Travel Writing

As I jiggled the key in my front door, I looked through the frosted glass pane to see a black shadow appear, tail wagging furiously. It was a sight that I’d only been familiar with for a week. I carefully opened the door to see a wet nose poking out from behind it, and as I said her name – Millie –  she bounded back from the door into the front hall and back with uncontainable joy. Simple, unbridled joy. The kind that’s impossible not to reflect. Millie, I said over and over again. Good girl. Good girl. I ruffled the fur around her neck, and she licked my wrists, before running off again, doing circles around the room, then picking up her chew toy and gnawing at it furiously. Few living creatures have expressed such excitement on seeing me.

My husband and I were taking care of our friends’ dog for 3 weeks. Having never been pet owners, we were nervous and excited about this prospect. “I’m only going to do the fun things like petting her and playing with her,” I had announced to him before she arrived. “You do all the hard work.” But of course, I found myself fully invested in Project Millie, waking up early to change the water in her bowl, taking her on walks (the first time I’d ever walked a dog – the only other animal I’d ever walked being, weirdly enough, a reindeer in Finland), learning her pee/poop routines, and generally figuring out how to care for her.

Back in India where I grew up, my neighbourhood was rife with strays, who often created enough ruckus to give dogs a bad reputation. They chased people on bikes, occasionally bit them (after which you’d need a rabies vaccine), got into fights with monkeys and roamed around in packs, causing much fear. Lots of my friends had pet dogs, whom I enjoyed meeting occasionally, but my interaction with them was largely limited. My interest in dogs really began when my mother bought a glossy-paged DK encyclopedia of the dog (that I lusted after, without knowing how expensive it was), which I used as my bible for a couple of years. I learned about breeds I’d never heard of, and sketched dog after dog in various poses.

During those years, influenced by all the books I read, I had two imaginary dogs. (A real one wasn’t an option, especially while living in a flat). One was a Rough Collie, inspired by watching lots of Lassie on TV. The other had a more flexible identity: a cocker spaniel on some days and a golden retriever on others. I walked them around the neighbourhood, whispering things like “heel” and “sit” and warning them to stay away from the tree with the yellow flowers (oleander) that someone had once told me was toxic to dogs. I talked to them at night, gave them imaginary baths and told them they were my best friends.

When I look back now, I realise I always said my best friend was something non-human. I never did tell anyone about the imaginary dogs – but I firmly believed that they were my real-est and best friends because they were imaginary, and thus could never leave me. I told everyone my best friend was music, or books. Those things were inanimate and felt ‘safe’ – they didn’t really have a say in the relationship. I could choose them as my best friends without having them choose me back.

But back to this dog, this beautiful bear of a Border Collie with her big brown eyes that could get a treat out of the most grudging person. She had simple needs: she liked to play in the evenings, be fed on time, have the liberty to skip in and out of the garden, and be taken on walks. She liked sleep but also had FOMO – the kind babies do sometimes –  trying to keep her eyes open while drifting off to sleep. Not entirely unlike me, to be honest.

She liked exploring and quickly developed favourites: a twig in the garden that she liked to break into bits with her teeth, chasing after birds in the morning, barking at squirrels in the graveyard where we walked. She liked to wedge herself between the palm tree and the thick ivy on the wall in the garden, and just pensively look at the house from there. On cloudy days, she’d lie in her bed lazily, legs sprawled to one side. She liked to lay on the mat in the kitchen as I cooked, soaking up the warmth and the smells, or maybe (I’d like to imagine) just wanting company. Her ears would perk up at every little sound.

When the sun came out, you could almost see her smile. Her glossy black coat shone, silhouetted in gold against the luminous sky. She hated the rain: I once caught my husband taking her to the garden to pee with an umbrella that he held over her head while she did the job. She pawed at you from under the table for a treat: but her favourite activity was to lock eyes with you, patiently and calmly until you surrendered. A biscuit, a battle won.

I had once argued that any animal would show you affection if you were their source of food and security. Maybe that’s true. But Millie’s lavish licking of my feet (especially the day when I came home from work in tears) or her following me around room to room were signs that I could not read as anything but affection and a need to bond.

Looking at the world through a dog’s eyes offered a fresh perspective. Endlessly curious, she sniffed at moss and flowering bushes and low walls (perhaps covered in fox pee from the previous night) and the postman’s shoes and the feet of cyclists when we waited at the traffic signal – her body always following her nose. For the first time, I got to see an animal’s reaction to fireworks up close: I heard the bang and the hiss, and ran downstairs to check on her but she had disappeared. We found her curled up under the guest bed – she had crawled as far back as she could. As I gently stroked her, I could feel her heart pounding, her breath heavy. I thought of the dogs in my neighbourhood back home howling during Diwali – and my heart broke.

Of course, the day came when she had to be returned – and return she did, happily, to her original home and family and dog-friends. I miss the pitter-patter of her feet, the warmth of her body on my always-too-cold feet, and her enthusiasm when she saw me pick up her collar for her walk.

A friend’s mother – who had grown up around dogs — once told me, “Ramya, you haven’t experienced unconditional love until you’ve had a dog.” And I see what that means now. Millie wanted to love and be loved, unabashedly. There was none of the hesitation or the slight embarrassment that mars my own way of loving. There was none of the overthinking I succumb to so easily – am I too much, will I scare people off, how much of “me” should I reveal or keep hidden, how much is too soon. There was no careful strategising. There was no withholding.

One evening, a friend of mine came home to meet her. I thought she would treat him with suspicion at first, but no – she welcomed him like an old friend, with an unquestioning assumption that he loved her and was equally excited to meet her. It was an innocence that I recognized in my naive, self-unaware, self-assured younger self. Both of them spoke to each other for a few minutes in the same language: “hello friend.” It was a scene that anyone would recognize as a kind of therapy.

Millie simply asked to be loved, even demanded it. She plonked herself down near one of us in the evenings, asking for her back to be rubbed. And when that was done, she’d turn over, legs in the air, saying more, more. And we gave her more. She asked, and we submitted.

And here I was, so terrified to admit to the people I loved that I wanted and needed them.

Having a dog, even if temporarily, made me confront my own longing for something to love and be needed. For one of the first times in my life I felt truly… not lonely. Like the thing I wanted to love was here in flesh and blood, reflecting the intensity of emotions back in the simplest way. The reciprocity of it was stunning. For three weeks, I loved her without hesitation, knowing she would have to leave eventually. A lesson in so many ways.

And today, after a week of her leaving, it has struck me that we’ll never really figure out if she liked us or not. I sometimes wonder if she had a good time. We’ll never really know if she misses us or not.

But I know, in the way you know when love exists between two people. I think about her settling at my feet, resting the full weight of her body, and I have confirmation. I feel it in my bones.

The loudest songs often come from the smallest birds. I looked up into the branches of a cedar tree to trace the source of a piercing “pee pee pee piyooo” whistle. A black-and-orange bird was looking straight at me, head cocked to one side. With its spiky crest and dark face, the only way to describe it is to say that it was giving punk goth vibes. This orange-breasted bird, Rufous sibia, is native to the Himalayan forests. Judging by its clear, confident call, it knew that this was home.  

It was 6.30 am, and the sleepy cantonment town of Landour was reluctantly waking up. This settlement works at a slower pace than that of Mussoorie, the bustling hill station it’s perched above. Stray dogs, so quintessential to the mountains, were witness to the sunrise, to the pitter patter of locals going about their work and to the determined stride of tourists on their morning walk. I was one of those determined tourists, binoculars strung over my neck. 

An ‘infinity loop’ in the shape of an eight is carved into the ridge of the mountain, offering spectacular views over the Doon valley. In front of me stood the tree most characteristic of this area: the deodar or Himalayan cedar, showing off its new spring foliage. Thick curly branches of oak rose in between the deodars and pine trees. A Himalayan chestnut towered over me, its palmate leaves forming a ‘mushroom’ or ‘katora’ cut — I like to imagine them as mop tops on the Beatles’ heads.

Listen to the Rufous sibia’s call below 

Illustration of Rufous sibia, inspired by this photograph by Charles J Sharp (CC-BY-SA)

Deodars

I had first heard of Landour in the book Landour Days by Ruskin Bond, over two decades ago. The cover illustration, beautiful watercolours by Ajanta Guhathakurta, had stayed with me for years after… and those colours were now coming to life. Landour was a place to visit for weary souls seeking peace and quiet. I was visiting with my parents: the three of us needed just that. 

I’d gone for a walk the previous day with my dad. A tree full of cicadas drowned out our conversation: a soundscape that was refreshing to us. A large bird circled in the evening sky: was that a vulture? A Himalayan griffon! I was ecstatic. I hadn’t seen vultures since I was in kindergarten: they’d perch in a row on top of the four-storey school building (we were told they would whisk away the naughty ones). It soared quietly and lazily above us, almost as if sizing us up. Later in the evening, from the terrace of our cottage at La Villa Bethany, I spotted another bird I’d never seen before. Bright blue, with a black eye stripe. It performed impressive aerial acrobatics like a bee-eater, catching insects mid-air. A Verditer Flycatcher. I noticed a duller blue bird not far from it, and realised that both male and female were perched on the same tree. I watched them loop and dart in circles, leaving their perch but always coming back.

The cicada symphony 

Landour is also famous for its winterline: a false horizon formed by the setting sun above the mountains. While it wasn’t clear in spring, the sunset we witnessed was still beautiful: hazy and dream-like. A perfect curtain call. 

A walk through Jabarkhet Nature Reserve

The next day, the three of us set off on a walk in the privately-owned Jabarkhet nature reserve. Our guide Sushil met us at the entrance of the reserve. We chose to do the Ridge Trail, a narrow winding path that hugs the mountain and steeply drops into the valley on the other side. The route was wet from last night’s rain: Sushil took my mother’s hand and helped her walk over the slippery bits. She was amused, as Sushil is also my brother’s name.

The most striking sight was the rhododendron (buransh) trees in full bloom. They dotted the valley like giant shrubs of red roses, their petals carpeting the ground. Pine trees covered the hills: there are two species here, chir and blue. They’re easy to tell apart: blue pines look like your familiar “Christmas tree” shape and chir pines are shaped somewhat like a candle stand with branches, with a straight trunk and tiered arms. As we walked, something cast a dark shadow over us as it flew by silently. A black eagle! Though it was smaller than the vulture we saw the previous day, it seemed much bigger as it swooped down and disappeared into the canopy.  

