As many of you know, I am looking for travel mags available on India. I don’t mean the new guidebook for the first time traveller to India ( for which one doesn’t need to look any further than the Lonely Planet India), but magazines and periodicals dealing with the more interior, perhaps even obscure India.

I’ve asked around and made a list of resources available. At the moment I am going through them one by one to decide which to recommend and follow. If you have any recommendations – be it a journal, travel mag, travel forum, digital mag, ezine, website, pull-out, even a column or blog that deals with traveling within India ( either/or/both capturing the narrative experience and the ground realities), I’d really welcome it.

The list so far with some very early impressions:

Outlook Traveller

India Today Travel Plus

Hindustan Times Travel Section

The Hindu Travel section

LiveMint Lounge Travel section

Condé Nast Traveller Indian Edition
( also their guide)

Other interesting ones : these are the sort I was looking for:

Bhraman

Kunzum[

India Mike

Travel Adda

Other books mentioned: Driving Holidays

At the moment I like what I see with Kunzum and Bhraman. Indiamike is reliable, though mind you, it is user generated content. CN Traveller India edition is available for dirt price on Zinio, so is India Today Travel Plus. My initial impression of Outlook Traveller is that they show care for they write but over all it is relatively dearer. Moreover these mags are written for an Upper middle class Indian wanting to travel the world, so there is a lot of counter exotic showcasing of rest of the world. Yes we all know rest of the world for Indians mean – Singapore, Thailand, Egypt, Maldives, Switzerland!

For now, I’ll say, I’d like to read more of Kunzum, Bhraman and India Mike for the moment.

Within the ruins, at the end of the Marble Street where it joins the sloping Curette Street lies the glorious building of the library of Celsus.

Celsus was of Greek origin, but had become a Roman Consul. He had funded building the library which in its heyday was believed to house around 12000-15000 scrolls. Though it was built by the Romans, it had a predominant Greek influence just like many such structures around the Izmir area – once a Greek cultural hub. The library was also unusual in many respects – apart from being a library, it also served as a monument for Celsus who is buried within the library complex interred in a sarcophagus. Romans usually cremated their dead ( until 4 th Century AD) and typically outside the city walls as a measure to prevent the spread of diseases. To have a sarcophagus within as important a building as the library was very unusual and possibly spoke of Celsus’ influence in the town.

The building presented a majestic façade which again was more Greek than Roman in its architectural style. The typical Roman arches were missing and the main structure was supported by the unmistakable ionic columns on an elevated parapet over the ground. These ionic columns in turn supported Corinthian styled columns above. Nothing much of the hall behind the facade remained [1] save for an inscription or two scattered here and there.

The whole area was teeming with tourists, possibly for the photo opportunities but more probably for the shade offered. Outside it was 42 C. Just like so many others, I sat on the steps before the façade and started peeling the two oranges that I had bought at the entrance. The price for the oranges was 3 Liras and an explanation why I wasn’t married yet ( as I travelled alone) which was duly dismissed by the middle-aged lady vendor, if you wish to know.

As I read the missive of the site, I learnt that the façade was built facing east to aid the early morning readers. When I glanced up to gaze the east – adjacent to the Curette Street, round the corner, right opposite the library stood the main Brothel of the town! Imagine building a brothel opposite your library, what a genius and a distraction it should have been – to have a timely shag between hours of deep study? Again, it sounded more of a Greek idea than Roman – Romans often had classes even in their Brothels, I suspect they would have fancied having a brothel right in the vicinity of their important civic buildings.[2] But it was the Greeks whose idea of a great life was drinking smooth wine and falling in love with a well-read, witty whore who would have allowed such an unusual arrangement in the city plan. Well then, a coveted, well-travelled whore, perhaps one from Corinth, who imaginably after the intercourse, argued all night against Aristotelian ethics or why she loathed Parthenon? I thought to myself and slowly made way towards the Brothel like how many countless men must have centuries ago.

Truly what great pleasure can befall upon a mortal?

The pitiless summer sun scorched in the clear blue sky above.

