The news of his death came to me as a message in the middle of a work video call. It felt like a bad joke as I read the one-line message from my mother. She was in too much of a shock to say much else. I politely announced that I had to drop off for a family emergency. It must have come across as being rude since I had called for the meeting, and it was something really important, but now it was totally irrelevant to me. My world had crashed.

A few months before his death, while we were on a road trip, the conversation turned towards human mortality. “Death is just a transformation. It’s just like wearing a new set of clothes, taking a new body. Why do we all make such a big deal about it?” This was typical of his non-sentimental and practical outlook to life, and extended to afterlife as well. His philosophy was a product of the world he grew up in (born 1946): an India where things were scarce and opportunities rare, schooling in a village, a world that imposed limits on what one was allowed to even dream. Everyone was practical in this world. Self-control and discipline was the only thing that one could control. He found his match in the Army, and thrived there for a while. The Army gave him the escape and shaped his thinking in profound ways, but his restless spirit wanted a lot more. His life is a story of conscious transformation, and the imposition of will on life.

The Spirit of Discipline and Rigour

Discipline and rigour was his motto. He didn’t even allow the indiscipline of an unshaven stubble until well into his retirement. He decided that running was good for me. And no common cold or a sniffle in the cold mountain air of Dharamshala, where he was posted to lead a ‘Signals unit’, could be an excuse to miss the daily morning run for his 13-year-old son. I would be running alongside him, occasionally joined by my younger sister too. Following us would be the jawans from his army unit for the morning jog. He would keep repeating ‘Adventure is just adding an extra degree of difficulty to normal things’. So on Sundays when the soldiers had the day off, we would go for a slightly longer run, because it was a ‘special day,’ as he would say with a grin. Weakness in any way and form had to be stamped out. My mother was the softening force between him and his kids, the keeper and nurturer of our softer energies, who brought a balance to all our lives that was much needed.

 

For him everything had to have a purpose. So activities had been classified as frivolous or useful. TV, Sunday cartoons, playing hide and seek were frivolous. What was useful was learning horse-riding, a weekend hike up the mountain, a drive down to Mandavi beach (in Gujarat, when he was posted in Bhuj), reading books, an afternoon reading up a tome of general knowledge book. Entertainment was defined by active participation, and not passive consumption. He was much too restless to allow it for himself or his family. Once when my mom went away to her parents’ house for a few weeks, he took charge of the kitchen. So it was a couple of weeks of boiled nutritious veggies, raw food and salads, and soups. The goal was to not get swayed by the taste but to focus on the nutrition. By the end of the first week I had developed a taste for the tasteless food, and it became one of the many ‘adventures’, the legends of our family experiences.

The Life of Action and Dreams

I sat down at his table, scanning his papers that he left behind – of property, bank accounts, identity documents, pension papers. Typical of most Indian families, there wasn’t much order to any of it. Scanning through the little pieces of papers, half-scribbled notes, and diaries I could piece together the life he had created for himself, and a sense of the dreams he was dreaming. There was a brochure of a greenhouse unit, a cash flow calculation of returns from floriculture, of fisheries business, a small-scale manufacturing business. There were lists of small loans he had given to his staff.

It created a picture of a life of creativity, and action. I met the people, vendors and contractors who knew him or worked for him, and I saw a side of him that I had not noticed before – he invested in relationships. Even though many of them abused his trust, or didnt do a good enough work, he would still stay invested with them. And they adored him.

His restless energy translated into a constant cycle of creation and dreaming, and there were no half-measures in his life. He was always all-in. Once, he decided that photography is something he is interested in. The next day, he had bought all the second-hand photography books and magazines he could lay his hands on in all the book dealers around town. Soon there were a couple of SLR cameras floating around the house. And a big part of his salary started going into the images he clicked. Some of them were good, and many weren’t. But I got hooked to it and still carry it as my key passion, a bit of his fire still burning in me.

The Ultimate Transformation

He was always obsessed with health, beginning with the discipline of getting up early, morning walks or runs, yoga. This passion grew into his interest in Ayurveda. As his retirement came close, he underwent a profound transformation – from a soldier to a healer. Soon the house was full of ayurvedic texts, roots and branches and barks of rare herbs. To the disapproval of my mother, her kitchen was turned into a mini pharma unit, where powders were meticulously prepared and then put into small ‘pudiyas’ of paper to hand out to heal anyone who had any illness – with the word of his cures spreading. He soon got himself a formal degree in Naturopathy. He went in with a wide range of knowledge, and came out of the course with unique insights at the intersection of Naturopathy, Ayurveda, Suzok, Pranic healing, Yoga, reiki, and good old army style motivation. His clients grew rapidly. They loved him, and looked at him as their mentor. Their lives were transformed; so many had reversed their illness to a point of disbelief, and they owed him their lives.