I noticed that the path was covered in fine, brown pine needles. “They block the sunlight from reaching the ground and prevent things from growing,” Sushil said. “In the villages, they burn the pine leaves so that new vegetation can grow. But this happens every year, which isn’t good for the forest. Also, pine cones catch fire quickly, and now there are frequent forest fires in the area.”

The loud call of a bird interrupted our walk and I looked for it. “Indian cuckoo,” Sushil supplied. According to a folktale, the bird is thought to be singing, “Kaphal pak gaya (The bayberries are ripe),” in the spring. When the season is over and the berries are gone from the trees, the bird mischievously sings, “Maine nahi khaya (I didn’t eat them!)”. 

I asked Sushil what food is special to the region and what is specially prepared for festivals.  Tinole (or Timla, wild fig) is a delicacy and mandwa (a sweet made of ragi flour) is a treat. And, he added with relish, Badi halwa, makhan ke saath (with butter). The biggest festival in this part of Uttarakhand is Igas Bagwal, which is celebrated a few days after Diwali. Legend has it that the news of Rama’s return from exile took time to reach the hills of Uttarakhand, leading to this delayed celebration. How different to today’s times, where news — both real and fake — reaches remote corners in an instant.

Halfway into the trail, I spotted a Banj oak, also called paani ka ped (the water tree). “These trees have very deep roots,” Sushil said. “In the monsoons they collect and store water and slowly release it in the drier months. They keep the forest intact.” 

All the while, my dad was following quietly: walking is his meditation. The rhythm of our footsteps punctuated the silence. I picked up a buransh flower on the trail, as did Sushil. He casually popped a petal in his mouth – it reminded me of how my mother liked chewing on gulmohar flowers. These flowers are used to make juice, jam, chutneys and they’re very good for diabetes patients. But just make sure to get the one with no added sugar in the market, Sushil advised. 

I heard a familiar drumming sound. Ah, I knew this! A woodpecker. Merlin, the bird ID app, recognized it as a grey-headed woodpecker. I looked up into the trees trying to spot it, but as with woodpeckers on tall trees, it was much easier to hear than see it. A little bird suddenly darted between trees and joined its friend on a branch. I squinted to find a pair of black-throated bushtits. If the Rufous sibia was punk, these were definitely little gangsta birds, complete with eye-patch and all (see it to believe it!). 

Jabarkhet is closed at night because of the potential danger of leopards and black bears. I asked Sushil if he’s ever seen a leopard around here. “Leopards ka bahut bada territory hota hai. Bohot mushkil se nikalta hai, avoid hi karta hai. (Leopards have a big territory, they are elusive and mostly avoid people.)” How lucky I was then, to have come almost face-to-face with a leopard during a trip to Valparai many years ago (we were both startled and quickly went our separate ways). Sushil has seen the yellow-throated marten though, a species native to this region. He showed us recordings from camera traps that are placed around the forest.  

We came across lichen growing on a rock. “It’s a sign of forest health,” Sushil explained. “When sulphur-dioxide in the air is high, forest lichen disappears. The presence of lichen means the forest is healthy.” We walked further on, with a grey-hooded warbler twittering away in a merry soundtrack. The hills here support numerous edible and medicinal plants: Himalayan nettle and wild spinach are used regularly in cooking, and at higher altitudes, shilajit, the black resin from rocks is used in a variety of medicines. Sushil pointed out patthar chatta, a succulent used for the treatment of kidney stones.

Lichen – a sign of a healthy forest 

We approached a stone hut for refreshments. Sushil poured us three glasses of rhododendron juice from a large bottle. We sat on benches outside the cottage in a meadow dotted with daisies, sipping our cups. The forest was getting louder now, with the cicadas starting up their orchestra. 

Being surrounded by the fresh smell of conifers and walking in a forest that was bursting with life made my everyday, screen-filled routine seem distant and absurd. For my mother it was a new adventure, for my dad an extension of his morning walk, for me a way to truly listen. To find an abundance of species that were native to this land — birds and plants I’d be unlikely to find elsewhere in the world — was comforting. In some weird way, it seemed to restore order: everything was where it belonged.

As we slowly made our way back to the starting point, I heard that familiar sound again, resounding across the valley. The fierce, insistent call of a Rufous sibia – a bird at home, claiming its territory. 

I started wild swimming about a year ago in the UK. While I’m still only taking baby steps, it’s changed me so much already (for the better!). If you’re swimming outdoors make sure you follow all the safety rules, always have someone with you, and generally be very careful.  

I was floating on my back in the water, looking up at a brilliant blue Norwegian sky. Wisps of cloud swirled lazily around the sun, like the whites of poached eggs in the making. It was a late summer morning, and it was starting to get hot. My face and shoulders were beginning to feel the burn while the rest of my body was still submerged in the icy waters.  

It had taken me some time to gather the courage to get into the water. The water temperature was about 18 degrees but it was still cold enough to make you gasp when you first entered. 

I was at Langoyene Island, just off the coast of Oslo. I’d flown up to Norway from the UK, to meet my two friends, who had just moved to the capital city. It was a surreal space for me to be there, far removed from my “normal” environment, which I’d so far known as a busy Indian city and a British university town.

I glanced at the beach where my friends were sunbathing. Together we made up a curious mix of nationalities: Azeri, French and Indian. Having grown up in a landlocked part of India, there was no way I was giving up swimming in the sea for a few minutes of sun on my back, no way! I tried to shout out words of encouragement to them (“It’s not as cold as you think it is!”) but failed. I even tried “Come on in, I’ve found a warm spot here!” and was met with the response, “Did you pee?” And so here I was on my own, bobbing and down, being rocked gently by the waters of the North Sea.  

Not a bad place to swim! 

A cormorant came and landed not far away from me. It dove in and disappeared, the way cormorants do, only to reappear a few seconds later in a spot much further away from me. I started to dive along with it every time, trying to look for it underwater but it was too quick for me to keep up. Suddenly, it emerged close to me: and I could see the turquoise iris of its eye and water glistening on its beak. It was beautiful. 

As I swam, I started to slowly get familiar with the landscape below the water: I knew where the rocks jut out sharply and where they flattened. I knew where the fjord suddenly deepened. It’s fascinating to be able to learn about the texture and shapes of a land beneath that which you can see upfront. 

For an overthinker and overdoer like me, swimming (literally) helps me strip down to the basics. Parting the waters with my arms, I felt like I had some control over what I was doing. This space and time belonged to me. 

When I’m in the water I imagine (perhaps, wrongly so) that I swim with the power and grace of an orca. But I always marvel at how ungainly I seem on land immediately after getting out. I heaved myself out of the water and waded clumsily through the shallow beach where my happy (and completely dry) friends were waiting to tuck into grapes and cherries. My heart was bursting with joy.

After a prolonged and intense burnout at work and life in general, swimming saved me from drowning in a pool of despair and self-created pressure. It had only been a year since I’d been swimming “properly” and the great big outdoors was still something I was getting used to. 

I’d swum a lot as a kid, but in a very “wrong” way. We were taught to kick hard and fast, with little regard for whether the technique was sustainable as you got older or whether that worked for your body type and stamina. And I wasn’t interested in learning to swim as a kid: I just liked being in the water and fooling around. Little did I know that my affinity for the water would revisit me in my early 30s, getting me to sign up for a local pool membership and eventually getting so addicted that I’d get up at 5 am and walk in the cold and dark winter mornings to get to the pool (which was heated, of course!). YouTube videos helped me develop a semblance of a technique. I worked through the drills, and woke up everyday with renewed purpose. 

Back in India, I was always happy to stand under waterfalls and take a dip in the plunge pools, especially in the Western Ghats. My first experience of an outdoors swim was in a protected natural rock pool near Rainbow Waterfalls, Meghalaya. It was more of a paddle and less of a swim but the memory of it still gives me goose bumps. 

Wild swimming in Rainbow Waterfall, Meghalaya 

As I worked on my swim technique in the UK, eventually I started getting brave enough to try swimming outdoors. And what better place to begin that journey than in Cornwall? I had my first “real” experience of wild swimming in a quiet cove in West Cornwall. Portheras Cove features a somewhat isolated beach, accessible by a walk down a steep cliff. My long-suffering partner had agreed to take a detour and drive us out here, even though he’s not much of a swimmer himself. I’d wiggled into my swimsuit on the beach, my heart beating loudly in anticipation as I was the only one in the water. I’d stayed close to the shore, a little scared of going deeper into the water where my feet couldn’t touch the ground. I’d done a curious mix of breaststroke and front crawl, figuring out what worked best in the shallow water. But what I liked best was being on my back. I was almost completely still, making zero effort,  yet there was movement. 

A delight to be the only one in the water | Portheras Cove, Cornwall 

I’d gone back again the next day, a warmer day which saw about a dozen people in the water. Drawing confidence from the crowd, I’d swum further out into the sea, alongside another woman, all the time beaming at her like I’d just won a prize. We ducked under the growing waves and ooh-ed when particularly big ones came our way. I enjoyed the beauty of this shared experience, as our collective gasps and smiles and encouraging exchanges bound us together. 

And so began my undying love and passion to jump into any water body: lakes, rivers, tarns, seas. I swam in the river in Grantchester, which was almost like rite of passage for someone living in Cambridge. I swam in the river near Houghton Mill, which was terrifying as I decided to open my eyes under water and saw the large grasses swaying underneath. I’d watched too much of River Monsters growing up! I skinny-dipped (much to the alarm of the husband) on a hot summer’s day in the Great River Ouse near St Ives. Here, ducks and moorhens came up to greet me. I think they were harmless but I was suspicious—I was invading their territory after all. I swam in Burnmoor Tarn, high up in the fells of the Lake District, which was an altogether special experience. 

A dip in the cold but beautiful Burnmoor Tarn, Lake District 

Back in Oslo, the day after the fjord swimming experience, I decided to go to Sognsvann. Sognsvann is a lake just outside the city, surrounded by acres of pine forest. It looked deserted at first, but as I got closer I found that there were lots of families sitting by the river, dogs paddling, and kids shrieking as they jumped off the pier. I had my swimsuit with me but no change of clothes as I didn’t expect to be swimming. But the sight! I couldn’t resist. 