PS – The whole of Izmir region is interesting because of its confluent history of Greeks and Roman and later as an important hub for the development of Christianity.

[1] Like all great libraries of ancient times, famously the one in Alexandria, Egypt, this one at Ephesus was also destroyed by fire. The building was later destroyed by subsequent earthquakes that plagued the region. The facade that was preserved was restored recently.

[2] In Ancient Rome, brothel sites were not planned as the city’s growth and development to such great extent wasn’t anticipated. Therefore Brothels were peppered throughout with just a few earmarked areas. However, in later towns of the Roman empire – with the empire’s prestige and status well established, brothels were kept at a distance away from the civic centres of the town.

The Turks smoke a lot. I mean a lot. Regardless of where you are, throw your gaze upon the surroundings and you would invariably find someone who is smoking. Men – young, middle aged, elderly – all smoke as if they have been cursed to do so. The Turkish tea is a habit , an accompaniment that enforces smoking they say. The more you looked at it, the tea seemed like an addiction, even an excuse to smoke. Women – they smoke like chimneys in Britain during industrial revolution. I have never seen as many women smoke – at work, inside homes, in shops, in restaurants – as here. Take it that, they smoke everywhere except on public transport and perhaps mosques?

There are no smoking laws as such, well apparently there are, but not much heed is paid to them. Asking someone for smoking zone in a public space (say a restaurant or a bus station) or permission if one could smoke is met with a silent astonishment that sometimes makes way to a healthy ridicule. More often it is a mix of baffled confusion. So far I am yet to meet a native who has refused a cigarette offered. Smoking almost borders on a culture. There must be historical-cultural reason behind this? The climate? The location? Or more likely something related to the ancient trade routes? What is the incidence of lung cancer or oral cancers here, makes you wonder?

A sample of cigarette brands in Turkey.

PS- The content is a part of a postcard to a friend.

Just as you have returned from a holiday, you start planning another. The mesmerising of wonder of travel- defining by experience so unique, yet so very same.

I lived in Stoke for a brief time . A time, when I  was curious, yet was long way away from being discerning. It was a time when I was fed up of London ; I was sick and tired of the tubes and giving directions to Japanese and American tourists. Stoke was a welcome break. But I was in no position to form an opinion beyond that; I could hardly distinguish a class, culture or life in a small unremarkable non-cosmopolitan city. In a sense, Stoke was wonderful, it gave me the much needed solitude; but I also remember how depressing the city and the people were, though I must say I did not realise it at that time. I recall these wonderfully, brave middle-aged people who used to come to the clinics. They were absolutely lovely, polite, prompt men and women who were so visibly depressed and yet made every effort to carry on with their lives. The Potteries had been closed and had made many of them redundant.  They were too old to learn any new modern skills, and too set in their patterns to innovate.  It was heart-breaking  just to see them, there was nothing substantial one could do for them.

I think of all this because I was called to visit Stoke for a day for work. It was 10 minute court proceeding which was fairly straightforward. It gave me a chance to revisit some of my old mental states.  Driving through Stoke , I could now clearly see how decadent it was. The streets were narrow lined by rows of decrepit terraced houses, the roads were dug open unattended, people hovered around sad and unremarkable. It was like an faded Dickens town. The shops were unimpressive, the attendants were fumbly and forlorn,  even the city centre of which I had many memories appeared very ordinary. It was all so charmless, so painfully ordinary.

To me it was a contradiction of emotions. On one hand I wanted to get away from the insignificance before me and on the other I desparately wanted to see the places I  had known – early morning running route, the old restaurant, the old cornershop,  the regular chippy,  crest of the nearby hill  etc.  As I got to think, I realised how much I had changed and yet continued to change. I had become more discerning to have a clear judgment, yet was nostalgic of a place to which I had no belonging in any sense.  It was an emotion, I had never  known as an immigrant.

I drove back musing  upon these things, breaking for lunch in a Costa somewhere in Cheshire and suddenly while ordering a Panini I felt at home. I ordered all I wanted in one go and the chap skilfully arranged it in no time. Memory is a weird thing, it made me sense the familiarity, but then I know some day I would look back at it differently, but dont quite know how exactly. All nostalgia is perhaps, deceit wrapped in time.

