There are various kinds of travel journals. Some focus on the food, setting your imagination and palates salivating on the local cuisines. Some are eloquent on the grandeur of monuments, buildings, museums and architectural marvels. Some move your soul with vivid description of the landscapes – the insurmountable harshness of the lofty mountains, the lure of the pristine beaches, the verdure of the fields and the colours of the lands. Some offer a wee little glimpse of the people and their lives with fleeting observations, clichés, and often, hasty generalisations.

I am no writer; least of all a travel writer and I don’t have to pretend to follow any method. So, this journal of mine is not about the places I saw, the sights that allured me or what it did to my soul. This is about the people I met and how they moved me.

Recently, I went to Sitla, a small hamlet of 15 families nestled up somewhere in the Kumaon Hills of the Himalayas in Uttaranchal. I stayed at a friend’s sister’s home, a modest yet charming stone cottage of two storeys. This is the home of VK Madhavan, the Executive Director of CHIRAG, the Central Himalyan Rural Action Group. CHIRAG is a non-profit, grassroots development organisation working with rural communities in the Central Himalayan state of Uttaranchal. Started in 1986, Chirag is a beacon of hope in about 150 villages in Nainital district providing programs for education, empowerment of women and girl children, teaching life skills and income generation activities while actively pursuing and encouraging sustainable natural resource management programs.

Having worked for about two decades and not earning a fancy corporate salary, he seems to be more committed to his job and enjoying it too. If money can’t buy love, I don’t think it can buy job satisfaction either. You only have to see him to believe it. Running a school, hospitals, providing market services for farmers, community forestry, watershed development, conservation of natural resources are not enough for him. He now runs Swadesh ki Khoj, a program to energise youth between the age of 21-24 to spend a year living and working in rural areas. He runs a multi-activity organization requiring enormous patience, persuasiveness, the ability to deal with frustration and yet, push for results, in addition to the ability to motivate and charge an army of 120 people. Looking at him makes one wonder, why aren’t there more people like him? Why isn’t more work done in the impoverished and infrastructure-starved interiors of India?

When I see his home filled with books and surrounded by nature’s bounty, my short-lived dream of owning a quiet place in the hills is revived. When I see his work, I feel so small – so much can be done by all of us and yet, we are in pursuit of some mythical, elusive something. I see him, a spindly man, choosing to leave behind the comfort zone and doing something different – I am jealous and reverent at one go. I see his people speaking with genuine pride and satisfaction over their achievements – I see hope. I see that there is a way that can and should be emulated.

I leave behind Sitla and head to Sattal. Sat Taal (or Seven Lakes) is about 23 km from Nainital. Named after mythical Hindu Gods, Goddesses and other characters - Ram, Lakshman, Sita, Hanuman, Bharat (all from the Ramayana), Garud (the celestial vehicle of Lord Vishnu) and Nala/Damayanthi (prince and princess from a Hindu fable) these lakes provide an idyllic atmosphere, a captivating display of rustic Himalyan beauty. We went first to the main group of lakes (Ram, Lakshman, Sita and Hanuman), the hilly obstructions between them blasted by human intervention to provide a contiguous unit favourable for a more picturesque view and the untainted truth be spoken, primarily to provide boating facilities, a definite must for attracting the tourists’ dollars. Here we meet Kushal Singh Negi, the boatman who took us around the lake.

Negi is a small made man, with sun-burnt cheeks so characteristic of the mountain people. As he sits to take control of oars, you can’t help noticing that he is muscular despite his obvious poverty. Years of hard work can do wonders to your body what a gym workout at wallet-damaging prices can’t. He has to take us around 3 of the lakes for Rs. 180 (just about $4). While he says it will take about 45 minutes, I hiss in Sakthi’s ears very distrustfully, “Make sure he doesn’t drop us within 30 minutes.”

Kushal Singh Negi

The ride began at 2.23 pm. Seated across the boat from him, we peppered him with questions. I didn’t care for the geography and history of the lakes; I can learn it from any travel website. He is one among 3 brothers, married with 2 kids. He worked as a machine operator in Gujarat near Vapi, one of the 10 worst polluted places on earth, a far cry from his pristine home. He had to quit that job owing to a personal tragedy and now supplemented his meager income from his farm with money made by rowing boats – at Rs. 30 per round (less than 60 cents). The rest of the Rs. 180 went to the Union, the Boat owner, Government for taxes and other charges by the Tourism department. In a lean season, he managed 2-3 rounds per day and in a tourist season lasting between the months of May-July, about 5. So, his daily income was anywhere between $2 to $4 a day. Negi is not poor, technically no, the World Bank’s definition of the poverty line for India, being US$ 1/day/person.