Nervously, I changed my clothes behind a tree. Worried that someone might do away with my bag, I smiled at a kind Norwegian lady who agreed to look after it. I walked through the soft sandy floor which quickly deepened. The water was clear and silky. I swam further out into the lake, going around in a circle. There were no weeds in this part of the lake: nothing interrupting my movement. Yes! Surely I was swimming with the grace of an orca here. The lady and the bench became smaller and smaller. When they were just a speck in the distance, I turned over and stared at the sky. They said that a storm was approaching, but the sky was quiet, showing no signs of disturbance. I swam for a good half an hour, and when I returned my bag was still intact beside the smiling Norwegian lady. We exchanged a couple of sentences—she spoke in Norwegian and me in English—and we seemed to understand each other perfectly. I changed behind the same tree, surprised at how easy and accessible all of this was. 

It’s been two months since my trip to Norway now and I still have the tan lines of my swimsuit stamped on my back. And I look at it every day, like battle scars that I’m proud of. For someone who used to be painfully self-conscious and tired and anxious , swimming gave me confidence, strength and resolve. And joy, so much joy. 

I’ve always looked at life as a bit of a mystery to solve. I’m constantly trying to put the pieces together. But when I swim there’s no puzzle. I’m in a space which feels familiar to me. I’m unanchored, yet afloat.

A guide to wild swimming in the UK

An account of walking the winter trail at the Ounasvaara hill in spring. No skiing or sledding or tobogganing or fatbiking: just two pairs of feet on ice. 

Crunch, crunch. The snow was thick, the ice brittle. I was familiar with the sound of dry autumn leaves underfoot but this was new. The frost was granular and crisp, like it had just come out from a freezer. The ice glistened under the Finnish spring sun, looking almost edible. Pine and spruce trees in surrounded us, reaching up to skies of pale blue. 

My partner K and I were walking on the Ounasvaraa winter trail in Rovaniemi, Lapland. We’d chosen to do it in spring, a startlingly quiet time in an otherwise busy and touristy town.

Ounasvaara is a hill (“fell”) just a couple of kilometres away from the town centre, across the Kemijoki river. The river is something of a moving, transforming living being in itself. The previous day it had been resplendent blue, sparkling under the sun. Ice had accumulated on its banks: it looked like someone had run a blower down the middle, pushing the ice to the sides. But today the sky was overcast. At -2°C,  the river had frozen in layers, in swirly patterns and thick sheets. As we walked over the bridge, I noticed that in some places, the patterns on the ice looked like an ikat weave. I could see now why there were about 40 different words to describe ice/snow in Finnish: you need new ways to express what you see around you. And for me, who had grown up with no exposure to snow or its language, I felt suddenly like I needed a new vocabulary. But strangely enough, I could talk about the landscape in analogies of Indian sweets: snow the colour of fresh rasgulla; thin, fragile, translucent ice that looked like petha; and fresh, loose powder-snow that reminded me of white kalakand. 

The road to the Ounasvaara hill adopts a wide mud path that runs alongside the main road and upwards towards the hill. There are multiple entry points: we chose the one we saw first. There were a few dozen steps that went to the top, after which you continue walking into the forest. The slopes were covered in patches of snow, but clear around the base of the pine trees (read why that is).  I realized my shoes were far from appropriate for this kind of hike. I placed my feet gingerly one after another, not trusting the ice or my shoes. My partner strode up like it was child’s play (“I’m from the Himalayas,” he likes to announce proudly on all our hikes, though in reality he spent only a couple of his childhood years there.) 

Note the lack of snow around the base of the trees

We seemed to be the only ones here. We walked in silence. The snow seemed untouched, but after a while I noticed large footprints of someone’s snow shoes. I placed my foot in one of the moulds: the ice was surprisingly firm. It was strange: to be in some sort of winter wonderland, but with the sun in our eyes and enough warmth in our jackets. A loud chiff chaff appeared out of nowhere and sat on the ground, wagging its tail vigorously: I often wonder if these birds aspire to be wagtails.

I sat down on a moss-covered rock. I closed my eyes and listened. A fieldfare sang loudly, the cars whooshed past on the highway, a branch creaked occasionally. But there seemed to be a lot more conversation going on than what one could hear. Surely, in the silence of snowfall and the stillness of the trees, there was some exchange that I wasn’t privy to. I am convinced that trees speak with each other. Here, in a land where there are about ten trees for every person in the world, there must be an ongoing dialogue.  

We walked on to find the ski route, which was a covered in several feet of ice and easier to walk on. The observation tower wasn’t too far away. I was happy here, as I always am while walking. I bobbed my head along, humming to Bryan Adams’ Thought I’d died and gone to heaven. K shushed me crossly and walked ahead. I’ll be two steps behind, I crooned in my best Deff Leppard voice. 

Snow, snow everywhere

The observation deck sat in a little clearing, which also houses a shelter and a campfire site. The wooden shed had logs in it to make a fire. I climbed the steep stairs to the top of the tower and was greeted with a 360 degree view. I could see over the tops of the trees all the way across the river to the town of Rovaniemi on the other side. The city was Lego-themed, with wooden painted houses neatly packed together. Smoke rose from a chimney, making it look like something out of a fairy tale. The river wound itself around the town like a long snakey mirror.  

That morning, I’d spoken to K about our plan for the day. He likes travel being open and unplanned, while I like to know what I’m doing when. He’d said we would walk around Ounasvaara and see where the day took us, and I had agreed, but I was secretly anxious to do the full route as it was marked on the map. “You’d consider this a successful trip only if you got to the top of the hill, right?” he’d commented. I wanted to protest but I realized that it was true. If we hadn’t gone to the very summit, I’d have a nagging feeling that my mission was incomplete. Maybe it was FOMO or a misplaced sense of victory that I derived from getting somewhere. But this trip was all about me learning to calm down and enjoy exploring without worrying about chasing a goal. So, the first time we walked in Ounasvaara, we just ambled about and turned back after we saw the view from the observation tower.  Two days later, we walked the full trail without really planning to, and I found that it was a lot more enjoyable. 

The Ounasvaara observation tower 

View of Rovaniemi from the Ounasvaara observation deck 

A blue sign featuring a hiker and a snowflake pointed us in the direction of the winter trail. We were walking uphill but the slope was so gentle it was almost like a stroll. In some places, water had accumulated in puddles, and thin ice had formed on it. I heard an excited child’s voice and looked up to see a little girl walking with an elderly couple, presumably her grandparents. She held a twig in one hand and was tapping the ice in the puddles and squealing with excitement when it broke into pieces. What a fun way to spend the day. 

Wooden stairs were placed in some places, leading up to the rocky plateau of the hill. When we reached the summit (“huippu”), the weather changed: the wind was strong and chilly. I tightened the straps of my jacket’s sleeves and pulled my hat over my ears. This must be a really busy place during the winter months, when there’s a chair lift that takes you up to the top of the hill. It felt good to have it to ourselves. 

The Ounasvaara winter trail: waymarked route for hikers 

View from the summit

The snow melting: I love how clear the water in places without the icy film – look for the reflection of the tree 

We resumed the walk, this time downhill, past the Royal Reindeer hotel. The couple we’d met before were now sitting on a rock, while the little girl was off exploring. It was sunny again now, and the ice in the puddles had melted, the snow turned into small rivulets. We walked past a snow-covered football ground, which was altogether surreal on its own. As we got back on the main road I realized that it didn’t really matter to me whether we’d made it to the top or not. Yes, the view was beautiful, but there was nothing of much value that it offered to me: no golden pot of wisdom, no unravelling of life’s secret. There was no validation in it: no prize or praise or prestige. All I had wanted was a beautiful walk, which was achievable whether I’d walked around the bottom of the hill, got halfway up there, or took whichever path looked inviting. Maybe “getting there” wasn’t always the only way to experience victory. 

Perhaps it really was better to keep things fluid, continuous and open to change, than be weighed down by the anxious scramble to reach the final destination. I voiced this to K and vowed that I would embrace a new and improved me, but he looked disbelieving. Ah, time will tell. 

There is nothing particularly spectacular that I can point out about the Ounasvaara hike. There were no breathtaking views of gorges and lakes, no dazzling and dancing Northern Lights above us, no sightings of wild animals. But like a lot of things in Finland, there was simplicity. A reinforcement of the message that you really don’t need very much to feel recharged and refreshed or, simply, alive. There was breathing: a filling of lungs with snow and sky and spruce and silence. The Ounasvaara hill is not just a place for hiking and skiing. It’s a place for us to walk among the trees and listen to what they’re saying. Maybe even talk to them. But just not too loudly. 

The excitement was palpable

Snowflake streetlight!

Ounasvaara football ground

Just to give you an idea of the number of trees… 

Meeting waterbirds, fishermen and happy dogs on a walk by the River Cam in Waterbeach

The Cambridge railway station is one of those stations where you can see the train on the platform just by peeping inside. I was walking past it one day when I looked inside and saw a train on the platform. I had a sudden urge to get on it. So I did. 

I bought a ticket to Waterbeach… because why wouldn’t you want to visit a place called Waterbeach? It was only a few minutes away, and I’d heard that there was a nice riverside walk there. If nothing else, I could probably just enjoy the autumn colours. 

The train ride was not very eventful, but all I cared about was that I was on it. When I got off at Waterbeach, I was surprised at how quiet it was. I got off the train and walked towards the direction of The Bridge, which my phone recommended as a good local pub. When I reached the level crossing, I was suddenly unsure of when to cross. I found a lady marooned at the crossing who seemed to have the same problem. She asked me with a sheepish smile, “Excuse me, but do you know if it’s safe to cross here?” I said that there was only one way to find out. “It’s been a while since I was in the countryside,” she said, looking a bit embarrassed. We walked together across the tracks and she heaved a sigh of relief when we got to the other side. “We survived,” I declared to her, enjoying this drama. “Oh dear,” she replied, frowning at her map. “I’ve got to go the other way. I’ve got to do this all over again.” 