He believed in the potential of villages, the resources that merely had to be harnessed to build utopia. He jumped in with his characteristic style to cultivate the piece of land his father left in his name. He applied the latest techniques to grow his crop, and got nominated as the ‘model farmer’ by the sugar mills in the area. His were the tallest sugarcane in the whole village, the healthiest crop, most returns per acre, till he realised that he hadn’t thought through the whole chain of what it takes to sell his produce to the sugar mills – the quota ‘slips’. Not the one to give up, he took a cab to the nearest government office and blasted them all for being corrupt and inefficient. They hadn’t encountered a force of nature like him. Soon he had the most quota-slips allocated to him, which he was happy to distribute to others in the village. But his vision was running into the work ethic of an Indian village, and their laid-back attitudes. He grew frustrated and withdrew from it to focus on his work of healing.

This relentless insistence on his own vision came with a cost. His love had an edge of anger, and aggressiveness. The world had to understand that his anger was justified. Except that they didn’t always. He wanted things a certain way, and he probably got more than he could have asked for, but it wasn’t his way and that disappointed him. The army ‘field postings’, where family wasnt allowed were tough on him and all of us. He would come back on leave and see a rebellious son and daughter growing into people that weren’t of his making anymore. It was as if we were going off the script he had in mind. I was evolving and exploring a world he hadn’t experienced or seen. Things were strained between us. I had to grow out of his shadows if I had to find my voice – a rite of passage for most sons with assertive fathers. We eventually reached a point of acceptance towards each other, but we both also had some lines that we had drawn.

The Final Passage

After that fateful message about his death, came a flurry of travels, rituals, prayers, ceremonies, and logistics, which didn’t leave me with much time to grieve (which came later when my health collapsed unexpectedly, forcing me to slow down). I sat at the prayer (Shanti Paath), reciting the chants he taught me himseldf. He had once decided that Indian culture needed saving, and had dived into the vedic chanting with gusto and had soon read through and memorised all the chants that came his way. But typical of his enthusiasm for life, if he was interested in something then it had to be transferred to others around him. So he had sat me down and made me (and my sister and my mother) repeat the chants after him, memorising them, least concerned if I had a maths exam the next day or not… the cultural heritage of India was at stake!

At his prayer meeting, I held the mic thanking all those who had come, remembering his message to stay tough, and holding my grief back. The hall was full. I don’t know most people there. There were army officers who had served with him, there were the people he had healed, there were the workers he had worked with, there were his brothers and sisters and distant relatives. Everyone found their moment to come and talk to me, tell me how he had changed their lives. He was still alive in their hearts and mind, and in the little ideas he had left behind.

He was curing the world, but ignoring his own health. While he was the strongest and the healthiest 77-year-old, there were some signs of high blood-pressure (and maybe some other undiagnosed underlying conditions). But he waged a war with his body. He almost won it, till one night he didn’t wake up from his sleep. He was the strongest oldest man when we lost him. In his death he had achieved the goal of defeating old age, by bypassing it entirely at the peak of his health.

His army unit sent a wreath for his funeral. They offered it to his pyre, sharply dressed army soldiers , offering their condolence and farewell to a brother in arms with a formal and precise ritual. It felt more poignant than all the religious rituals. I carried his ashes in a bag in my lap. The ashes hadn’t fully cooled even after two days, and I wasn’t surprised – he had too much fire in his bones. We drove in his new car he has just bought and which he was proud of, carrying his ashes to scatter them in the river Ganga. We lit and floated a Dia in his name down the river. My cousin leaned over to push the water to help dia avoid the collision with other boats. The dia found its way out to the centre of the river. He exclaimed, ‘It is through,’ and I teared up, knowing he had passed into that other dimension. I could imagine his restless spirit already thinking of his next project. He had achieved another transformation on his own terms, leaving the burden of sadness on the living – I am sure he would be disappointed that we were all unable to live up to his philosophy on mortality.

Kumbh still throbs with vitality, an unbroken link to ancient India. It is a spectacle of faith, a grand parade of gurus, and a living showcase of tradition and culture. Here, the spiritual seeker mingles with the seers, photographers with village folk, and content creators with adventure seekers. It is a great equaliser, as the rich get the same treatment as the poor – unless you are a VIP, and money is not the only way to be the VIP.