I arrived in Chennai at six in the morning, half an hour before schedule, to the city waking up to the chirps of birds and  bawls of the morning vendors. The ochre glow of the dawn had started trickling through the sky. The new CMBT bus stand was a remarkable improvement than my memories of the old Madras Bus stand. It was more spacious and better organised; the sign-boards were all well marked both in Tamil and English. And far importantly, the area was lot cleaner. So Chennai was learning its ways.

The lack of civic sense in Chennai was an unfortunate, and perhaps unintended consequence of the Dravidian movement. The movement started after the Indian Independence and gained further momentum both socially as well as in political circles. But in essence, it was a class struggle – where in the oppressed lower classes as they called themselves revolted against the upper classes of the region. By the midsixties when the power equations changed, populations of lower classes had become averse to the idea of purity (dearer to the upper Brahminical class)  and had developed a sense of antagonism towards any social activity that imposed an idea of cleanliness. The upper classes on the other hand became increasingly alienated and withdrew into their own circle of cleanliness.

Between the classes and their struggles, sadly and for no one’s fault, the civic sense  of the people went down the famous open drain of Chennai. Naturally, Madras, and to an extent Tamil Nadu in general developed a notorious reputation of lacking in cleanliness, of even being dirty.

It was only in the capitalist nineties, with the power balance somewhat settled, people started making concerted efforts to bring in the awareness of cleanliness in the city. One such successful initiative was Exnora which, as I learnt had become widely popular and well established now.   

I could see the results of these innovative endeavours as I travelled  to Mylapore in an autorickshaw from the Bus station. The roads were cleaner, without the usual Madras stink, even the civic spaces appeared well maintained by Indian Standards.  Chennai was undoubtedly catching up.

I felt hungry and a friend suggested over the phone a particular eating-place suitable for that time of the morning.  The rickshaw driver dropped me off at a small hotel of the same name, after repeatedly assuring me that it was indeed the place I sought.  As I had suspected it wasn’t. 

I found myself in a sort of a junction where two big roads with their flowing traffic intersected. Signboards overhead announced the directions to various localities of the city. There was a small newspaper stall at the corner bustling with people.  And behind me was a signboard that announced a wedding- the names of bride and groom designed in jasmines and roses. I was appreciating the work that had gone into the placard when someone asked me if I belonged to the bride or the groom side? For a brief moment I considered crashing into the wedding but later decided against it. I explained to the gentleman that I was only a visitor in my first hour in the city , just checking the flower work. My Tamil , with years of disuse was rusty and sounded very different to what I had thought I wanted to say. But, I guess the man got what I said.

Now I wanted to find out where exactly I was. I noticed a middle-aged man who had gotten down from the car and was making his way to the newspaper stall. He wore a cream T shirt, a white shorts (presumably of early morning round of Badminton) and sported a full bristly Indian moustache which I hadn’t seen for a while. I asked him what place it was? I thought I heard him say Lust Corner which needless to add got me excited. But I had to confirm what I  thought I had heard:
Lust corner?
No, No, No, LUZ corner, he replied frantically as he walked on nodding his head in a forceful disapproval as though it was no just against me but against an entire generation who had achieved puberty on MTV.

I thanked him.

So here I was, desperately looking for an auto, in a LUZ corner of the Brits , within a Chennai of Indians.

I left Hampi on a Volvo 9400, a symbol of the liberalization that transformed the landscape of South India. Sturdy and elegant, it stood out in an otherwise unremarkable bus station. What Volvo did to Road Transport system of South India is a bit of unsung story.  Before Volvo started its operations in 2001, access by land to any place in India less than a metro was, owing to either the condition of the roads or the efficiency of the decrepit road transport system, a pain – in all possible sense of the word. But soon after Volvo was introduced, the world shrunk into a miniature playground. Suddenly, even the farthest tip of Kerala or the hills of Tirupati was just a night away and without any painkillers. Instead you got a refreshing bottle of mineral water.