I left her to her battles and marched off towards the river. The Bridge’s car park was full and it looked a bit posh so I decided to save it for another time. I walked past the intriguingly named Cow Wood on a path covered with golden field maple leaves. I didn’t see a single cow. The path, running alongside the river, is a cycle route that takes you all the way past Horningsea and Milton Country Park to Cambridge town centre. Fishermen sat patiently, their hooks in the water. Smoke rose from a blue boat that sat in the shade of the prettiest auburn trees.  

I revelled in the sudden, sharp quiet, as I walked. Goldfinches chirped merrily — sunshine laughter! Coots let out the occasional croak. A huge black bird flew above me: a cormorant! The water of the River Cam, as in many places, was a stunning deep blue, and mirrored the trees and clouds.  

I walked past a couple who were busy pointing at what I think was a bird far away in the field. “At the edge of the treeline,” I heard one of them say. I peered between the trees to see what they were looking at but couldn’t spot anything. A buzzard? A marsh harrier? I couldn’t tell. It did make me more alert though, and I kept an eye out for any rare bird that I might spot. 

Of course, that paid off. Almost immediately after: I caught a glimpse of a shiny blue fluttering across the water. My heart beat quickly, was that a kingfisher? I tiptoed (one must always tiptoe when one spots a bird) across the leaves towards the edge of the river and waited. And yes, there it was, sitting on a branch, its bright orange breast standing out against the dull yellow leaves. I watched it for a while, and suddenly it dipped into the water and out again, showing off those brilliant blue-green wings. It hid inside a bush, presumably enjoying a nice juicy fish. I waited for a while but it didn’t make another appearance.

I walked on, encouraged by this beautiful encounter. I met two very excited dogs and their very calm owners. I saw for a while on a bench, enjoying this moment that universe had gifted to me. It was a good time to be alive, to be able to get on a train on a whim, and sit by the river waiting to spot kingfishers. It’s a nice planet that we’ve got here, filled with trees and birds and dogs and things. I think moments like these only come when you’re alone, filling you with energy that you need to cope with being around other people. 

After a while I decided to turn back and trace my way back to the station to make it in time for the 3 pm train. The sun was setting now, the leaves of the trees bronzing in the winter afternoon light. On my way back, a couple walked past me and I heard them stop. I turned to see what had happened and there it was again: our kingfisher, sitting on a branch close the water. We all grinned at each other. “I saw him the other day,” said the man. “He’s been visiting often.” The lady said she hoped to see him fly: “I love his shiny feathers.” 

The three of us stood for a while, at the edge of the river, watching the kingfisher sitting on the branch of a tree. Isn’t it amazing how a shared experience can connect strangers? Imagine the three of us standing near a river in anticipation of watching a bird fly. And sure enough, the kingfisher suddenly turned his head, and flew across the river to a new spot.  All our faces lit up and we chorused, “Beautiful!” 

Grinning broadly, I continued to walk, breaking into a bit of a jog when I realized that waiting for this kingfisher might mean that I’d miss my train. On the way I spotted a tree with four large… wait, were those… vultures?! I slowed down. Ah no, they were just cormorants. Several of them sat on a leafless tree. A plane flew above us and all the birds turned in unison to look at it. It was a funny sight, birds perched on top of a tree staring at an aircraft flying overhead. 

I reached the station and unthinkingly went back to the platform I got off at. A train to Ely passed us by. I had to take the King’s Cross train, but the train arrived and went past me, stopping ahead of the road crossing. I realized then that the platform extended on the other side! I walked over to Platform 3 and settled into a chair, pleased that I was the only one on the platform. I seem to find myself alone on railway platforms a lot. After a while the sound of neighing filled the air, and I realized I was close to a field where horses were grazing. Starlings gathered for their evening chat, and the electricity wires shone a metallic golden. 

After I got home, I went on to the Waterbeach Facebook community and was surprised to find active discussions about the kingfisher’s sightings. If I ever wanted to live in a quiet village, this seemed like a good option. But for now, occasional walks in the village seemed promising. What else would it have on offer? Bitterns? Weasels? Water voles? Fen tigers? There was only one way to find out. 

A bit of a ramble around St Ives Island, Cornwall

My biggest moments of epiphany have been on hilltops: I seem to have a tendency to become wiser with increasing altitude. And St Ives Head was no exception, even though it was just a small hill. I was in a Cornwall with a mission to slow down, after having quit my job a few weeks ago. All I wanted to do was to sit by the sea and watch the waves. 

The sky was heavy with clouds as I made my way to the Island. I walked through narrow streets lined by whitewashed cottages with blue doors and angry gulls squawking from their rooftops. The gulls I’ve seen in coastal England are always angrily squawking about something, quite a contrast to the relatively docile gulls of my riverside Cambridge neighbourhood. 

As I approached St Ives Head, I realized that the hill was much prettier than it looked from afar, as it overlooks Porthgwidden beach on one side and Porthmeor on the other.  A lone paddleboarder (some kind of running theme here, also seen on my walk from St Ives to Lelant) was silhouetted by the sunlight filtering through the dark clouds. I walked up the grassy slopes to a white cottage perched on the edge of the hill: the National Coastguard Watch. All around, the sky and sea danced in ripples of grey and white. It was early morning still, and the mist was just lifting.  

Paddle-boarder, Porthgwidden

Perched on top of the hill was St Nicholas Chapel, a stone monumet that looked like it had withstood a gale or two. I found a bench just below the wall of the chapel on the other side of the hill, overlooking Porthmeor beach. The sea stretched far into the horizon, a line so faint that you could barely tell the distinction between water and sky. I could see all the way up to Man’s Head and Clodgy Point, where the waves crashed dramatically against the rocks, white foamy spray and all that. I scanned the rocks below me with my binoculars hoping to catch sight of puffins or perhaps even skuas, that I’d seen before in this area (in Cape Cornwall). But I only saw a pair of cormorants. 

Porthmeor beach is a surfer’s paradise. Amateur surfers in black wetsuits dotted the waters, balancing themselves on boards of yellow, green and blue. I watched one person keenly – perhaps he stood out the most because of his bald and shiny head. He paddled out into the sea with his hands, lying on his board. He then sat up on his knees, waiting in anticipation as a huge wave came towards him. Unfortunately, by the time the huge wave reached him, it had reduced considerably to just a ripple. But he rode the little wave undeterred and paddled out again. 

Surfers at Porthmeor beach 

As the sun rose higher in the sky, I noticed how it dictated the colours of the the landscape. Streaks of brown and grey and green appeared in what had been a fairly uniform turquoise sea just minutes ago. I realized that sea and sky never follow the rules that are taught to landscape artists. If I painted what I was saw, it would look completely unreal, and an art teacher might say something like, “The colours don’t look right,” or “It’s not really coming together.” We’re taught to believe that nature has order and symmetry and follows some basic protocol. But more often than not, nature is completely random. Even something simple like the colours of a sunset are rarely consistent. 

I wondered if it was nature’s way of rebelling. Maybe the light just wanted to trick us today, burdened by the weight of putting on a consistent as-expected performance. And wouldn’t I know all about it?! Ah, the pressure to deliver. On the days you want the sun to be out the most, it hides behind the clouds. Well. If the sun could go on strike, so could I. 

Porthmeor shades of blue. Note the difference in colours from the previous photo, taken just over an hour before! 

At the foot of the hill, I noticed how the waters swirled around the rocks furiously and ceaselessly, dissolving into white spidery patterns. It seemed like the fury of the ocean broke here, in the few metres close to the shore, whereas the farther, deeper waters heaved gently as one. I had once been the big wave, I thought to myself, heaving with energy and zeal, but when I reached the goal, I was exhausted and falling to pieces, crashing and burning.  

After staring at the water for hours, I realized that sitting here, observing the rise and fall of the waves was a luxury in itself. Time is available in plenty but afforded by very few. 

It is strange how much of nature we can see but can’t touch or hold or keep. The waters came together and dissolved, created shapes and broke form repeatedly. Maybe that’s why the sea is so fascinating: it is ever-changing. It’s not going to look the same the next minute. And because we see it happen in front of our eyes, it’s easy to accept. It’s so much harder to accept change within ourselves, especially when we seem largely constant every day, trapped in clumsy bodies that, unlike water, don’t allow us to flow into whatever space will contain us. We’re awkward beings, with all of our thoughts and emotions crammed into a physical entity with finite limitations. No wonder we burn out. We can only hold so much. 

St Nicholas Chapel

Feeling cold having sat in one place for so long, I got up to stretch my legs and started walking around the church. I peeped inside the closed window to see a small room with a desk, that displayed a notebook, a pen and a bottle of hand sanitizer. Simple. I heard voices and looked up to see a lady in a red dress leaning against the chapel wall, posing for a photographer. She was laughing, her gold earrings shining. A man in a suit walked towards her, followed by a man in a clerical collar. A young boy in a bow-tie walked with them, holding a bouquet of flowers. That’s when it struck me–a wedding was going to take place here today! What a beautiful setting. I decided to give them their privacy and went back to my spot on the bench. 

I was just in time to see the bald surfer standing on his board, arms spread out, riding a wave like he’d been surfing all his life. I almost felt his delight as he soared to the shore, and celebrated his triumph by paddling out once more. The tide had picked up, the waves were stronger, all his practice was paying off. It was his time to shine.

The clouds had gone from being thick and billowy to thin wisps of white, the kind you see when poaching an egg. As it got warmer it seemed like all the species of gulls were out. It’s astonishing: the variety of gulls. What I’d previously called “seagulls” I now knew as black-headed gulls, European herring gulls, common gulls, black-backed gulls. More cormorants gathered on the rocks. Some of them spread their wings out in the “Batman” pose: something I’d noticed on a trip to India recently. It was incredible to see the same behaviour in birds that were thousands of miles apart. 

I was interrupted by the chirping of a starling that sat a few feet away from me. I noticed its iridescence in the sunlight. Isn’t it amazing what sunlight does to the colour of bird feathers?  Starlings, magpies, ravens, all of them glisten in the sun. Just a few minutes ago, the bird was an unassuming black, but now it was had flecks of luminous green and purple and gold.  I wondered if we all needed someone to shine a light on us to be able to glow. 