History of Kumbh stretches back to times when the boundaries between mortals and the divine were blurred, when Gods are said to have walked the earth on which the pilgrims now walk. The scriptures talk of this land as part of a larger world, of realms where the spiritual and the earthly were one.

Custodians of traditions

Here gurus are everywhere, with their promise of enlightenment. Some of the Sadhu’s look eccentric, but they are more authentic and normal, and more in touch with their real self. They have broken away from the mould of the world we live in, which we call normal. Maybe we are the ones who are abnormal, trying to live as per social expectations, and out of touch with ourselves.

Blessings of Grandmothers

Alongside the sadhus are the grandmothers from remote villages, engrossed in their own rituals on the riverbank. It is their rituals, performed by millions, that seem to sanctify the water, rather than the water sanctifying their rituals. The power likely isn’t in the water, but in their faith and worship that makes even water divine. The younger ones follow their own modern rituals—selfies and reels. The optimist in me hopes that these will record the rituals forever, but I also know that this may be the last generation to uphold these traditions.

Measure of worth

Most people here would be categorized by economists as part of India-2 or India-3—terms used to judge people based on their ability to buy, the modern world’s measure of success. Most of the pilgrims here carry the majority of their life’s possessions in a bag on their heads. But these classifications miss the essence of real India and the true source of its strength: their capacity for generosity. Blessings flow freely—often the only thing these pilgrims have to give, and yet it feels like the most valuable gift. They shower their goodwill on you, no strings attached, leaving you feeling both humbled and uncomfortable. We city folks no longer belong in that world of love.

Faith and identity

Faith is identity here. But holding onto one’s belief often requires a choice—a preference that inevitably diminishes others. These fault lines of faith are sharp and can sometimes lead to intense confrontations. I overhear the sadhus gossiping about how a clash between two sects was narrowly avoided yesterday. The administration had mismanaged their routes, bringing them dangerously close—one sect returning from the holy bath, the other on its way. But somehow, cooler heads prevailed.

The Sadhu’s of Kumbh

I sit by the dhuni (the sacred fire) of the Naga Sadhus, sharing its warmth with a few sadhus and their followers. They rebuke, encourage, or ignore those gathered around them, each interaction a subtle lesson, tailored to the individual. These sadhus, uneducated by conventional standards, possess a heightened sensibility and an uncommon wisdom. They have renounced the material world, yet understand its nuances better than most.

The ones who bear the brunt of their sarcasm are those who ask questions intellectually rather than from the heart. One sadhu, irritated by a persistent girl’s line of intellectual questioning, jokes that she should just Google her query instead of disturbing him.

Nearby, a woman wears a saffron robe more as a fashion statement than a mark of renunciation. A sadhu asks her if she identifies more as Meera Bai or Radha. This sparks a discussion among the sadhus about the difference in their devotion — Radha surrendered completely to her love, while Meera lived in the longing of separation. Both being aspects of Bhakti Yoga. The conversation is abruptly interrupted by a phone call; the sadhu gets up to meet a devotee who has just arrived.

Another devotee boasts about the money he is spending on temple construction. A sadhu snubs him, saying it is wrong to put a price on a temple—its worth is not measured in money. They treat this millionaire no differently than they do a simple schoolteacher from a small town, sitting quietly among them.

A Naga Sadhu chats with a Russian photographer, telling him he wants to see Russia. I tease him, saying the world is the same everywhere. The sadhu says that he wants to learn about the ways of the world, just as we are here to learn about the ways of the sadhus. He is effortlessly juggling five conversations at once, shifting roles depending on the person—friend to some, teacher to others, project manager to a few, and indifferent to the rest. It has been 24 hours since he last slept, but his devotees keep coming. He wants to be available to them— it is a big day.

The holy dip

As the hour for the holy bath approaches, the air becomes electric. They shoo away all the devotees, shed their garments, apply oil and smeared it with the ash of their Dhuni — their homage to Shiva, who wore ash as a reminder of life’s impermanence. It’s a three-hour procession to the river. They tear through the crowds chanting, running, dancing. Awe, fear, and exhilaration ripple through the crowd as they run past them in their huge processions. They pause at the river bank as their guru leads a prayer. It is a sacred moment that has come after 144 years. As their Guru finishes the prayer, they all jump in. They are all children in the water. Cold water loses its sting, and there is laughter, chants and playfulness everywhere.