With this money, his son Vijay (he affectionately recalled his pet name Bobby) studies 7th grade at a private school and his daughter Ritika (nicknamed Ruchi) studies 9th grade at Government-aided school. He plans to let his daughter finish high school at the least. Very laudable considering this is in a country where female literacy per the census of 2001 is 54.1%; literacy is just defined as the ability to read and write with understanding – whatever that means!

He talked with pride about the lakes, how they have been left untouched despite the onslaught of tourists. About how the group of people whose income depend on the lakes ensure its cleanliness insisting upon tourists not to throw rubbish in or around the lakes, about how they are all acutely aware of preserving this very lifeline of theirs and about how the tourism department regulates fishing (license fee of Rs. 25 per day) limiting the depletion of fish. He talks of the climate, the depth of the lakes during rains (90 feet) and after (80 feet), of his fields where he grows wheat and other seasonal vegetables, of the history of other lakes (it is taboo to fish in the Nala Damayanthi lake, there is myth about how a fish caught and taken to the frying pan jumped out and all fish still bear scald marks on their bodies) of the Methodist Missionary present since the British era owning one of the lakes (private ownership of a natural resource is some concept!), of how he borrowed life jackets from the lake authorities to teach his children swimming and so on.

Charmed by his talk, we rowed to the fourth lake for a princely sum of Rs. 60 ($1.20) and talked some more. All along the lake were his friends, some teasing him, some showing of their prized catch – the man smiled through it all. The trip ended at 3.13 pm, a good 50 minutes since we started. In those moments, there was fleeting intimacy. We virtually entered his home and life, had a glimpse of his present struggles and hopes for the future. We saw an environmentalist caring for Mother Earth in his own way. Environmentalism made economic sense to him. We saw a caring father, a loyal husband and a true family man who stood by those who needed him. In simple terms, he is anybody that you see everywhere. He is a nobody that we fail to see amidst the hustle bustle of our own lives.

At Negi’s insistence, we go to Madhubhani restaurant at the shore of the lakes. I ask for the local cuisine, the Kumaoni Thali (platter including Dubka, Joli, Chudkani and Bhaat). I am refused – “takes half an hour to make.” When I insist, I am told again that it has to be an order for at least 4 people. At Rs. 70 per plate, it won’t hurt to pay for even 4. Again, I can’t have it; Bhaat takes one day of pre-soaking. Disappointed, I have rotis and mixed veg subzi. After finishing my meal, I fought with the restaurant owner. What is the point in giving me Kashmiri and Punjabi food in Kumaon when I can have them in Delhi itself? He is helpless and pleads with me to call him a day in advance the next time I go. I am terribly disappointed. This is a repeat of not being able to find Himachali cuisine in Shimla in the Government-run restaurant when I went there in 2008.

This is the impact of globalisation – of Food. You can find capers and galangal in India, Saravana Bhavan in California, and the golden arches of McDonalds all over the globe but try asking for local cuisine – it is tough to find. Punjabi food has overtaken everything else as the primary Indian food, although its stature is still diminished by calling everything as “Curry.” South Indian food is known only for Idlis, Dosas, Sambhar and Uthappam. Who knows of other recipes and culinary traditions?

I urge my driver Atiq to take me to a restaurant serving Kumaoni food at least for dinner before catching the train back to Delhi. He asks around in Kathgodam and can’t find a single place. But, he is not willing to leave us unhappy. He calls his wife and asks her to cook for us, even as I started protesting. His wife promises a feast in an hour but unfortunately, we don’t have time to spare and besides, it would be unfair to impose on the poor man.

This is the time of recession, not just in economic terms. We city people are wary of neighbours, and barely know them. We don’t have minutes to spare in the constant race against time. We never have enough money. Calling friends over requires meticulous planning, cleaning up the home and mostly food is ordered in. Or the pain is spread and stirred together in a Pot Luck – if you are lucky, you will like what you eat. Yet, a man in the distant hills of Kumaon restores my faith in the time honoured tradition of Indian hospitality. Athithi Devo Bhava – The guest is God. Atiq Bhai doesn’t think about his humble abode or its rag tag condition. He doesn’t hesitate to partake in his humble meal. He doesn’t mind putting his wife through the pain of cooking for 2 strangers. He says, “yeh hamara farz hai – it is my duty.” I didn’t get to eat Kumaoni thaali but my heart is filled.