I think what I really love about Cornwall is that it offers the big picture alongside the detail. You stop to look at wild primroses in the grass but you also stop to look at the unending blue all around. The expansive views seem to free up space in my own mind. At the peak of burnout, I noticed that I was constantly losing myself in the detail and forgetting the larger purpose. It helped to look up. 

I could now hear music coming from the organ in the church: the wedding ceremony had begun. On a bench at the foot of the hill, by the coastal path, a boy and girl sat wrapped in each others arms. It was one of those moments when everything seemed to be in perfect synchrony. They were a tiny speck in my 360 degree view, but the fullness of their emotion was almost palpable. As I started walking down the path, I couldn’t help wondering if I was a tiny spot—if I was even noticeable—in someone else’s panoramic view.

 Three-cornered garlic, with a view of Porthmeor on an early spring morning 

A barely-visible horizon

Making the idea of “escape” accessible on a morning walk in Lal Bagh Botanical Garden, Bangalore.

I woke up one December morning in Bangalore with a huge grin on my face. What a wonderful day it was to be alive. I was finally going to see a Spotted Owlet! 

It isn’t often that I wake up with the mission of spotting a specific bird, but I had never seen an owl in the wild before, and was intrigued when Harsha (of Gundmi fame) declared that he could change this. A keen birder, he said he knew exactly where to look, and I was impressed with his confidence. We were going to go to Lal Bagh Botanical Garden, a 240-acre park in the middle of urban Bangalore. 

We reached the park when the sun was just rising. We climbed the “Lalbagh Rock”, a hillock made of grey-black, stratified gneiss rock. (I later learned that it was 3,000 million years old!). We sat on the cool stone, watching pigeons bathe in the growing light. I’ve always had a soft spot for sunrises, but what I like best is how slowly and gently dawn breaks. You can’t urge it to hurry up. The sun will rise at its own pace. 

We scrambled down the rock and joined the other walkers who marched briskly on the muddy path. They all looked very serious about getting their morning exercise in. We walked past impressive statues carved from the wood of fallen trees: an eagle made from a 200-year old “Nilgiri tree”, and a crocodile that looked all too real from afar. The damaged trees were carved by local artists after they fell in a 2017 storm.

We approached a small group of trees and Harsha suddenly paused. “Look up,” he announced. Ah, two words that always assure magic. 

And sure enough, sitting on the branch of a leafy ficus tree was a spotted owlet, eyes closed. It sat absolutely still, looking like a small cuddly bear. As I stared at it, its white eyelids opened slowly, just a little bit. It evaluated us through two narrow slits, decided we were unworthy of its attention, and went back its Vipassana-like meditative state. A few passers-by came to see what we were looking at, but didn’t look surprised at all to find the owl: it was a regular sight for many. They did a “namaste” sign, bowed their heads and continued on their determined stride. 

The breeze gently ruffled Little Goobe’s* brown-and-white feathers and rustled the leaves of the tree, but our owl was content, unbothered.  

After a while, the owl decided that this was enough of a morning adventure and took off unexpectedly, flying into a hole in the trunk of the tree. From there, it peered out again, eyes half-closed. I smiled, remembering a story my father-in-law had told me. In the Uttarakhand village he grew up in, a spotted owlet would sit on a wire overlooking the village’s main street. At night, when someone walked past, it would make loud noises. This often alerted other people in the village of someone’s  presence, like a warning sign or an alarm. He recalled the bird as being called khaskoodar. Little kids would get scared when they heard the bird’s call, but the elder would say, “Hush, don’t worry, it’s not an ullu (owl). It’s only a khaskoodar!” Harsha showed me three more owlets, and I waited for them to call out but no luck. 

We continued our walk, taking the path up to the large lake, watching parakeets feed on the ground along the way. When we reached the small bridge over the water, Harsha pointed excitedly: “Darter!” The large white bird dove and came up with a fish in its mouth, which it swallowed whole, the lump moving slowly down its slender neck, like a snake swallowing a frog. For a minute, I felt like I was watching this scene on TV. All around us, men and women continued to jog and walk in their shorts and white socks, many oblivious to the action happening around them.  

Above us, a Brahminy kite soared, its wings silhouetted in gold against the late morning sun. The Brahminy kite is one of my favourite birds. I find it so incredibly majestic, and I love the rust colour of its wings. It swooped down to the lake, flying close to the waters, but didn’t find what it was looking for. Its white snowy head pushed through the air like the nose of a plane and it took off back into the sky. It’s a common bird in Bangalore, and one that I think is highly underrated. It’s escapes the notice of many, as it flies over human heads buried in phones. I assume that life is less interesting for those who never look up 🙂

I’d thankfully brought my binoculars on that day because what we were about to see was stunning. A group of about 25 cormorants landed in the water suddenly. For a few minutes frenzied diving and splashing followed: black heads ducking underwater and emerging triumphant, with fish in their mouths.

In contrast to the noise and activity happening in the middle of the lake, there was a quiet stealthy hunt going on along the edge. A pond heron walked by the lake on its tall, thin legs, taking careful and quiet steps. Snap! It dipped its head into the water to catch an insect. It looked almost comical, as its neck moved back and forth with each step, like the Walk like an Egyptian move. “Hey, look!” Harsha exclaimed. I followed his gaze to find a reptilian head popping out of the water. Water snake! 

On an island in the lake, the cormorants now dried off in the sun after all their hard work. They spread their wings out like superheroes, a pose that I call “The Batman”. A grey heron in breeding plumage stood still next to them, white chest hair blowing softly in the wind. Red wattled lapwings stood in a row. I waited for them to make their characteristic, loud, “did he do it” call, but they were surprisingly quiet. Two little grebes sailed past us. I’d always thought birding was hard work, but this seemed incredibly easy.

Ever since I discovered birds, I have a new repository of bird-associated memories. The lapwings reminded me of the first time I saw them: in Udupi, flying out in a group from behind a large rocky hill near the sea. I’d seen grebes back in the UK, on a summer walk in the Spade Oak lake. I knew I’d remember this walk the next time I’d see cormorants or spotted owlets.

But one of my biggest surprises lay right ahead. We had almost finished our circular tour now, when I saw large white birds sitting on a little strip of land in the water. Ah, egrets. But wait, one of them looked different. A pelican?! I’d never seen one before! (I had to credit my instant recognition of the bird to Finding Nemo.) Through my binoculars, I could see the details of its eye: red, with a startlingly black bead in the centre. And next to the pelican stood a painted stork. I was elated: I didn’t have to go to Kokkare Bellur to see one! On the muddy bank of the river, I saw something purple moving. A grey-headed swamphen paced up and down, looking angry about something.

We took a bit of a detour on our way to the exit, stopping to take a look at the famous silk cotton tree. As I stood and looked at it, I suddenly felt like this was it. Moments like these seemed to contain everything I sought in the universe. “In spring, it’s full of white flowers,” Harsha said. I could only imagine how pretty it must be then. 

We walked past the garden, where I was greeted by spider lilies that grew up to my height, and the fiery flowers of the Malabar chestnut tree. I paused under a gulmohar tree and looked up, wondering if I’d find another owl. But I was amused at what I saw. On a bare branch, a large black bird sat on top of another. Black kites mating!

I always find it heartening to catch sight of two animals mating: it feels like a confirmation that all’s right with the world. It formed the perfect happy ending to our little journey. 

While I was thrilled to have seen spotted owlets and pelicans, darters and herons, the sight that stayed with me the most was that of the Brahminy kite soaring over the lake. I realized I didn’t have to stray too far to find something special. The walk around Lalbagh reinforced once again that to find something extraordinary, you just have to keep your eyes and ears open. I always equate “escaping” to physically moving as far away from my current situation as possible, but after Lalbagh, my “escape” has become a lot more accessible. With a little help from my friends, it’s getting easier.

*Kannada word for owl

A version of this article was published in Mint.

If there’s one thing that was common to all the rulers of the princely state of Hyderabad, it’s that they were all patrons of beauty in all forms—architecture, literature, furniture, jewellery, clothes. Glimpses of their legacy is seen in the shopping areas of Old City, which is full of bazaars dedicated to beautiful items — glistening bangles, radiant pearls, laced burqas, delicate perfumery and intricately carved brassware. So, of course, there’s a bazaar dedicated to beauty in script as well. 

Chatta Bazaar is a street that, besides featuring numerous printing presses, is known for its Urdu and Arabic calligraphers. One popular theory about the origin of its name is that it’s a mutilation of chaptha – printing – bazaar. I find myself there on a weekday morning, when shops have just started to open. The street is narrow and lined with colourful, neatly organized shops, all of which have windows filled with decorative cards. I start enquiring about calligraphers in the shops, only to be told that the market has long been dominated by computerized fonts and modern printing techniques. I visit about fifteen shops until, finally, someone directs me to a board that says “Welcome Printers”. I cross the busy road to find a small, blue kiosk tucked away inside a kaman. An elderly man in a white kurta is settling down, having just opened the shop. I spot a set of calligraphy pens on his desk.

“So you’re here to take my interview?” he says, after I introduce myself. I nod. “What’s your name?” he asks, pulling out a long sheet of white paper. He draws light pencil lines on it using a ruler. Opening his little bottle of Camlin Waterproof black ink, he dips the nib of a pen and writes, with an unwavering hand, “Allah”. “Always write the name of God before starting to write,” he tells me. He goes on to write my name in Arabic and Urdu as I watch in fascination.  “It takes ten years to perfect an art like this,” he says. I suddenly remember the calligraphy lessons I’d taken a few years ago, where I was asked to practise drawing one line about two hundred times. 

Mohammed Abid Khaleel, who learnt the art of calligraphy from his father, has been a professional calligrapher for about forty years. He wrote for the Siasat, a Hyderabad-based Urdu daily, for over ten years, after which he set up his own calligraphy service.

Is he handing down the art to his kids too? I ask.  He tells me that his five daughters are married and his two sons are engineers. 

What about materials? Are they easily available? These pens are hardly available in the market anymore, he says. “I’ve been using the same pens for 30 years!”

Mr Khaleel gets about 2-4 orders a day. He makes wall posters, flyers, wedding cards and visiting cards. He painstakingly pens invitees’ names onto envelopes. For bulk printing, his writing is scanned and then printed. “I work about 12 hours a day,” he says. I ask him about the future of calligraphy: “It lies in the hands of the Government. The Government does little to promote or support this art.”

