By Goirick Brahmachari
Norah Jones, after an early breakfast is recommended on a shiny day here. October is a good old friend. The breeze smells familiar, of fresh weed and life. Even the wildest grass smells good. Little, wild, hippie flowers, trees and stones, rocks. The flowing water.
By Kamalini Natesan
We leave Odisha, satisfied, and full. The rain gods have splattered us forever, and Odisha will remain embedded, as a verdant memory of temples, coconut palms and a very kind people, who make excellent food. We repeatedly tasted the baked cottage cheese-like sweet, called Chhena Pod Pitha, which literally means burnt and baked cottage cheese. Its melt-in-the-mouth experience, very lightly sweetened, is much like Odisha itself.
By Mallika Bhaumik
When we were finally dropped off at the airport and waved Daniel good bye, we felt we have seen more of the sky, felt more of sunshine, touched the ebb and flow of raw emotions crisscrossing within us. In short, we lived more of life during these few days as tourists.
By Bhupinder Singh & Bhaswati Ghosh
I don’t feel like it’s a dead person’s house I’m visiting. Frida is alive and kicking, it seems, welcoming the crowd into her personal space, not shy to share her tears, convictions and even scandals with us in a way that feels honest and liberating at once.
By Bhaswati Ghosh & Bhupinder Singh
This was the cafe where Fidel Castro and Che Guevara met several times, chain smoking and drinking strong coffee, to plan the Cuban Revolution. As I enjoy eggs and hams with refried beans and look at old men being humoured by the cafe staff, I try to imagine those intoxicating times.
By Bhaswati Ghosh
The young man emerges from the kitchen with my tea. The bag of tea steeping in a cup of hot water is one I’m not familiar with but find refreshing, especially as I sip it with bites of the biscuit the ladies have shared with us – tasting exactly like Marie biscuits sold in India.
By Sameer Khan
After the War with India in 1962, there was a general hostility towards the Chinese-Indians all over India. The local people looked upon them with suspicion. The Chinese-Indians were considered the fifth column by the government and many were sent to internment camps.
By Bhaswati Ghosh
No matter where I live or how big my house is, home will always be this three-room single-story unit. It’s where
Grandfather did his battery of morning exercises in the front yard; it’s where Grandma unburdened herself through writing. On hot summer days just like these, she lay on her stomach on the bare floor—her work desk—with sheets of foolscap strewn before her.