What pulls people to Kumbh

The experience of the Kumbh is hard to put into words. There are accidents and tragedies, just as there are miracles and moments of ecstasy. Some lose their way, while others find their soul. Many endure hardships, yet some discover ultimate peace. For some, the crowds are overwhelming; for others, they bring a renewed sense of hope.

Whatever you receive here is what you needed—even if it wasn’t what you were looking for. No one leaves untouched. Everyone who enters its fold is, in some way, transformed.

We were meeting again at the IIMC campus after 25 years. It was the batch that graduated in 1999, back when Kolkata was still called Calcutta. About 130 of us from a batch of over 350 had flown in from all corners of the world. We had all started our journeys here, and now each of us had a unique story to tell about our adventures.

Some had remained close friends, while others were acquaintances or still felt like strangers. Many names were forgotten, but no one took it personally. Catch-ups happened over a game of table tennis, by the lake, or during meals. The ‘fire in the belly’ was still there but life had taught us to temper it. There was less of an urge to fit a mould and everyone seemed more at ease in their own skin.

The world had changed dramatically since our graduation day. We were now working in industries or with technologies that didn’t even exist back then. We had started our careers in an era when Nokia dominated mobile phones, Hotmail was a breakthrough, internet crawled at a snail’s pace, and much of what we now take for granted—social media, smartphones, Spotify, AI —had yet to be conceived. We could not have foreseen our lives 25 years later.

THE JOURNEYS

If I would have asked everyone their definition of success at the reunion, I’d get 130 different answers. Some were on their 2nd unicorn startup; others were still navigating their next career shift. A few had stepped away from the corporate grind entirely, choosing the social sector or public service. Some had even retired, choosing a quieter life and pursuits beyond work.

Our journeys unfolded against the backdrop of the world we lived through. When we graduated in 1999, India was riding the wave of liberalization from 1991. Those years brought unprecedented opportunities: a chance to integrate with the global economy and the freedom to dream bigger. Today, the landscape is equally—if not more—brimming with possibilities. The world is shrinking, talent moves seamlessly across borders and professional competition is no longer just with colleagues in your office but with the best minds anywhere on the planet. And soon, it will be with AI too.

Our journeys unfolded against the backdrop of the world we lived through.

For me, success is about personal evolution. If I were still the same person I was in 1999—with the same impulses, ambitions, and temperament—these 25 years would feel wasted. But I know I’ve changed in fundamental ways: in what I value, my worldview, and what I seek. What I’ve learned is that growth doesn’t come from improving or changing ourselves; it comes from removing the layers that obscure our inner light and perfection, revealing our authentic selves.

We had many shared experiences in our life journeys. We had all lived through the economic cycles of meltdown: the dot-com collapse of 2000 and the banking crisis of 2008. We weathered or thrived in our relationships, discovered our places in the world, survived toxic bosses, were lifted by kind ones, were tested by life’s unpredictability, and sometimes simply got lucky by being in the right place at the right time.

These 25 years weren’t just about careers; they were about coming to terms with life’s fragility. We all lost people we loved, witnessed promising careers unravel, and experiencing unexpected personal triumphs. The real bottleneck to growth wasn’t just talent—it was health, luck, and circumstances. In the end, success often came down to having the resilience of being the last person standing.

These 25 years weren’t just about careers; they were about coming to terms with life’s fragility.

Some of us had changed profoundly. Most were still the kids from college, now with greying, thinning hair. Some wore their successes as badges of honor, others were quietly introspective, and a few still seemed unsure of what the next chapter held. Life had softened many of us, humbled by its ups and downs.

THE FUTURE

The current students on campus stand at the threshold of an uncertain future, like we once did. What advice could I possibly offer them? The jobs they will take on probably don’t exist yet, and the challenges they’ll face will be unlike anything we’ve encountered. Much of the technical knowledge they’re acquiring—often the foundation of most educational institutions—will become obsolete. Yet, the softer skills of life—resilience, social awareness, mindfulness, emotional intelligence, love, and virtue—are rarely part of any curriculum. They’ll have to piece together lessons along the way, and too often, they may even take away the wrong lessons. The need for mentors in our lives has never been more acute.

I find myself confronting similar questions about my own future: What does the next decade hold for me? Will I approach choices more deliberately and mindfully? If the world continues to turn in unpredictable ways, will I be ready when the next big opportunity arises? What temperament and attitude will I need to embrace the uncertainties ahead?  Will I learn to lean more into my higher self, and learn to discern between the noise and my intuition?