I stop next at the highly recommended Nayeem Commercial Artist and Qattath. I walk up an unrailed staircase to two large airy shops which belong to Mr Mohammed Nayeem Saberi.  He welcomes me and asks his attendant to bring me the ‘photo book’. I open it, and to my surprise, find a photo of him with Ms Sheila Dixit. Mr Saberi has just returned after having participated in the Siasat Islamic Calligraphy and Art Exhibition in New Delhi. 

I take a look around his shop, the walls of which are covered with ornate frames of colourful calligraphy. I wonder if everything is digitally treated, as the ink is in gradient shades rather than solid. I am just about to voice my question, when he suddenly announces “How do you like my hand-written multicolour calligraphy?” I stare at him in disbelief. He brings out a flat piece of wood and asks me to examine it. “Bamboo,” he says. Mr Saberi has developed a unique style of art in which he’s used the broad tips of wooden rulers as calligraphy nibs.  Different colours are then added to the surface of the tip–one end is dipped in say, blue, the other end in red, and the in betweens are filled with dots of yellow and green. This chunk of wood is then held carefully over the surface, taking over the role of the ‘kalam’. As the tip moves over the paper, it leaves different shades of colour that blend into one another. Mr Saberi uses acrylic or oil paints and art paper. 

“There’s no electricity here and it’s so hot. You’ve come from so far,” he says, unexpectedly picking up a large poster and beginning to fan me vigorously with it. “No no,” I protest, taken aback, “I’m alright. Here, let me fan you.” 

“Guess my age!” Mr Saberi asks me, his eyes twinkling. “I’m 84! Such an old man. I’m 84 – par mera haath bilkul jawan hai!” (But my hands is still young!).

Mr Saberi was also invited to the Purani Haveli, the erstwhile residence of the Nizam, to take up custom calligraphy work, which was used as a base for embroidery designs. His work has been exhibited in various countries including Hyderabad, Bangalore, Delhi, Mecca, Jeddah and Kuwait. 

Mr Saberi has been painting since he was ten years old. During his college days, he learnt Urdu, Arabic and English calligraphy under the guidance of three different teachers respectively. Mr Saberi is an architect who worked in the Public Works Department for 40 years. “My pension is inadequate, so this is a good, additional source of income.”  Mr Saberi takes up custom work from all over the world, especially from people from the Gulf, to write the verses of the Quran in his unique style. He holds calligraphy workshops for both the young and old at the Siasat office, during their 40-day summer camp. 

Are there more calligraphers tucked away in the busy bylanes of Chatta Bazaar? Quite possibly. From what I understand, they are few and scattered. I drop in at the Hyderabad Cards Centre, which stocks cards from Delhi, Bombay, Chennai and Ahmedabad. “All the cards are printed nowadays,” Mr Saifuddin, one of the store partners, tells me. “Calligraphy is an art that’s fading away. Though, even today, there are maybe more than a hundred people who can write in calligraphy, most of them practise it as a hobby. Since the artists are underpaid, especially with computers taking over the market, parents discourage their children from taking it up as a full-time profession. To master the art, one has to put in many years of practice. The art is also dependent on factors such as age, because one cannot write with a shaky hand. There are very few artists left today who can write with satisfactory ‘sharpness’ in writing.”

Though there are computer fonts taking over the Urdu/Arabic printing industry, they cannot match the beauty of hand-written work, where each artist possesses a characteristic style and adds a personal touch to it. I hope that these artists are provided with a platform which will help protect and promote their work. The word for calligraphy in Urdu is khushkhati, literally meaning “happy writing”. With its graceful curves and lettering dotted with diamonds, this art surely delivers visual pleasure. And something that brings happiness is usually something worth preserving. 

Mr Khaleel’s shop 

Mr Khaleel’s writing instruments

Original writing 

Digitally enhanced and printed copy

The unique calligraphy nibs of Mr Saberi

The multicoloured calligraphy of Mr Saberi

Mr Saberi at work 

Taking a train through the Scottish Highlands. An artist’s dream!

Five and a half hours on a train through rugged mountains, thick pine forest and uninhabited moors. When I read about the West Highland Railway Line from Glasgow to Mallaig, I knew I wanted to do it right away. I booked an onward journey with an overnight stay and a return for the very next day. Eleven hours on a train within 24 hours: my idea of a detox, a detour. I convinced my reluctant and long-suffering partner to come with me, thrilled when he grunted out an affirmative. 

And so here we are, at Glasgow Queen Street, where the train awaits us in its blue and yellow livery. I am satisfied to find that it looks slightly worn inside, like it has accomplished some long and rough journeys. Backpackers and hikers sit scattered around, leaving plenty of seats empty. We sit by the enormous windows, prepared to drink in the views.  It doesn’t take long to leave the buildings and telegraph poles of Glasgow behind. Gulls follow us for a while, gliding above River Clyde. We go past the Singer railway station, which was built over a hundred years ago to serve the sewing machine factory there. A familiar name to many of us who grew up in India in the 90s: my mum’s machine produced clothes for both me and my various dolls.  

A window seat on a train offers a special kind of theatrical experience: images spring to life, frame by frame. The first snow-capped mountain appears at Dumbarton, after which every scene starts to look like a frameable painting worthy of an art gallery. Steep hills ease into blue waters. As we make our way to Helensburgh Upper, the automated train announcement says unhelpfully: “We are now approaching Dumbarton.” I am delighted by the lag: there’s something about imperfection that makes everything charming. 

It’s May, and the snow is melting in large streaks of liquid white, leaking down the slopes like a vanilla ice-cream cone on a hot day. We travel beside several lochs big and small: Loch Lomond’s undisturbed waters offer a clear, opaque mirror, while Loch Long shimmers in the distance, sunshine dancing on its ripples. It takes a while for the eye to adjust to this unusual colour palette of greys and greens and browns: the Highland’s own Oil Colour Palette. 

Loch Lomond from the train 

Still Loch Lomond from the train — but the colours change quickly! 

In this in-between season — no longer winter but not quite summer — the land seems to still be undecided whether to burst immediately into bloom or hold back with caution. Stations pass us by: Arrochar and Tarbet. Ardlui. Crianlarich, a small village with a bright green Londis clearly visible from the train, is where the train splits into two, with some coaches taking a diversion to Oban via Lower Tyndrum, while mine continues on via Upper Tyndrum. Tyndrum is one of the smallest villages in the UK that is served by two stations. (According to the 2011 census, less than 200 people lived there!). Before we reach Upper Tyndrum, it’s as if the land has made up its mind — the scenery shifts, and leafless trees give way to a lush sweep of green. As we move on, the single-ridge mountain of Beinn Bhreac-liath stands towering over the land like an imposing plateau, the snow on top spilling over like the edges of a tablecloth.

Between Upper Tyndrum and the Bridge of Orchy lies the famous horseshoe curve, which loops around three mountains. It is quite thrilling to be able to see the tracks wind themselves around the foot of the massive hills – a clever workaround by engineers who didn’t have the money to build a viaduct across the valley. The Bridge of Orchy station is quiet and unassuming but, to my surprise, some of my co-passengers get off here. I find out that the old station building now serves as a bunkhouse for hikers and walkers in the area: I make a mental note to go back and stay there one day!

We start to approach Rannoch, a vast expanse of moorland. Here, I spot a group of deer running across the plain. It’s a sight that will stay with me forever, these animals bounding with wild abandon across a land still protected in its remoteness. Rannoch Moor is barren and boggy, unlike anything I’ve seen before. Little rivulets split the dark earth, and light sparkles in the water-filled cracks. Clumps of pine huddle together, as though seeking safety in numbers in this desolate landscape. In a stream, I see the bottle-green heads of two mallards — the colour adding a surprising pop to the otherwise muted palette. 

The world seems eerie here, silent and still.  

Rannoch Moor

The peculiar landscape of Rannoch

We head to Corrour, Britain’s highest railway station and one of the remotest parts of the country. Earthy tones here: swathes of burnt umber, sienna and beige cover the canvas. For a little relief, the blue of Lake Ossian peaks out from between thick conifers. For miles around, there doesn’t seem to be a soul. 

The bit from Corrour to Tulloch is what I would later recount as my favourite part of the journey. Loch Treig mirrors the mountains above, hugging the shore quietly. The view from the train overlooks the valley. Beside the lake, a mud path leads up to a grey building. The painter’s afterthought, a finishing touch. It looks slightly out of place, this man-made construction, in the otherwise natural, naked setting. 

Loch Treig

As we work our way towards Roy Bridge and Spean Bridge, comforting shades of green start to reappear, easy on the eyes after the almost Gothic theme of Rannoch Moor. The land grows fertile. Waterfalls tumble down hills, grassy meadows carpet the valleys. River Spean rushes over the rocks: potentially a great spot for white water rafting. At Fort William, the train almost empties out: this town is the starting point to climb Ben Nevis, the UK’s highest mountain.

In Loch Eilt, I spot a small islet (Eilean Na Mòine,) sporting a group of Scots pines, apparently a widely-photographed scene. Light strokes of branches lead to broccoli-like tufts. Hmmm… a dry brush, perhaps.

Suddenly, there is frenzied activity. Everyone crowds at the windows on the left with their cameras. We’re approaching the Glennfinnan viaduct, of Harry Potter fame. You can see the engine make its slow turn on the viaduct, over the tall, graceful arches. The train stops for a bit to allow everyone to capture their Insta-worthy shots. Trees in different stages of leaf-burst in the foreground introduce a lake (Loch Shiel), which sits in between lilac-blue mountains. To the left lies a patch of football ground in velvet green, beside a meadow that seems ready to produce wildflowers. Ah yes, some brighter colours to add to our Highland Railways Artist Palette.

Glenfinnan viaduct

The journey onwards visually softens, as the mountains become fewer and smaller. Browns become blues, and the sea and sky seem to merge in places, the horizon invisible. At Arisaig, the view is forgiving and welcoming: a wide, calm sea. It’s almost like the topography is now tired of the ups and downs and wants something level, peaceful. Yachts dot the waters, and the silvery beaches of Morar shine. The sea takes on more and more colour as we get closer to our final stop. Mallaig is as picturesque as it had sounded: a charming little fishing village with a sky full of gulls. The train comes to a halt.