For more on Kumaon and its cuisine, use Google. If you want to know the people, go there and talk to them. You will know more than what any travel guide can teach you. Here goes my favourite quote of all times by Alexander Solzhenitsyn, “Own only what you can always carry with you: know languages, know countries, know people. Let your memory be your travel bag.” How true!

There was an article in the newspaper some days back about Subiksha, the department store chain that is struggling to pay salaries and deposit Provident Fund amounts into the employee’s accounts. It was just dry news to me. I have never shopped at Subiksha, probably been there twice to see the sub-standard atmosphere as compared to Food Worlds, Spencers, Mores and Reliance Fresh’s. I don’t know anybody working there. So, Subiksha’s trouble is not a very personal news that bothers me.

Shakuntala is not like that. She is a 60+ woman? I don’t even know her age. I have seen her since I was a child. She comes home every evening, veggies and the occasional fruits piled up high on her bamboo basket and another bag made of a white plastic sheet which held more veggies and her weighing scales. She used to come to my home at Reserve Bank Colony and she followed us to the current home; her routine, unfailing for 30 years now.

She is tall, years of bearing her burden yet to bend her spine. She walks tall – her dignity always intact. High cheek bones, possibly remnants of childhood chubbiness, sharp nose, a moon like forehead, her hair held tightly in a bun with a few undisciplined ones scattered by the winds as she travelled by the city bus with her goods. As she grinned, she revealed a line of crooked teeth but she always smiled graciously. Her smile totally belied her miserable life and the pain that wracked through her body. A small nose ring flashed on her face and made me always think she could have been beautiful – in different circumstances.

She lives in Thoraipakkam, about 6 km from my mom’s place and closer to where my new apartment is. Every morning, she trudges nearly 25 km to the main vegetable market in Parry’s Corner. She buys her goods and obviously negotiates better than the unsuspecting middle class folk she re-sold the goods to. She comes by 21D, the very same bus route that linked my home to my school. Fisherwomen and vegetable hawkers like her used to occupy the back seats as I made the return journey from school in the evening.

She would reach our little street, about 100 metres long, tree lined avenue, cars jammed against the walls of 2 huge apartment complexes on both sides and yet had no name. Anybody who wanted to give directions to the street would say – the street with Prashanthi Apartments or Maheshwari Apartments. Yet, this nameless street is her workplace, her guarantee for her next meal. She would settle down with her bags at the edge of Maheshwari, sort out her veggies and then start yelling out. The busy housewives who could still buy their vegetables in the street nearby (which has a name – TM Maistry Street) would wait for her. Banter with her, argue about prices as they had done for 22 years (these apartments came about only in 1987) and yet buy – taken in by her charm and honesty. She would slowly enter one complex, spread her wares out, blocking out the staircases for others to use (a sound business strategy) and then go about selling more than what the housewives needed anyways.

I always called Shakuntala “Spencer.” Hard core Chennaiites would know of the grand building on Mount Road, about 120 years old, a fine example of British architecture that got burned down in 1983 and gave way to a very ugly shopping mall. If you called the modern Spencer’s building an eye sore, you would still be generous. Anyways, this building once was residence to India’s first department store. You got everything you wanted and didn’t. In the days when hawkers still came with hand-pulled carts and sold at your doorstep, in the days of non-corporatization of the basic act of buying your essential stuff, Spencers was an anachronism. People still went there to gawk and buy upmarket stuff. To gorge on puffs and sandwiches. You got everything but you paid a price - it was always more expensive than your neighbourhood kirana store. Well, everybody knew Shakuntala had to mark up her goods to make a living, so her prices were higher than street prices – lower than Spencer’s though. Yet, as a 8 or 10 year old, I took to calling her Spencer. It stuck. Mom didn’t care, so didn’t many others. They still bought from her.

