Thursdays are super packed usually. Even today was the same – juggling between work and color palettes.

Today’s story is from the province of pious pilgrimage, where women wear long braids and gajras, men are in lungis and tikas.

I thought I will write something about Dussehra/Dasara today. Before my agnostic outlook nerved in, it used to be my favorite festival.

I had my first crush when I was nine or ten, he was a scholar who I wished sat on my bench.

“My dad always thought India would be a better place to grow.”, his father, Daishin, sulked with shrug.

We met twice, once at our Colombo Monkey’s Hostel and again at a tea boutique in Galle. Tattooed Xena was quite a gypsy from the hot state of Nigeria.

I love how Pune sits on the threshold of the old and new, adorned by raindrops in its lush green tiara.

I wrapped my lunch with a call from a Mumbai based phone number. “Am I talking to Shakala Kulkarni?”

This retired 62-year old musician was living a solitary life with his rum-stained piano. Music was his armor, his solution to everything.

This story is from the pink city, the capital of India’s dune state – Jaipur. Jaipur’s winter is a natural blush. It pinks your cheeks. And puts cosmetics to shame.

To our surprise, we were not alone. A few drops of water and we’d a protector.

Winters in Kerala are weird and unpredictable. Last year it snowed at -3 degrees and the one before that, it was warm at 24.