The spirit of travelling
"The world is a book and those who dont travel read only a page said Agustine of Hippo .
To that extent i have read a small part of the book with much more to read
Memories of travel to me are like those wisps of snow that fell on face like feathers in cold Cleveland during Christmas ,the snow took me back to the huddled cottage of warmth in the icy stillness of Patnitop peak in a CRPF quarters in Kashmir or the stillness of the Dal lake in Srinagar not to forget the the disappeared road in our ride to Madhuri lake off Tawang in Arunachal pradesh where a lovely Madhuri Dixit frolicked with a handsome Shah Rukh in koyla and hence its name ,
Snow reminds me of the Rohtang pass where i tried my skiing only to land up doubled in the jeep with a splitting headache and nausea due to altitude sickness or when we traversed in our hired four wheel drive on the highest motor able pass in Arunachal Pradesh where there was still reach of BSNL mobility and a tea shop with army officers huddled over a hot tea to warm insides or the icy winds that blew over us in the 17000 feet Kedarnath temple ,the frigid stream where we dipped into the downsteram yamuna and its hot springs at its mouth at Yamunotri
cold and snow followed us into Bhadrinath temple where we saw the mystical Saraswati river giving a shiny glimmer before she disappeared deep into the bowels of my country to appear thousands of mile later at the Allahabad Triveni
The very Triveni we went to have a dip amongst hundreds of lakhs of pilgrims in the maha kumbh mela itself or into the hallowed Ganga in Haridwar or the the oldest city in the world the Kasi or varanasi where burning embers of human flesh could waft its way to merge into the flowing river of life
Cold and snow reminded me of a clean but empty Norway or a Stockholm and its metro not to forget the city that straddled two continents Istanbul of Turkey where the Asia melded into Europe over the Bosporus ,the cold of the Syrian mountain tops its qauint cave monasteries where men still talked ancient Aramic as Jesus christ did 2018 years back .
The cold of the Brooklyn Bridge in the big apple or the frigid Times square in December or that of a warm Manhattan cocktail to bring some warmth ,the windy Chicago was more than the cool breeze of Bratislava or the cold that hit one as we walked in the cobbled streets of Prague to be cheated by a money changer and become more wise or the gondolas of Venice leaning on their poles with their stylish hats into the cold waters that surrounded the media veal city the cold that hit us as we walked around Romes majestic Colosseum or the Vatican itself the holy see with its vast array of ancient art deep in its bowels preserved for posterity along with its secrets unrevealed while the cold of the Grand canyons which had shaped its stones or the cold machinations of money in the glittering casinos of Vegas ,could never beat the chikll of junganfraus top of Europe experience
The streets of pattayas humidity which espoused from its inherent sexuality akin to the hovels of kamathipoura in distant Mumbai or the yellow battered Ambassador taxis of kolkata and its rasgullas
The tropical greenery of Brunei Darussalam with its golden domes shimmering in the sun or the baking white sand dunes off
Al ain on way to the jebel hafeet mountain .
the humidity of my Cochin and Chennai to beat the hot sands of Thanjavur near the big temple to rival the thousand temples beauty of a Bali or the pixie eyed Vietnamese serving the hot pho a delight and sipping their hot vodka on a cruise down the river The cold of a Taiwan and the heat of a Singapore was different variations that evoked nostalgia while the Victoria peak in Hong kong was shiveringly cold not at all like kota kinabalu in western Malaysia or the Batu caves where i regularly shimmered up behind the huge Muruga statue and wheezed my way to ecstasy reminding me of the five times trek up sabarimala in my state or Palani in tamilnadu
,the cold of a munnar or kodaikanal or dharam sala or simla or ooty or coorg or the joy of seeing the distant trickle in jog falls or standing in the pouring gallons in kuttalam falls not to beat the sailing to the Vivekanada rock away from the diamond studded idol of the goddess Kanyakumari or the magnificence of a temple in Trivandrum or Guruvayoor or Thirupathi or in Puri the hundreds of qauint temples in te Himalayan foothills or the long trek to Nachiketa thal to reach an uninhibited pond after hours of trekking in a forest or the solitary climb up thriuvanamalai to experience a bliss which can never be explained and only equal to the walk over a rising tide in the Haji ali mosque of mumbai or the silvery sands of a Goa with its majestic Bom jesus cathedral or the jewish synagogue in the tiny lanes of mattancherry my home turf in cochin or teh hallowed precints of the altar in St Pauls of vatican where we lost ourselves to the sepulchral organ strains the sandy Cherai or a marina beach the casinos of Vegas or Macau or Singapore with their money making chips
The chugging of a Darjeeling train as it went around the batata loop or the blue toy train up Nilgiris or that of sim la the green lawns of a Viennese palace where we stood to the tunes of the schonbruns palaces ensemble over a glass of the finest wine
the wafting tune so of a street flutist in the heights of Athens bringing back the ghosts of history itself in the Aghora or the rhythmic cymbals and drums of my own state in theThripunithura temple with garrisoned elephants moving sedately with the God himself on them the dewed green floor of a Manandawadi estate or the shrill catcalls and dung of a lonely elephant up our paths in the Siruvani forests of patiyar gave us the same feel when we sidled up to thte rhinos in Assam's khaziranga reserves or to the simple out of this worldliness in a border town of Bhutan not to combat with the wetness of a chirapunjee or the golf club of Shillong or the Sikkimese Christmas dinner in cold Gangtok
( Places i have left out please excuse me )
"The world is a book and those who dont travel read only a page said Agustine of Hippo .