Age is now catching up with her. She, a young widow, had spent years working hard to bring up her children. In one of her chatty days, she told me of a son who was married with kids. And, 2 daughters who were also married off. She longed for a restful time in her old age - a luxury she never will be able to afford. Her son, like many others among the Indian poor didn’t finish schooling, barely holds on to a daily wage job. Her income supplements his. Shakuntala is highly diabetic now. She needs Insulin shots but can’t afford them. So, she skips them when the money is tight. Yet, she goes on her daily survival act. Yet, she is not to be seen for some days. I wonder – is she unwell, is she dead? Will I ever see her again? It is amazing how you bond with just familiarity. You don’t share anything in common. A mere commercial transaction that passes for an interaction. Two strangers unaffected by each other’s lives yet strangely, bound by the timelessness of routine. Like your morning coffee and newspaper. You want the familiar things around you. So, when she comes after a fortnight, I ask her – what happened? She talks of high sugar levels, agonizing pain in her shoulders and lack of proper diet. Mom makes a hot cup of tea. I ask her if she wants to eat something. She always refuses. It is enough that you even asked, she says. I asked couple of times and then I stopped. Was I assaulting her pride and dignity unknowingly?

When she is ready to leave, I pull her back. I banter with her politely. Ask stupid questions so she is forced to sit down to answer them – that’s the only rest she gets on a unforgiving day full of arguing, selling, walking and climbing the stairs. I ask for that one vegetable she doesn’t have in her basket. I tell her about broccoli, something she had never seen. I tell her, I want it and she has to get it for me. I tell her it is like cauliflower, only green but the florets are smaller. She tries to make sense of it for she has seen everything in the market she buys but never this. I tell her, it is good for my health and that I need to have it and can’t find it in nearby stores. And, only she can get it for me. She promises me, yes she will look for it and get it for me. I hand out a tube of Moov that she can use to reduce the lingering pain on her shoulders. Her basket is also near empty now and she trots off. She comes back the next day and asks me to describe it again - she can’t find it. I scold her for being so inattentive, lazy or careless and do the drill again.

A news report says that Food World (spawned from Spencer’s) now operates in 70 locations across the country. Broccoli is very much available in Food World. The nearest Food World is barely a km away. I still wait for Shakuntala to get it for me. I need to see her every evening at 4. I love paying Spencer’s prices to her.

Sometime in 2003, I was in Bangalore with my friend, Satish. We just took off to Sravana Belagola, Halebeedu, came back to Bangalore to catch the train. We had some hours to kill. We sat on a bench on MG Road and along came a little girl with some flowers in her hand. She would have been 7-8 years old. She begged me to buy. I don’t wear flowers, I don’t even believe in giving people cut flowers because I hate to cut flowers from plants. I said no. She persisted. “Please, buy” – she said in Kannada. I said no, I don’t need it. She said please, I am hungry, I can buy milk for my brother. I said no again.

Satish who had gone to look up a friend, came back, overheard our conversation and said, “If you are hungry, we will buy you something.” She seemed apprehensive but didn’t want to let go off the opportunity. She quickly called another friend of hers. We walked across to somewhere near Gangaram book store. There was a small cart selling ice creams. The kids wanted ice cream and we got it for them. On our way back to the benches on the other side, the kid told me her story. Her father was sick and at home, unemployed. Mom worked somewhere, can’t remember now. The kid went to school and in the evenings, came to MG Road along with her older kid friend to sell flowers. Went back home alone. I sat and chatted with her for sometime. Satish took a small video clip of us talking using the camera I had then. I still have the video but some format stuff has changed and I can’t see it anymore.

A year later, I was at Devi Theatres on Mount Road in Chennai. Waiting for Sakthi to come so we could see the movie Autograph. We never reached any movie halls on time (we still don’t) but this time I was there but waiting for him and he had the tickets too. I was in the parking lot when a 10-12 year old kid came and offered to polish my shoes. I wasn’t wearing any. I was wearing something like sandals with cotton strips running across. I said no. These don’t need polishing. The kid said “Pasikkudhu akka” (I am hungry, elder sister). I said, go away. He kept following me around – he had nobody else to go after. I was the only stupid person loitering in the parking lot. I tried getting rid of him but he was persistent. I knew he was very hungry. I said, come with me, I will buy you food.

I walked to a small shop across. There were lots of men trying to buy a cigarette, paan, quick fixes whatever. All that the shopkeeper had was packets of cheese balls – cost about Rs. 10 each. I bought two, gave it to the kid and said sit here and eat. The kid wanted to take it home, but I refused. These kids are usually bullied, adults in the racket snatch it from them, I didn’t want that to happen. I said, “Eat in front of me or you lose both.” The kid give in, opened a pack and ate at record speed. Satisfied, I went back to loitering. No sign of Sakthi… Five minutes later, I heard a kid wailing like crazy. It was the same boy and he came running to me. “Akka, Akka, help me.” I asked him and he told that an older guy had snatched the second packet from him. I was furious. I ran over to him, found it was a 26-year old mute beggar who thought it was easy to terrorize a child. I went and slapped him, snatched back the packet. The guy was shocked and tried gathering support. I screamed at him about what he was trying to do and the crowd that gathered quickly melted away.

