Yumesamdong, 15,000ft. North Sikkim. June 1999. 
I am standing on top of the world. Jayasree's got a severe headache. Beej is adjusting his camera lens. Mrs Banaji, the 57-year-old 'youngster' in our group is sniffing in the cold, amidst layers of woolens but is otherwise in terrific spirits. The 4 of us have just arrived sitting on top of the Commander jeep. The others are sitting in the relative comforts of the interiors. What we have just seen over the last one hour huddled on top of the jeep as we drove through the Singba rhododendron sanctuary, with the dwarf shrubs in full bloom, has numbed our senses. Or, it could well be the cold. At this altitude the air is thin, making breathing difficult. The streaks of snow, with the onset of the monsoons, grows thin on the high mountain ridges. Behind me there's a gentle valley beyond which are the ominous looking ridges that define the border with China. The yaks graze peacefully. A yakherder waves at me. I wonder what he will do this evening when the sun sets over Samdong. Is he aware that we thrashed Pakistan in the World Cup cricket match the day before? Does he care?
The driver yells at us. Its time to drive back to Lachung, the quaint Bhutia village at 8600ft, on the banks of the Lachung Chu river. I take my last snap of Yumesamdong before scurrying towards the jeep.

January, 1994. We stop for lunch at Khamgaon.
We are in Bhandara district in Maharashtra. We left Nagpur, 300 kms behind us, at 6 in the morning. Apart from a tyre puncture and a narrow miss with a recklessly driven truck near Badnera, the journey on NH-6 has been fairly uneventful. From Khamgaon we take a left turn and plough South across the great undulating plains towards Daund. Our destination is Goa.
Aurangabad, Ahmadnagar and Baramati (the roads really impressed us here) fly past and throughout the drive we see rural Maharashtra at its best.. the arid plains near Khamgaon giving way to the rich sugarcane growing regions of Southern Maharashtra. The pungent smell of molasses is carried by the breeze. The villagers, in their spotlessly clean dhoti-kurtas wearing the Gandhi cap on their head like a sacred logo, smile and the children wave at us. Have you ever noticed that this scene never really changes no matter where you are in rural India? The sad smile of the old man or the raw delight on the child's face at the sound of an approaching car; the look of puzzled innocence when he realises that we won't stop for him.. photocopies of similar scenes being enacted elsewhere in India.
We caught a few winks at Phaltan at 3am - the nine of us sharing two dirty rooms, we'd bargained at Rs.75 apiece. During those 3 hrs of sleep, I dream of the white sand beaches of Goa, the feni, the swaying palms and the backwaters of the Zuari. I dream of the spice plantation at Khandepar, the paddy fields, and of being one with the self in the remote white sand beaches of Palolem in the deep South..

October, 1989.

Five college friends with Rs. 2000 in their pockets are on their first backpacking trip to Mysore and the South. A 17-day experiment with truth. Can we do it within 2K, is the question that is uppermost in our minds. My sister takes care of us for 7 days in Bangalore! Days that fly as we create the holiday.. Amit collapsing on his beer at Ramada, the pub on Brigade Road; Sanjoy Pal returning from a morning walk to 'Angarpetti' Road, near Indira Nagar. We tell him that the helpful Kannada jogger had said '100 feet' road; a stroll past the impressive Vidhan Soudha, the State Secretariat building built in 1956 and many hours of strolling on MG Road.
Amit is our treasurer. He keeps us alive on breakfast, lunch and dinner that comprises of Rs.1.50 masala dosas served by dark, scantily clad waiters in lungis that shorten as the day rolls on. If Amit's in a pious mood then we also have 'kafi' (coffee) in stainless steel glasses upturned in another steel container  the hallmark of South Indian coffee. This costs another staggering Re.1 per person. Another hungry day passes.
Standing at Mysore bus depot, we toss a coin to decide between Ooty and Madikere. Heads. Madikere (Mercara) here we come. The green semi-luxury State bus rumbles up the Nilgiris cutting across the famous Coorgi coffee plantations. It's drizzling outside. The wet smell of vegetation abounds. The mist rolls in. From the comforts of the bus I watch the rainwater gushing down the nallah beside the road. Most of the passengers are fast asleep. Ashis is reading a guidebook on Madikere. I return my gaze to the huts, settlements and coffee plantations that we pass. My mind is elsewhere. I am neither happy nor sad.
Journeys have this amazing effect on me. My mind absorbs without analysing.
The conductor says we'll be an hour late.