To that extent i have read a small part of the book with much more to read
Memories of travel to me are like those wisps of snow that fell on face like feathers in cold Cleveland during Christmas ,the snow took me back to the huddled cottage of warmth in the icy stillness of Patnitop peak in a CRPF quarters in Kashmir or the stillness of the Dal lake in Srinagar not to forget the the disappeared road in our ride to Madhuri lake off Tawang in Arunachal pradesh where a lovely Madhuri Dixit frolicked with a handsome Shah Rukh in koyla and hence its name ,
Snow reminds me of the Rohtang pass where i tried my skiing only to land up doubled in the jeep with a splitting headache and nausea due to altitude sickness or when we traversed in our hired four wheel drive on the highest motor able pass in Arunachal Pradesh where there was still reach of BSNL mobility and a tea shop with army officers huddled over a hot tea to warm insides or the icy winds that blew over us in the 17000 feet Kedarnath temple ,the frigid stream where we dipped into the downsteram yamuna and its hot springs at its mouth at Yamunotri
cold and snow followed us into Bhadrinath temple where we saw the mystical Saraswati river giving a shiny glimmer before she disappeared deep into the bowels of my country to appear thousands of mile later at the Allahabad Triveni
The very Triveni we went to have a dip amongst hundreds of lakhs of pilgrims in the maha kumbh mela itself or into the hallowed Ganga in Haridwar or the the oldest city in the world the Kasi or varanasi where burning embers of human flesh could waft its way to merge into the flowing river of life
Cold and snow reminded me of a clean but empty Norway or a Stockholm and its metro not to forget the city that straddled two continents Istanbul of Turkey where the Asia melded into Europe over the Bosporus ,the cold of the Syrian mountain tops its qauint cave monasteries where men still talked ancient Aramic as Jesus christ did 2018 years back .
The cold of the Brooklyn Bridge in the big apple or the frigid Times square in December or that of a warm Manhattan cocktail to bring some warmth ,the windy Chicago was more than the cool breeze of Bratislava or the cold that hit one as we walked in the cobbled streets of Prague to be cheated by a money changer and become more wise or the gondolas of Venice leaning on their poles with their stylish hats into the cold waters that surrounded the media veal city the cold that hit us as we walked around Romes majestic Colosseum or the Vatican itself the holy see with its vast array of ancient art deep in its bowels preserved for posterity along with its secrets unrevealed while the cold of the Grand canyons which had shaped its stones or the cold machinations of money in the glittering casinos of Vegas ,could never beat the chikll of junganfraus top of Europe experience
The streets of pattayas humidity which espoused from its inherent sexuality akin to the hovels of kamathipoura in distant Mumbai or the yellow battered Ambassador taxis of kolkata and its rasgullas
The tropical greenery of Brunei Darussalam with its golden domes shimmering in the sun or the baking white sand dunes off
Al ain on way to the jebel hafeet mountain .
the humidity of my Cochin and Chennai to beat the hot sands of Thanjavur near the big temple to rival the thousand temples beauty of a Bali or the pixie eyed Vietnamese serving the hot pho a delight and sipping their hot vodka on a cruise down the river The cold of a Taiwan and the heat of a Singapore was different variations that evoked nostalgia while the Victoria peak in Hong kong was shiveringly cold not at all like kota kinabalu in western Malaysia or the Batu caves where i regularly shimmered up behind the huge Muruga statue and wheezed my way to ecstasy reminding me of the five times trek up sabarimala in my state or Palani in tamilnadu
,the cold of a munnar or kodaikanal or dharam sala or simla or ooty or coorg or the joy of seeing the distant trickle in jog falls or standing in the pouring gallons in kuttalam falls not to beat the sailing to the Vivekanada rock away from the diamond studded idol of the goddess Kanyakumari or the magnificence of a temple in Trivandrum or Guruvayoor or Thirupathi or in Puri the hundreds of qauint temples in te Himalayan foothills or the long trek to Nachiketa thal to reach an uninhibited pond after hours of trekking in a forest or the solitary climb up thriuvanamalai to experience a bliss which can never be explained and only equal to the walk over a rising tide in the Haji ali mosque of mumbai or the silvery sands of a Goa with its majestic Bom jesus cathedral or the jewish synagogue in the tiny lanes of mattancherry my home turf in cochin or teh hallowed precints of the altar in St Pauls of vatican where we lost ourselves to the sepulchral organ strains the sandy Cherai or a marina beach the casinos of Vegas or Macau or Singapore with their money making chips
The chugging of a Darjeeling train as it went around the batata loop or the blue toy train up Nilgiris or that of sim la the green lawns of a Viennese palace where we stood to the tunes of the schonbruns palaces ensemble over a glass of the finest wine
the wafting tune so of a street flutist in the heights of Athens bringing back the ghosts of history itself in the Aghora or the rhythmic cymbals and drums of my own state in theThripunithura temple with garrisoned elephants moving sedately with the God himself on them the dewed green floor of a Manandawadi estate or the shrill catcalls and dung of a lonely elephant up our paths in the Siruvani forests of patiyar gave us the same feel when we sidled up to thte rhinos in Assam's khaziranga reserves or to the simple out of this worldliness in a border town of Bhutan not to combat with the wetness of a chirapunjee or the golf club of Shillong or the Sikkimese Christmas dinner in cold Gangtok
( Places i have left out please excuse me )
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