Yesterday, Sakthi and I went to Swarna Jayanthi Park at Indirapuram, where our new home is going to be. The park is nice, lots of benches to sit around, very clean and green. Perfect evening spent, we walked out. Carts with various food stuff lined the pavement - roasted channa and peanuts in one, bhel and pani puri in another, fruit chat in yet another, Mother Diary Ice cream in another. We walk towards the bike. One kid came running after us – “Bhayyaji, Bhayyaji, ek rupaya de do” (Brother, brother, give me 1 rupee). Sakthi was not listening. She came after me. “Didiji, didiji, eka rupaya de do” (Sister, sister, give me 1 rupee). I stood, smiled at the kid and asked what she would do with 1 rupee. She answered confidently – “mein kuch cheez kareedoongi” (I will buy something). “What can you buy with 1 rupee?” I asked her. She had no answer. I said, come with me, I will buy you something and you have to eat in front of me, okay? She nodded. Quickly, 5 other children joined. I looked at them and thought about what my friend Satish always tells me. The 10 or 5 odd rupees we give these people mean nothing to us.

I asked her what she wanted - she said, “Didiji, Didiji, chocolate ice cream khila do!” I took her to the cart, asked the guy to give 5 cones although there was a few month-old baby in the arms of another 5-6 year old kid. Gave everybody except the infant. The kid holding the baby asked, what about the baby? I said no, the kid cannot handle cold food. With the kid firmly held on one waist, she was struggling to open the wrapper with one hand. She couldn’t. I put my hand out offering to help. She defiantly said no. Maybe, she was scared, I would snatch it back. She bit into the wrapper and kept at it till it came out. One kid wanted to take it home and I dissuaded her, this is ice cream, will melt, eat it here. After seeing 5 wrappers popped open, I climbed the bike and went home - really happy.

Just half an hour before buying the ice creams, I had seen two 10-12 year old boys pushing little cars with 4-5 year old kids sitting in them. For the younger kids, this was fun paid for by parents who can’t handle the pestering. For the older ones, this was work, a way to keep hunger at bay. All work and no fun. I sat there, feeling very sorry for them.

What is it about these kids that tug our hearts? Is it the irony? That we want the best for ourselves and our own children but somehow are able to walk past childhoods lost on the streets. Every time, I go to Great India Palace Mall in Noida, I see children (the law forbidding under-16 year olds to be employed be damned!), child servants taking care of kids barely a few years younger than them. How can the adults do it? I am a bleeding heart socialist. Sakthi is more practical. “These child servants at least get to eat everyday, better than being exploited on the streets.” I see the logic but I hurt every time. As if, it is my personal failure.

I wash my guilt (or at least try to) by trying a few things. When I was in Gurgaon and drove my car a lot, I had a box of biscuits always with me. When begging children swarmed to the car at traffic intersections, I used to give away biscuits. Better than giving money which somebody will snatch. Anytime, a child catches me on the road and asks for money, I take them to a restaurant, shop or cart nearby and buy something to eat. I sit next to them and force them to eat, so adults don’t snatch that either. Satish taught me this, “Buy food, don’t give money –

you don’t know where the money will go.” When I don’t finish my meals at a restaurant, I diligently pack doggy bags, search for somebody hungry and hand over the food.

The Tamil poet Bharathi said “Thani oruvanukku unavu illai enil, jagathinai azhithiduvom.” If there is no food for one man, the world shall be destroyed.

I can’t save the world. But, I can buy chocolate ice cream and cheese balls. It feels good, alright.

In my last post, I had talked about my daring journey to Kumbakonam. Now, on to the Kavadi.

Kavadi, in Tamil, translates to burden. The ceremony is undertaken by devotees of Murugan - Lord of War. By carrying this burden, they gain favor from Murugan and are able to cleanse themselves. My Catholic friends get off the hook easy (no pun intended) compared to these devotees. There is no caring priest in these confession booths; only hooks, skewers and peacock feathers await. Oh, the peacock is Murugan’s stead, that’s why the peacock feathers - it’s not meant to tickle torture the already agonized devotees.

