This blog is not my story. It is kind of a second-hand story, for it has been taken from Other Half’s repertoire of life experiences.
Two days back he returned from his evening round of golf and announced to me, “By Jove, Golfie has really grown!!!” The delight in his voice spilled over onto his smile and eyes shining, he remarked, “He is a now a big strapping fella, full of health and life…”
So then, this story is actually about Golfie. And his saviour, Sandy Boy. First let me start with Golfie and in due course, the story will on its own, run into Sandy Boy.

Golfie is this stray Indie dog, muddy brown in colour; and when I had happened to meet him a few months back, he was a just a toddler- a scrawny little thing with ribs sticking out from his emaciated frame and a thin, almost hairless tail. But in spite of his poor health, he was a friendly little fellow with a furiously wagging tail and adoration of the entire human race dancing in his great liquid eyes. He was sti…


I travelled from the capital back to my home a few days back. The forbidding cost and the vagaries of weather makes air travel fraught with uncertainties in this sector and therefore the safest bet is the Volvo, two by two AC sleeper coach. It’s pretty comfortable too and therefore I always travel by it whenever I need to visit the Capital.
The HIMSUTA is an overnight bus and stops somewhere beyond Panipat for the dinner break. This place is kind of a motel cum Food Court, though I never eat anything there for the prices are beyond unreasonable. But I do use the washroom, for these are reasonably neat. This time too I headed for the ladies’ room to freshen up. The restroom is tucked in one corner but is pretty spacious with large mirrors, clean washbasins with running water and almost spotless toilets. As I walked in, I noticed a woman sitting on the floor within the washroom premise along with a young girl who looked to be her daughter. I assumed she was the washroom attendant and …

Of This and That

It’s raining here incessantly as if the Monsoons have been mandated to empty their entire cargo of clouds solely over Dharamshala. Although it is undeniably beautiful outside: all smoky and mysterious and Gothic; it does tend to get boring for one is confined to one’s coop of a home by the constant rain. And to top it all, when this coop is dark and musty and full of fungi having a field day in the humidity laden atmosphere, it does make one feel a tad bit depressed and a whole bit lethargic.

Well, every cloud has a silver lining and therefore, thanks to the depression and the lethargy, I discovered TEDx talks on YouTube. Impressed by these thought-provoking discourses on varied thought-provoking topics, I snooped around the Internet and learnt that the TED is a non-profit (??) organisation that deals with ideas and their dissemination. I binge watched a few TEDx talks viz. one by Sue Klebold, mother of the Columbine High School shooter, another by Monica Lewinsky (yes, she of the B…

Monsoon Mists

Himachal Pradesh has a draconian law called Section 118 that rules that a person who is not a Himachali by birth, (even if he is an Indian citizen) cannot buy land to build a home on its soil. But like all laws, this too has some little exceptions under which I had applied to the Hon'ble Govt machinery to give me permission to buy a tiny tiny piece of earth to build my tiny tiny dream home where I had planned to live till the day I died. Well, yesterday, I received a curt reply from the Hon'ble Govt: आपकी अर्जी अस्वीकृत किया गया है! And of course, no reason, none at all was offered for this heartless denial of permission.

I am devastated. There is no justice in this world. Just because I am only an aam junta with no teeth: neither connections in high places nor trunks full of cash , that I have been denied the permission. I feel it is a travesty that genuine Himachal admirers and ardent environmentalists like us are denied such rights on the pretext of conserving the ecosystem…

12 Julys- Over the Years

I was born on the 12th of July. Yesterday, i.e. on the 13th of July, an old, dear friend, now overseas asked me impatiently: "Tell me how you spent your 12th July."
Getting ready for work, I told her lightheartedly: "Have patience and I'll give you a poem."

So, here it is. Only, if you are finicky about what constitutes a poem or does not, treat it for all the world, like prose. It doesn't really matter, as long as you like my words.You see, my poems are 'like this only": akin to a walk in these hills: up, down, right, left.....driftingwith no defined agenda, over no trodden path...


“Ships that pass in the night, and speak each other in passing,
Only a signal shown and a distant voice in the darkness;
So on the ocean of life, we pass and speak one another,
Only a look and a voice, then darkness again and a silence.”
- HW Longfellow

12th July: Over the Years


12 July and there's a birthday party for me. K…

A Fit of Frustration

Have you heard of a 'Mukbang'? A raging entity on YouTube these days, it is a video of a man or woman eating on camera. There is nothing really special about the eater and it's the food that's placed in front of the camera that is the focus of attention as is the act of eating. The Youtuber films himself or herself eating various kinds of foods and in humoungous quantities. These mukbangs are immensely popular with each video clocking anywhere between 15 thousand to 15 million views, thousands of comments and millions of subscribers. Watching one such mukbang, I compare sadly the contrasting status of my blog: three or four subscribers, about fifty thousand visitors (that is over the last four and half years) and one or two comments on each post. हाय रे किस्मत! I wonder about what it is that is so attractive about watching someone hog food you cannot touch or smell? On the face of it, the thing sounds kind of gross but on pondering further, I come to the conclusion t…

To Kuttush with Love

Kuttush died yesterday afternoon; Kuttush, my great biscuit coloured Labrador with the proud otter tail who's fur was tinged with gold, as if angels had sprinkled him with sparkles of sunlight. Kuttush was special all right, and his gold flecked fur was more proof that he was from from a place angels and fairies and other such beautiful things come from. Other Half felt this too and often remarked: Kuttush's a saint! He was, but a hedonistic saint, one who loved his comforts: hearty meals of large and frequent proportions, a cool place to splay himself on his back, all four legs in air and gently snore the day away.....He relished all the little pleasures that life has on offer: the library of interesting smells from the fields around our house where he spent hours and hours snooping, sniffing and gallivanting, the cubes of ice a friend always offered him when he went visiting her, the tangle in the hay with the buxom lady Alsatian next door, the Fauji ration potatoes that h…