Memory is unpredictable . One never really knows what we will remember and what we will forget. Which is why nostalgia arrives in unpredictable waves, highlighting something and skimming over others. Recently, I have found myself thinking of how memory works, as I was assailed by nostalgia over a trip to Varanasi, a city I prefer to think of, as Kashi. The nostalgia hit right as we landed at Varanasi airport. The last time I was here, it was 1988, I was 13 years old, the airport was brand new… regular flights hadn’t started yet (I think) … flights landed about once a week, and for the rest of the time, everything was open to those of us who lived in the airport quarters nearby. There were fields everywhere, vast expanses of green… I have vague memories of corn and sugarcane… and being overwhelmed by the vastness of the fields (this was the first time I was in such close proximity to them), and the warm hospitality of complete strangers who lived and worked amidst these fields. I h...
Mumbai to Shirdi is a pilgrimage I have been fortunate to make a number of times in the recent past. The first time I visited Shirdi was with my mother, travelling in an ST ( Maharashtra State transport) bus, one of those rickety ones we see on the roads. The journey was nothing much to write about, except that we were sore, and every bone in our body was aching when we returned at last after a tedious journey which we had endured for the sole reason that we desperately wanted to have a darshan of Baba, a pleasure which we had yearned for till then. Yes, the pleasure of the Darshan (twice- one after waiting in a queue which seemed designed to test our patience and insistence on having darshan, and the second which was so quick, and so wonderful, it was surely a gift, or a prize for having endured all that we had, and coming out with flying colours) obliterated all that from our hearts and our minds. After that, Baba seems to have summoned us often and that too in all comforts, ...