It’s now time to bring out the Scottish Seaside Watercolour Set.

The fishing village of Mallaig

More pictures

Corrour station

The horseshoe curve with the Auch viaduct below

The very impressive Beinn Bhreac-liath

The train approaches Mallaig station

Inside the train

Excellent collection of railway books at the second-hand bookshop in Mallaig

If you’re interested in exploring the Highlands, Walk Highlands is a great place for resources.

Also read: Train journey of a lifetime: 42 hours on the Konkan Railway

St Mary’s Islands in Mangalore, Karnataka, is home to massive basaltic rocks that formed millions of years ago, when Madagascar split from India.

It’s a blazing hot February afternoon. The summer sky is a clear, gemstone blue, and the sun is white, blinding. A gentle sea-breeze soothes my heat-flushed cheeks. I am at the coastal town of Malpe in Karnataka, about to take the 30-minute ferry to St Mary’s Islands. With me is Harsha, close friend and proud local, who’s been to the island several times and is excited to show me around. The poster at the ferry ticket office displays pictures of dolphins leaping out of the waters and I’m enormously excited at the chance of spotting them. We climb onto the boat along with about fifty other people. 

The wind is strong, and I stand at the bow of the boat, clutching at my billowing kurta. Brahminy kites soar above us, their white heads silhouetted against the burning sun. I stare down in anticipation at the waters, waiting for the aforementioned dolphins to emerge. But instead, I feel a vibration from the bottom of the boat: a loud Bollywood song. I’d forgotten that the Rs 300 ticket had also promised on-board entertainment. Surely this would only scare away any potential sightings of animals and birds? I look around annoyed, but nobody else seems to mind. Twenty minutes into the ride, I notice a large group of seagulls above a rocky outcrop. The tips of the rocks were splashed with white: “from decades of bird droppings”, Harsha supplies helpfully. A distant brown line in the horizon grows bigger and bigger and puts forth coconut trees as it approaches. Blobs of rocks appear scattered all around the island. 

The ferry is too big to moor directly so we get ourselves into a smaller boat which takes us closer to the shore. We wade through the waters barefoot, slippers in hand, towards the jaunty “Welcome to St Mary’s Island” sign.  

From the outside, the islands look like any tropical getaway you might have seen in a magazine: turquoise blue sea, white sandy beaches and wind-swept palms. However, what makes them unique are the enormous structures that fringe it — columnar rocks rising up to 15 feet in height. These rocks were formed by the volcanic activity that took place when Madagascar broke off from India, a rift that occurred 88 million years ago. Today, this group of islands is separated from their cousins by 3,000 miles of sea. Though not immediately obvious, the islands are split into four smaller ones: Coconut Island, Daryabahadurgarh Island, North Island and South Island. Vasco Da Gama is said to have landed here first, Harsha says. I secretly hoped that it was cooler weather when he did. 

We walk towards the northern point of the island, where the huge basaltic columns spring from the Arabian Sea like giant, disproportionate Kit-Kat bars. On these bars perch selfie-taking vacationers. I look down at the sand only to find that it isn’t sand at all, but sea shells! Miles and miles of sea-shells dot the coast, sparkling like grains of rice and millet under the sun. Most of them are fragmented and broken. I scrape the ground with my foot to see if it would reveal a layer of sand below, but I just find more and more seashells. I climb one of the rocks (more slippery than I had imagined). From here, I look at the irregular and peculiar rows of rocks jutting out from the island, and it reminds me of a Cambodian temple:an Angkor Wat rising form the sea. 

Towards the west of the island, the grey-brown rocks are closely packed together in hexagonal shapes. Layers of rocks are stacked on top of each other, giving rise to a multi-level platform. The face of the rocks join together to form a mosaic pattern, that of a honeycomb or an ant’s eye. At the bottom of the plateau, the rocks are covered in hundreds of barnacles. As we walk to the next level, I see little rock pools in hollows and dents where the tide reaches. Crabs lay sprawled out in the sun in the pools. I find a good spot to sit, while Harsha climbs all the way to the top level of this pyramid-like structure. I watch him shrink until he becomes a tiny toy person on top of a gigantic structure. “Felt like Pride Rock,” he says when he returns. 

We sit on the sands and observe the waves moving in and out, frothing and swirling around the hardened, ancient lava. I think about how at some point these rocks had also been in liquid form and how impenetrable they seemed now. The colours of the waves change as they approach the land: from deep green to pale, translucent blue, from shadow-grey to pearly white. I notice that a rock-platform in front of us is in the shape of a Komodo dragon, its hexagonal pattern not entirely unlike the texture of lizard skin. I imagine it heaving itself up and taking big clumsy steps. The unforgiving sun is making me hallucinate. 

We walk around the island, stopping at places where the rocks make corridors, tunnels, controlling how much of the sea can come into the land. A sandpiper makes its way in a clear straight line, picking at insects and molluscs, oblivious to us. As we approach a pebble beach, we stumble on a strange sight. Interspersed among the smooth, round grey stones lie large white structures. Bones! Harsha picks up a long curved bone and brandishes it like a sword. We later find out that it is a turtle rib bone. A cuttlebone, broken in half,  lies in a corner. A few steps ahead: a perfectly shaped wishbone! Various joints surround us: it’s hard to tell what they might belong to. As if on guard, a black kite circles us overhead. Did it think we were potential thieves? Was there more to discover, was this its loot? We return the bones to where we found them and move on. 

I had noticed that overnight stays were prohibited on this uninhabited island and felt a twinge of curiosity. What would it be like to spend the night here, among bones and hungry birds of prey? What was this place like after sunset, during high tide? I will never find out. 

We hear the last call for the boat taking us back to Malpe. As we walk back, I’m pleased to see that the “No Plastic” boards on the island seem to be working. A young boy sits on the shore, tipping the last few drops of coconut water into his mouth directly from the coconut: no sign of straws on this strip of land. A little egret, its yellow feet against the black rock, surveys the beach for a snack. Would it be a crab, an insect or fish? On this island, it seemed to be spoilt for choice. 

Read also: Gundmi: Of paddy fields and barefoot simplicity

Check out Harsha’s amazing wildlife project: Wild Gundmi

It came as a surprise to me that England was exactly as I’d imagined it to be. The thatched-roof cottages, rambling roses and gigantic oak trees that I’d seen in picture books as a child all stood life-sized in front of me. The drive from Heathrow to Oxfordshire was nothing spectacular if you looked straight ahead, but on either side of the road, bright yellow fields shone under the clear blue sky. It was early March, the season of the rapeseed blooms. I’d chosen spring to introduce me to England. 

On the 11 hour flight from India to the UK, I mapped the names on the screen in front of me to the gigantic rivers and city-clusters that I saw below. I remembered marking many of these places painstakingly on world maps in geography class—the Ural mountains, the Aral Sea—it felt like I was drawing them to life from my window seat. For most of my life I’d been vehemently opposed to the idea of moving abroad. But when I decided to marry my friend from college, who was then based in the UK (and we had already gone through the ups and downs of long-distance), it only seemed fair to give it a chance. 

The village of Chesterton, my new home, was startlingly pretty, at least to my city-sore eyes. Around the house grew thick green ivy (carefully tended to by the landlady), and large pots of blooms in riotous colours stood on either side of the door. Looking back, I think I had arrived at the perfect time. 

I spent my first month in the UK in a sort of daze, waking up to blackbirds singing in the garden and the twittering of robins. I went on long walks around the village, which was decidedly easy on the eyes. I saw daffodils for the first time ever a few days after I arrived. Even though I had never seen pictures of these flowers, I instantly recognized them. I was thrilled that the Wordsworth poem I’d recited so many times in school back in India had sprung to life. Suddenly, I felt at home in this place, where everything seemed so unfamiliar. 

Four years on, and I still go to pieces when I see the first narcissi of the year bloom. 

Life in small town England was quite different from that in its cities. The shops in the nearest town closed at 5 pm, the last bus back was at about 6 pm. Astonishingly, everyone seemed content with this arrangement. There was a general quiet that fell upon the village in the evenings. Unused to the silence and the cold, I would fall asleep at dusk.  

After I quit my job to freelance back in India, I’d resolved to apply to jobs in the UK only once I’d got used to the place and settled in. However, all reason abandoned me once I moved. I woke up at odd hours frantically scouring job sites and writing cover letter after cover letter. Was this a mistake? Was I risking my career? I couldn’t quite shake off the panic, even as I woke up to lovely little surprises from my partner (cheese omelette was a real winner). 

I was severely homesick, but refused to acknowledge and accept it. I missed the strangest things about home. I missed the sound of the papiha (the brainfever bird), whose song reaches a crescendo before it goes quiet and starts all over again. It’s amazing how much a soundscape affects the way you bond with a place. Back at home, there was always some kind of background noise.  Especially the sound of welding which I think is the unofficial OST of Indian cities. Somebody’s always welding something in India. There was the azaan from the mosque next door, the horn of the temple conch, kids playing in the street, our apartment lift beeping at someone to close the doors.

The absence of people was the thing I found most difficult to get used to. Suddenly there was no watchman, milkman or paperman; there were no autowalas, maids, grocery shop uncles, kolam-drawing aunties or chatty neighbours; no people spilling out of buses, no people on Scootys, no people at petrol bunks. No people. The lack of human interaction was stark. My mum summed up my feelings when she visited me a few months later: “Wow this place is beautiful. Such lovely fields! So much natural beauty! But where are all the people?” 

And the rains! I would tear up thinking of the earthy smell of the rain back home, bhutta (corn on the cob) being roasted and people running for cover with plastic bags on their heads. Here, it rained a lot but the rain was less dramatic, and it didn’t smell of home. I lamented to my long-suffering husband about how I crossed the oceans for him to live in a place where even the rain didn’t smell like rain and we didn’t have easy access to street food.  

The mental stress manifested physically. While on a video call with an old friend back home, he tried to tell me politely that I’d put on weight and added, only half-jokingly, “It’s because you don’t have friends over there, Ramya. If you have people to share your stories with, you stay fit. But if you accumulate it all inside you, then it has to be stored somewhere.” I didn’t argue with him. 

