“It smells like agarbatti and wood”

“It smells like agarbatti and wood”, she said. One of the earliest mythology books I bought was Myth = Mithya by Devdutt Pattnaik. Since then, I’ve wandered into Indian philosophy and her old sciences by various authors, Indian and foreign. Those old sciences and arts still exist although what we get is the pop packaged… Read More

“Trees fall with spectacular crashes…”

“Trees fall with spectacular crashes. But planting is silent and growth is invisible.” I read these beautiful lines in one of the stories from The Overstory. Trees have been my friends for a while now. My first memory of them is of a grand old Eucalyptus tree outside a church in the middle East. It… Read More

1969 -2019

The year was 1969 or thereabouts. 50 years ago, India would still have been very young in her freedom and quite poor but the handcrafted aspect of her everyday was rich, a living, breathing continuum of history, full of colour and flavour. A tiny part of that piece of culture wound up in a country… Read More

Tuesday with a shoebox of memories

A Tuesday morning spent in the company of an old shoe box with even older letters and cards. This was written on a folded piece of paper by a friend who is a star herself. She was one of my early correspondents as I discovered how fragile and difficult adulting can be. Back then, the… Read More

Relentlessly Me

Because we will not wait for the year to be good but catch it by its pigtails and swing away. 😛 If I had to have a word of the year, I would choose, relentless. It is an intense word with a negative connotation but the paradox is that the word springs from relent, which… Read More

My favourite Odisha handloom sarees

Originally posted on Pleats N Pallu:
I have a deep abiding love for Odisha handloom sarees and textiles, here is a list of a few weaves that I am extremely partial towards… Photos: Vincent Boyer (Say hi on instagram @vincetravelbook) Handloom textiles are the true definition of wearable art that reflect the social histories of their…

Forgotten summers

There’s still a summer from long ago in my forgotten lane. It finds a voice in the golawala’s bell that rings loud around noon, the proverbial pied piper’s music and children tumble out from buildings, helpless to the sweet-sour tastes of his golas. His bottles line one end of the cart, a tantalising world of… Read More