Masala Dosa on the Mekong

It was midnight. I was alone in my hotel room. Someone knocked on the door. I said, "Who is it?" There was no response. I was in Madurai, on my way to Kodaikanal in south India. The weather forecast said that the temperature in Chennai (formerly known as Madras) was soon going to reach 46C (115F). I checked the weather in Kodaikanal (commonly known as Kodai), a hill station about 500km away. It was 23C (73F). Half of that of Chennai! I decided to go to Kodai for a few days. I had a club membership which gave me access to stay in their property in Kodai. I just had to pay for the food and liquor that I consume. The easiest way to go from Chennai to Kodai by public transport is by taking the night bus. It's a comfortable, air-conditioned bus that reaches Kodai the next morning. But I wanted to travel during the day. I wanted to sit by the window, look out and daydream. So, I decided to take a day train from Chennai to Madurai. I would stay overnight there. The next morning,

She said, "Give him a glass." He said, "No." "Why not?" she persisted. "Servants cannot drink from masters' glasses," he replied. Just a few hours earlier, a bus had screeched to a halt in the dusty centre of Orchha in central India and I had alighted. The shack was open on all sides. You could enter from anywhere. Twisted wooden poles, each in a slightly different angle, held up a tattered, sky blue tarpaulin sheet. Or rather it must have been sky blue when it was bought. Now it looked as if the sky was covered with dark, dirty clouds. Instead of a signboard with the name of the restaurant, there was a board advertising a brand of bottled water. From a jute string tied between two poles, Lay's chips packets were strung. The air smelled of agarbattis (incense sticks) which slowly smouldered as a mark of respect to Hindu deities. Water dripped with a constant tip, tip, tip from a leaking tap. Cracked, some broken, plastic tables were hap

"Solo travellers are not allowed to enter," said the Bhutanese immigration officer. "What should I do?" I asked. "Get a partner and come," he said. I was travelling alone by road from India to the Himalayan Kingdom of Bhutan.  I was waiting in Kolkata airport when I heard a flight announcement to Paro. I could have taken that flight and flown directly to Bhutan. But instead, I had decided to enter Bhutan by land, because it is invariably more adventurous. My plan was to fly from Kolkata to Bagdogra, and then reach Siliguri by road. From Siliguri, I planned to take a bus to the Indian border town of Jaigaon. At Jaigaon, I planned to cross the border to Phuentsholing, Bhutan and then take a bus to Paro. The flight time for the direct flight from Kolkata to Paro was about one hour. I would reach Paro in three days.  There was a prepaid taxi counter in Bagdogra airport, but it was run by a taxi mafia. Passengers had to take a taxi only through that counter, at

It was pitch dark at 4:30am. "Let us rob him," said Red Shirt. Green Shirt asked, "What if he fights back?" Red Shirt replied, "We will kill him." They were talking about me in Malayalam. I was alone in a remote boat jetty, trying to explore the lesser-known backwaters of northern Kerala. More than ten years ago, I was in Alleppey. I was there to experience the famed backwaters of Kerala in southern India. Alleppey was the Mecca for all backwater related activities. There was a very popular cruise from Alleppey to Kollam. "I can book the ticket for you," said my hotel receptionist. The ticket was ₹400 ($6) for the 8-hour journey. I reached the boat jetty for the 10:30am boat. It was an old wooden boat with an aisle and wooden padded benches on either of the aisle. I took my seat on one of the benches in the front. There was nobody sitting next to me. There were about 70 to 80 passengers. There were people from all over the world - Europeans, Kore

The gate to the embassy slowly opened. "All Indians! Run! Run! RUN!" shouted the Malay security guard with a sardonic grin on his face. What ensued was a stampede. I was applying for a visa to enter Malaysia in their High Commission in Singapore. "Take a seat," said the receptionist. She asked, "Would you like some coffee?" I was waiting to meet the Manager of a factory manufacturing automotive parts in a suburb of Chennai, a city in southern India. He was also the Honorary Consul for Madagascar. To enter Madagascar, most Western passport holders could get a visa-on-arrival. But Indians had to apply for a visa in advance. So, I waited to meet the Honorary Consul. I entered his office. He was a middle-aged Malagasy gentleman wearing a crisp white shirt and a blue tie.  He asked, "So, you want to visit Madagascar?" I replied, "Yes." "Have you brought your passport?" he asked. I gave it to him. He swiped my passport on a reader o

"Land borders are not always straight." he said. "Sometimes there is a bend in the border." I was crossing the land border from Uganda to Rwanda in East Africa. "Why are you crossing at this border?" she asked. I was driving back in my car from Montreal to Buffalo, where I was living. I was crossing the U.S. - Canada border at a remote border crossing in Vermont. It was a single lane road and the border was two flagpoles with the Canadian and U.S. flags on them.  A woman officer on the American side asked me to pull over. I was the only person at the border. I gave her my U.S. Green Card. "Where do you live?" she asked. I replied, "Buffalo."  "Why are you crossing at this border? You should be crossing the border at Niagara Falls," she said. "I want to drive through Syracuse," I said. "Why?" she enquired. "I am planning to apply for a doctoral programme and want to visit the University there," I s