The Kavadi though, ranges widely. The burden can be as simple as a pot of milk carried on the head or, more commonly, a semi-circular canopy held in place by a wooden rod which is carried on the shoulder. Most devotees go barefoot, but a lucky few get to wear some rather uncomfortable shoes with rusty nails whom you see hobbling along behind the crowd. At the extreme end, you have devotees like the one in the picture. What you’re seeing is this man pulling the Kavadi (God knows how heavy it is!) with ropes secured to his body using metal hooks. Beside him, you see another brightly colored devotee using oranges as the burden. The Kavadi is always some form of offerring to Murugan. When they complete their journey to the temple, the Kavadi is offered to Murugan and in return they get their blessings.

What’s interesting is that this ceremony is not just popular in India, its huge in Malaysia and Singapore due to the large population of ethnic Indians. When I was in Singapore once, I even saw an ethnic Chinese getting into the action and carry the hardcore version of the Kavadi - piercings, skewers and all!

I also found a blog about some adventurous folks down in Argentina and Uruguay who decided give the Kavadi a try. It’s quite amazing how a people so distant geographically and culturally can connect with one another in a completely different plane of ideology. Kudos to my friends in Latin America!

So anyway, now that we have an idea of what the Kavadi is, my journey to Swamimalai in Kumbakonam resumes. I spent the night at a surprisingly decent hotel called Alagu Swamimalai (beautiful God’s mountain). The waiters there, however, were a couple of rather forgetful locals who reminded me of Tweedledee and Tweedledum. Their service was lacking, but it was tremendously entertaining watching them bungle up every task.

In the morning, the men-folk dressed in traditional veshtis and the ladies in their dazzling Kanchipuram saris. We then set off, barefoot of course, to Swamimalai. We did not indulge in any Kavadis with sharp protrusions. The plain old semi-circular canopy kind was what we used. When we got to the foot of the “mountain” it was a bit of a disappointment. It was no mountain at all - it was barely even a hill! However, it was quite amazing how the entire temple had been draped over the hill so immaculately that they appeared to be as one.

We made our way up the temple - 60 steps at a time. The Tamil calendar has 60 years per cycle, hence the significance of 60 steps; each one is named after a Tamil year. At the top, preparations were being made for milk and yogurt abhishekams (sacred bathing). We gave our offerings to the priest to include in the ritual. People around me were discussing how another temple’s idol was getting eroded by too many abhishekams being performed on the deity. Back in the old day, this ritual used to be performed rarely, but now, with greater affluence, everyone want’s to do it, and its taking a toll on these centuries old statues.

With the abhishekam performed, our journey was complete. It was time to head back to Chennai. Ah, I just remembered, our master fuse is busted, which means no air conditioning on the way back. Oh Lord!

Every country’s got its fair share of bizarre traditions ranging from the humorous to the outlandish. I recently made my way back to our ancestral village in India to witness the Kavadi.

Kumbakonam, located in the southern-Indian state of Tamil Nadu, is considered sacred, with over 40 temples in and around it. It is also referred to as the “Cambridge of South India,” hosting some prestigious colleges renowned for producing great minds like Ramanujam and Swaminatha Iyer. Legend also has it that here is where Shiva cracked the Cosmic Pot containing the essence of creation, giving birth to life, the universe and everything.

How I managed to get here in one piece is even more miraculous than the origin of life. You see, on our way to Kumbakonam from Chennai, our Tempo Traveler (a big, clunky van) blew a fuse, not just any fuse - the master fuse! Which basically meant that all our electrical systems went dead, including our headlights. But wait! Our driver had an ingenious idea.

“Saar, I can drive with the signals on.”

Huh, what the… ? “Oh, you mean the hazard lights?”

We had arrived. I have to admit that our superstar driver had skills - he got us to our destination safely with no lights; although we did break a side-view mirror whist scrapping past a stationary bullock cart, but who needs those anyway. Dinner was at my grandpa’s brother’s home where we were greeted by half-a-dozen dogs including the biggest German Shepherd I had ever seen. After a quick, friendly wrestle with my German friend, I dug into some amazing idlis, vadas, sambar and was later force fed a dozen jaangiris. <burp>

The Kavadi would take place the following day as we’d make our way up Swamimalai (God’s mountain). In my next article, I’ll tell you all about it.

After much contemplation and procrastination, the StepUpTravel blog is now live! We promise to keep out business and technical mumbo-jumbo (well, for the most part).

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