In 1984, Kashmir was different.

I had just given my Class XI examinations and Dad decided to spend the summers with the family in Srinagar. Getting to Jammu from Nasik posed a problem and we had to take the connecting train from Manmad. At Jammu, we spent the night at the Army Transit Camp and took the Army convoy the next day to Udhampur, 2 hrs away up in the hills. Another night halt here. I remember that we quite liked the place with its neat Cantonment area.
The next day we started early for the journey to Srinagar. Somehow, I'd never been told (nor had I asked) how long this journey would take. I simply presumed that Udhampur was midway. It was later, much later that I realised that it takes almost 10 hrs. to reach Srinagar. And it was one of the few occasions when I felt glad that I was wrong. Who wants a journey like this to end? Who wants a destination at the end of such a road? One moment the Jhelum was a raging torrent next to us and an hour later it was a tiny silver thread deep down in the valley. The twists and turns and the endless hairpin bends were never ending as our onslaught on the mountain ranges continued.
The first view of the Srinagar Valley simply took our breath away. After hours of seeing deep gorges, streams and high mountain ridges, the flat green valley below, with the Jhelum flowing across it hits your senses like a bolt of lightning- awe inspiring and heavenly. The next few days was sheer bliss- my unsuccessful attempt along with 3 local friends to climb the hill opposite the transit camp (it was higher than we thought and further than it looked); our stealthy forays into a plum and apple orchard that bordered our cottage; the excursions to Shalimar Bagh, Pahalgam and Nishat Bagh; the 'shikara' ride on Dal Lake; the encounter with the sweet 'boat girl' with the running nose who glided in from nowhere and offered us a brightly coloured water flower, her eyes young, wide and innocent..
Those were days before gunfire reverberated across the ridges and fear stalked the valleys..
Those were days of innocence and hope.

1979. Darjeeling!
'Kosto cho, Daju?'
'Ramro cho!'
With this knowledge of Nepali, I arrived in Darjeeling for my first visit and fell in love with the place. The manager at Maple Lodge was friendly and the place was comfortable but after two days, we found accommodation at the Holiday Home in the Army Cantonment at Jalapahar, high above the town. The Principal of HMI (the Himalayan Mountaineering Institute) was Col. Choudhury, if I remember correctly, and he was one of Dad's old friends from the Academy. He was privately referred to as 'Jhupu' Choudhury because of his enormous moustache. A thorough gentleman with tremendous knowledge of the mountains, he regaled us with his tales of the high Himalayas. They were great hosts too and I gulped the 'rosogollas' as fast as they came.
I loved the burgers, hotdogs and the hot chocolate served at Keventer's across from Planter's Club. The view of the Himalayan range from the terrace with Mt. Khangchendzonga dominating the horizon, held me spellbound. So did the girls from Loretto.
The toy train ride from Darjeeling to Ghoom, the highest rail station in Asia at 8,000ft was special. Those 10 days were exciting. As a 12 year old, I lapped up the views and made friends with Topgay Kazi and his pretty sister. Went for a daily stroll up the Mall past Glenary’s, Das Studio and a little curio shop that sold Tibetan goodies. I loved the thangka that hung there afraid to ask the price, knowing I only had some coins in my pocket.
My love affair with Darjeeling started then. I have returned for work and holidays many times thereafter and each time I took back more than I ever gave the place in return.

1974. Amritsar.
I hated school. As a 7-year-old, I fought every fight there was to fight in St. Francis High School and when there were none left, my dad got transferred.
There was this parrot called Tiya that Mom picked up from the backyard and saved from the mynahs and crows. It couldn't fly and would walk all over the house and crap everywhere. I hated her too.
One day Dad took us out on an excursion and that was the first time I saw Wagah border! The Pakistani soldiers were marching up and down NEXT to the Indian soldiers and they were smiling and talking! I couldn't believe it. 3 years back we had fought a war with them and I remember the sound of shrieking jets as they flew over our Sadar Bazar house in Jullunder.
Suddenly, one of the Indian Army jawans called me and asked " Unlogon se handshake karoge?" I was petrified and he concluded that my silence was a sign of consent. He held my hand and walked me to the border gate. I noticed that coolies from both sides were exchanging luggage across the border. A huge Pakistani soldier took my hand and I shook hands with 3 of them.
I was in Pakistan. I was a hero to myself.
I could now thrash the rest of the guys in school.

1969. Talbet, near Jhansi.
I am 2 years old.
My memory fades. The frame is hazy..