The Interior of the 9400 was modified, with seats and overhead cabins converted into a series of berths of twos and ones on either side of the aisle. This was new. Though it reduced the number of passengers, the idea, I thought was not all bad. Like in the days of the notorious Leyland Panthers there was no misery to pack oneself in half a box of seatspace with a snoring Bengali seated beside. On a Volvo with new arrangement, one could lie down in a mini enclosure of his own.

I located my mini-bunk at the far end of the bus and snuggled in. It wasn’t as comfortable as it looked at first, but it was worth every penny than that of business class British Airways. I experimented with a few possibilities before aligning myself in the most comfortable of positions. I considered taking down some of the dictations made in the day, but the jaunts of the ruins all morning in the scorching sun had left my being totally exhausted. So instead, I lazily switched on the iPod and laid there gazing through the window.

It was an experience watching the world at such an unique elevation from this sort of midprone gaze. The world looked like a space hidden in an oyster handshake between the land and the sky. The smooth moving Volvo made it a slow silent disney animation of a sort.

The road was flanked by a series of trees planted by the department of forest; they ran one after another, equidistant and almost identical with concentric circles painted around their torsos; they looked almost endless and were only interrupted by settlements, shops or small villages . Beyond them, spead all across was vast hinterland – there was no grass, no fields, no weeds, no vegetation – nothing. Except for a faint hint of distant hills the whole region looked glabrous and widowed. The earth was parched and the sky forsaken. Night started falling at its own pace.

Old glories notwithstanding it is surprising to see how the region so desolate, with no real spectacular attraction in a post modern sense, continues to attract so many visitors from all over the world.

As I wondered about such things of the day,  the volvo went past a million things beside the road : creaky old cars, a large herd of cattle returning home, huts springing up here and there with dimgrey smoke rising lazily through their narrow chimneys – perhaps a supper being cooked?, vendors on their rickety cycles, a train of trucks parked roadside for a break , women carrying water, a congregation of men sharing a joke with their tea in small tea stall. The montage rolled past like an Eisenstein’s cut.

One by one I let all the thoughts they evoked wash over me. I wondered how it was to be one of them, to be so content, so assured when being so very aware that they are so oblivious. It was inexplicable. I must have pondered a while because I did not notice that we had stopped.  A crowd had gathered into a mini road block as one of the trucks had run into a tree. The driver had been taken to a nearest hospital.  The incident must have been a few hours old and a small crowd around it seemed settled with all their speculations. The driver was suspected to be driving under the influence. After everyone on the bus had satisfied their curiosity, we slowly made our way.

I went back to my window and found the sky changing its character. The distant hills had vanished and the air was filled with anticipation. Suddenly, as though attending a call, clouds of all form and shape started hovering in from all directions. The temperature dropped and light faded in a few minutes.

It was so sudden, it was magical. I watched it with a sense of awe.

The ipod  started playing amelie soundtrack. And as if to match the crescendo of Yann Tarsien’s notes conveyed through the tiny white tubes to my ears, the sky built up its symphony note by note to its highest pitch, and then gracefully like an opera singer climaxing her note into silence, it all went still for a moment.  Just a fraction of a moment later, it opened up pouring the most furious rain I had seen that hastened to meet the dry earth as fast as it could. It was incredible.

The world in one space of a ipod song had transformed from nothing to marvelous. Through the rear window I could see rain splashing the wet road as it  trailed off into an eternity.  As I gazed at that road, I thought this could have been anywhere: Texas, Kenya, France. But it wasn’t. It was a remote corner somewhere in south India. It occurred to me, in a world when ipods are named for the time duration in which they can be rebuilt , here was a place where a great empire was just once, now forgotten, unclaimed in time. But then what is the worth of anything when you think of time in terms of A Brahman who’s  breath is a billions of years?

The rain stopped after a good while; through the sealed window, I could almost smell the ozone of the rained earth. It smelt like how it exactly did when I was a six year old – marvelous.