin.

She reached out, taking his hand in hers. “Maybe your legacy will be the choice not to leave one.”

He squeezed her hand. “I could live with that.”

The Ascent

She had chosen the hillock for a reason. It was a short but steep, lung-bursting climb that she had frequented when the weight of her family’s debt felt too heavy. To him, it was a first.

He reached the summit panting, sweat dampening his shirt as he turned to take in the panoramic view. The city below was a distant hum, bathed in a forgiving, golden light. "Incredible," he breathed. "It feels like you can finally breathe up here."

When he turned back, he found her already down on one knee.

He froze. "What are you doing?"

"I've spent my life waiting for the next disaster," she said, her voice steady against the wind. She held out a simple silver band—no box, just the metal catching the sun. "You told me you only care about the living. The here and now. I don't want to wait for a timeline that makes sense to other people."

She looked up at him, her eyes fierce. "Will you be my man?"

The surprise on his face melted into a slow, profound heat. He reached down, pulling her upward into a crushing embrace.

"It's impulsive," he murmured against her hair, his laugh thick with relief. "It's completely reckless."

"And?" she challenged.

"And," he said, taking the ring from her hand, "it’s the only authentic choice we’ve ever made."

The Bridge

 

The humidity of Kochi hung heavy in the air, but inside the house, the silence was even thicker. Vikram sat with his phone in hand, staring at a name that had remained static in his contact list since a decade.

Amita.

Their last conversation had been a somber exchange nearly a decade ago, sparked by the passing of a mutual friend. In the years that followed, the silence between them hadn't been a choice so much as a habit. They were ex-spouses who had mastered the art of becoming strangers.

But today was her fiftieth birthday. A half-century. It felt like a milestone too significant to let pass in silence, yet the weight of nine years made the simple act of typing "Happy Birthday" feel like a monumental risk.

Does she even have this number? he wondered. If she sees my name, will it ruin her day?

He felt a flicker of dread—the fear of a cold response or, perhaps worse, the "Read" receipt followed by total silence. Finally, pushing past the cynicism, he tapped out a brief, warm message and hit send. He immediately turned the phone over, as if shielding himself from the potential rejection.

An hour passed in a blur of restless distraction. Then, the phone on the table didn't just chime; it vibrated with the steady rhythm of an incoming call. He picked it up. It was her.

"Hello?" he said, bracing for a formal tone.

"Hi, it’s Amita," came the voice on the other end. It was startlingly familiar, carrying the same warmth he remembered from a lifetime ago.

The tension in Vikram’s shoulders vanished. They didn't dwell on the decade of silence; instead, they spoke with an ease that defied the passage of time. Amita filled him in on the family—weddings, moves, and milestones—painting a picture of lives that had continued to bloom since separation.

"I’ve actually been thinking," she said toward the end of the conversation, "I really want to visit Kochi while you’re still stationed there. It’s been on my list for a long time. May be you could even guide me around Kerala?" 

“You are welcome!”

Vikram hung up. The marriage was done—a bridge weathered, broken, and finally gone. For years, he’d stood on the bank staring at the ruins, waiting for a revival that was never coming. And, suddenly, a new one had appeared on the horizon.  One of mutual respect and friendship. 

“Sights and Bites”

 

It was one of those late nights where the dull throb in my injured leg just wouldn’t let me sleep. I was stuck in that blue-light haze, doom-scrolling through social media to pass the time. Naturally, the algorithm decided to torture me with "Unmissable Spots in Bangkok"—stunning drone shots of shimmering gold spires, hidden rooftop bars, and vibrant flower markets.

My partner and I were supposed to have been there together in November, but familial reasons kept me home while he went solo. His entire fortnight of "sightseeing" had consisted almost entirely of Michelin-star street food stalls and legendary noodle shops.

Seeing the gorgeous reels on my screen, I felt a fresh wave of FOMO. I turned the phone toward him and pointed at a particularly breathtaking view of the city.

"Look at these places!" I said, my voice a mix of awe and accusation. "You missed seeing all of this, and only because you were too busy eating!"

He didn't even have the grace to look guilty. He didn't blink; there wasn't an iota of regret on his face. He just glanced at the screen and said calmly:

“It’s okay. I can still see those landmarks on the mobile. But I couldn’t have tasted all that food on my phone, right?”

He went back to what he was doing, and I just sat there, smarting. Because his logic was absolutely airtight and I couldn’t counter it!