But in all seriousness, I found the move pretty hard to deal with. I had lived with family after university back home, I had a wide circle of friends and I had a stable career in India. I was hard on myself for not getting a job immediately and for not having a house full of all the new friends I’d dreamt I’d make. I’m a fairly social being and I had pictured married life to be all about board games and house parties with lots of loud laughter and twinkly fairy lights. I didn’t realize I’d be spending the initial evenings questioning my self-worth. The loneliness was piercing, the silence deafening. On some days I thought I must be going mad. And to add to it all, the guilt! I felt guilty for feeling the way I did. I had married the love of my life, the cherry trees were in bloom. Surely I had no right to feel low?

I think one of the reasons people don’t talk about being homesick is simply because it makes you seem selfish and small. Especially when you’re in a position of privilege. Nobody wants to be told they’re just acting like a big baby. It was only until years later when a friend who was going through something similar spoke about it did I realize what I felt was completely normal. 

[Edit: reading this article 10 years after I wrote it, I realise this has been a running theme in my life — constant guilt and denial of how I feel. Something that therapy has hugely helped with. 🙂] 

I had grown up in a middle-class family in India with access to good education and exposure. [Note: middle-class in the UK means something different to what it does in India.] Even so, I was incredibly fascinated by the ‘first-worldness’ of what I saw around me in the UK. Access to clean running water, clean air and basic necessities seemed to be more of a given than a luxury. I felt like I had just walked from a bazaar full of deserving yet poorly-compensated artists and craftsmen to a glitzy mall with big-brand showrooms. A naive analogy, I know, but the world just seemed incredibly unfair. 

I once spoke with a cab driver from Punjab who said, “In the UK, if you do your job honestly and work really hard, eventually you’d be able to buy a home and a car and live a good life. In India you might work really hard all day long, but everything is a matter of kismat!” 

On some days, every memory from back home would frame itself into a fundraiser poster for global charities. Ugh! The street kid watching you eat an ice cream, the old man sleeping out in the cold, women not having access to sanitary hygiene. Every day the guilt multiplied. I would repeatedly picture myself as the hero of this fantasy: I would fly back home, passionately kiss the soil once I landed, and travel all over the country, leading a large-scale social reform movement. Aha! That was my life’s true purpose. And then cheese omelette would reappear in the morning and I would remind myself of the reason I had moved. I would tell myself to be patient, and that eventually I would be able to untangle my thoughts and categorize them neatly into Excel sheets with highlighted next steps. 

As a teenager, I had devoured Bill Byrson and PG Wodehouse and Durrell. I had even read George Mikes’ hilarious travel books, in particular, How to Be a Brit, that should have surely prepared me to blend into my new home. But it was one thing to know of a place through books and movies and the Internet and it was altogether a different thing to actually live there. Maybe I felt the disconnect a lot more because of where I was living. If I’d moved into London or any big city, I’m sure I would have felt differently. In big cities, there is an unspoken bond of shared experiences. You could be walking next to someone going through the same thing as you are. Maybe I just found the uniqueness of my experience isolating. 

In a way, a lot of these experiences became mine and mine alone. During the job-hunting days I’d wander off to the town while my partner went to work. If it were New York or London or Delhi I’d probably find plenty of avenues—groups, online forums, books, blogs—that I could be a part of and say “I just loved that old bookshop too!” But these experiences became personal and internalized. I liked that I was the only one who knew about that one tree which was the perfect spot to rest under on a hot afternoon. I liked that I knew which neighbourhood garden featured what tree.  I smiled at the guy who played his violin every Saturday at Market Square, and I listened to the handful of guitarists that busked there. In spite of everything being so new, there were objects I gradually started to identify with. The gnome in that garden, the pretty vase on that windowsill of that house. 

During a walk one day, I took in the wonderful aroma of biryani that wafted out of somebody’s house and did a little happy jig. 

There was no grocery store in the village, but there was a pub (of course) and a church. The first time I went to the supermarket, I was mesmerized. It sold hot cross buns, ginger beer and jam tarts just like my Enid Blyton books promised, alongside the more alarming Spotted Dick and Toad in the Hole and Pigs in Blankets. I discovered trifle and madeira cake, piled on the pounds, and enjoyed being addressed to as ’my love” by the friendly lady at the till. She was suspicious of my friend though, who picked up several ciders to take back with him to France. “You must be very thirsty,” she’d said to him drily. When I took a bus into town for the first time, I was the only passenger in it, something that was unheard of back home! 

I spent much of my initial days answering the door and chatting with everyone from roof-fixers to Greenpeace campaigners. The postman figured that someone was always at home at number 37 and I became a parcel collector. Two JW ladies exclaimed that I “must be Hindu” and went on to declare that we’re all the same and want to believe that there’s hope left in this world. I spoke for a long time with a delivery guy from Somalia one day about moving to a different country. Bucks Wildlife Trust popped by one day to talk about the rapidly-vanishing owls and hedgehogs. I learned many things from these conversations.  

And what better time could I have arrived in the UK but for the run up to the Great Referendum!  A pro-Brexit campaigner once knocked on my door,  took a good look at me and shook my hand, announcing, “You look new around here, love. Do you know what’s been happening in this country? No? Let me tell you. We’ve got some catching up to do.” I’ve carefully saved all the Brexit-related flyers that had come through the letterbox so I can tell my grandkids about how I was witness to this fascinating bit of history. 

I also felt that peculiar feeling that I’m sure many newcomers must’ve experienced—of not being able to comprehend English at all in this country. The first time my partner (who’d been in the UK for over 7 years) mentioned that he was going to the surgery, I was startled. Surgery? I said. Who’s having a surgery? It quickly dawned on me that it was what they called hospitals here, just like they called ovens cookers and vacuum cleaners hoovers. 

At a neighbourhood Christmas party once, I found that I unwittingly attracted much attention. My neighbours, who weren’t used to seeing many new folks in the area, asked me lots of difficult questions about India: How come baring your midriff in a saree is OK but you need to wear a dupatta for modesty while wearing a salwar-kameez? Do you really see a lot of cows on the road? How safe is it for women? 

And then: Can you cook a good curry? How come your English is so good? Do you really mean it when you say you and your husband have no other family in the UK? Must be awfully lonely! 

I also saw other bizarre events that this country was witness to—the Great Scone Debate for example. Ah, what a delight it was to switch on the TV on some days! A cow got its head stuck in a chair, a donkey fell into a well and was rescued by firemen, and a lady adopted a bumble bee which couldn’t fly. BBC Breakfast became a daily routine, I watched reruns of Come Dine with Me, got addicted to WILTY and spent considerable time understanding the concept of a TV license. I spent every week waiting for 8 pm on Sundays to watch Attenborough on Planet Earth II. 

Eventually, as much as I rebelled against it, I fell in love more and more with the UK. I couldn’t keep moping forever. During long summer afternoons I’d watch the birds splashing about in the bird bath for hours. Though it sounds a bit idiotic, I think it’s comforting to find all these little universal truths, things that seem to the same no matter where you are. I found that squirrels liked nuts both in India and the UK. Venus sparkled in the sky in both countries. And of course, I realized that people are pretty much the same the world over. 

With time, I found ways to reconstruct pieces of home in my new place. My partner and I moved four times in the UK and I carried home with me wherever I went. In a handed-down recipe book, in a box of spices, in a magazine from an airport, in a colourful bandhani scarf. I figured I couldn’t continue living life trying to be in two places at once, I had to let go. I found that I had plenty of opportunity to drive change even if I wasn’t hopping from village to village in India. I found that I could love another place without feeling like I’d committed some Great Act of Betrayal. I rid myself of guilt. I found that I was lucky enough to be able to split time between the two countries, see my family often, and ended up making the best-decision ever: I chose a location-independent job. 

With easy access to the countryside, it’s impossible to resist falling deeply in love with the UK. England is where I nurtured my love for long, meditative, thoughtless walks. A place where I discovered that I love magnolia trees and strangely, duck egg blue, a shade I’d never heard of before I moved. In particular I’ve grown attached to the little Public Footpath signs that dot the countryside, offering the prospect of a nice amble beside gurgling streams and open fields and placid sheep. (The bovine animals don’t look upon you as kindly though, especially if you’re with a border collie. I speak from experience. ) I’ve started becoming more open to the unavoidable impact my experiences would have on me and started to actively seek out more. 

For four years, I delighted in the bluebell woods, beech trees, bracken. I picked up conkers, went on circular walks, and visited National Trust estates. I visited the Chilterns (so underrated!) and the Cotswolds (slightly overrated), walked the fells in the Lake District (overwhelmingly gorgeous), stayed in charming seaside towns in Wales and did a train ride through the remote Scottish highlands. I stuck my nose to the window all day long when it snowed heavily one winter, amazed that I could build a snowman in my very own backyard. 

And now, a new soundscape has grown familiar. The loud call of the blue tit, the sound of the post coming in through the letterbox. The ice-cream van in summer. The ‘Please take your items’ voice at self check-out in supermarkets. The sound of cars, which earlier used to be ‘honk honk’, is now ‘whoosh’.

I think of the UK as a country where its people love and value their privacy, dogs, leisure centres, gardens and Red Lions/White Harts. This place has become home in its own peculiar way. I’m now used to being asked if I’m alright when I walk into a store. I’ve learned that the right thing to say in response to how I’m doing is the non-committal  “Not too bad.” I look forward to the same old Christmas songs that play on loop on the radio every winter. I know my bin collection days.  I stock up on Lemsip and am happy to tuck into my fried eggs for breakfast. Sometimes I think it might even be odd to go a few days without hearing about the weather from the BBC reporter Carol on the telly… er, television. And after four years here, I’ve realized the profound truth that the UK offers—that a hot cup of tea and biscuits can help you tide over the dullest days. 

—————-

Read more ramblings about being a Reluctant NRI in the UK — writings from when I first moved. I’ve changed a lot now, having spent 10 years here, and I realise I disagree with some of the things I’ve said previously. But here are my thoughts for all to see, unedited: a way to remember someone I once was. 

• A conflicted Indian abroad: Part 1 
• A conflicted Indian abroad: Part 2 
• A conflicted Indian abroad: Part 3