There’s much to learn, and to dream bigger dreams,

I spotted this buddhist Gompa at large distance as I was walking up towards the Leh Palace. It was an instinctive shot, and I had a 70-200mm f/2.8 lens with my NikonZ8 that day. The dramatic backdrop of the mountain, the trails on the mountains behind the gompa gave it a sense of depth. The dark looming mountain against a small bright gompa felt like a metaphor.

It was a great capture, but it was a tough edit. The video of the editing journey is more of my travails with editing it – the real journey of an amateur photographer, so there isn’t much slickness here.

It is called the cold desert, and is part of the trans-himalyan range, which is distinct than the Himalayan range. It is a paradise for landscape photography, adventure seekers, bikers, and even some spiritual seekers. Leh is tough landscape, but is worth experiencing. I wrote about my travel in my blog.

This was an instinctive shot, and I didn’t have much time to take it.

Check out the story behind the picture and overview of Leh in the YT video below. In the video I have shared the context of the shot, the subject, and also the editing journey of the photograph. It is part of the new series of video podcasts that I am hoping to create.

Journey of the Photograph

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The most exciting shots in the wildlife safari come with some exciting circumstances too. I had spent half a day in the Nairobi national park, and it almost closing time. The half day safari had not been too exciting till now. Had managed to get some long shots of cubs playing in the bushes. We were already late in checking out of the park. Though I was on a work trip, and I knew I would barely have any free time for a safari, but I had still chosen to lug my camera equipment for just a chance shot like this..

And I got one. A lone Lion crossed the road. It was low light, It stood stood, looked back at me. Decided I wasn’t food, and moved on.

It was my last shot of the day.

Check out the story behind the picture and the unique aspects of the park in the YT video below. In the video I will be sharing the context of the shot, the subject, and also the editing journey of the photograph. It is part of the new series of video podcasts that I am hoping to create.

Journey of the Photograph

Do leave your comments and feedback on the YT video.

 

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Its was less than a five kilometres hike, but it has left me winded because of the altitude, and a cough that I have been nursing for a week. Just a few days ago I was living at sea level in Mumbai, and today I am at 3300m, gasping for breath on a four day hike through this Trans-Himalayan range.

My phone is dead. Social media and news cycle are a distant memory. My day moves to the rhythm of the sun. The clouds take out the edge from sun’s harshness as we walk, and I am thankful for it. The water from the streams is fresh from a glacier melt, and tastes wonderful. I am experiencing this place like Ladakhis have experienced for thousands of years, except for better equipment maybe.

My thoughts walk with me. Thoughts of work, personal life, life’s philosophy, the tragedies and the celebrations. I only get to choose which thought to walk with. As I dwell on them and look at them through the physical discomfort of high altitude hiking while gasping for breath, they seem to lose their grip on me – its like therapy.

Our hiking guide choose not to bring chairs along because a pigeon had laid eggs on them, and his beliefs would not allow him to disturb the nesting bird, even at the cost of professional risk. He lights incense and offers prayers at all the high passes we walk through, an offering to nature – a throwback to the original faith of this region, Bon. He talks of his gratitude towards the land, and the animals who allow him to earn his living. There is no showmanship in his actions or a selling his ideas, just a deeply held belief which he only reveals when probed about it. Buddhism is the unseen force guiding people here.

Every step here thins the walls between pleasure and pain, the path to liberation

For me this hike is becoming a testing ground of the wisdom that Buddhism teaches – the way out of the suffering of Samsara is to treat pain and joy with equanimity. Every conscious step here thins the walls between pleasure and pain. They say that liberation lies when these walls dissolve, so maybe it lies around the next bend!

The nights are uncomfortable in the open camping grounds, Even though tents and sleeping bag are warm, the whole night goes in slithering slipping and coughing. Going to the toilet on the middle of the night is a big decision and commitment. We usually camp close to a village on a camping site with basic facilities of water, kitchen shed and toilets. All toilets have the same design, a hole in the floor, and thankfully they don’t smell.

The youth have moved out of the villages in search for jobs and education, and its mostly the old people left behind. Mountains are unforgiving on their old joints and frail health. They look much older than their actual age. Their memories are the last remnants of this fading culture and lived history, and will go away with them.

This is the last night of our camping. There is a meditative mood to the evening. I sit outside the dining tent with a warm chai, and watch a tree sway to the wind, like two old friends in sync The wind settles as sun sets. It is summer season, but I am shivering even with a layer of thermal inner wear. I sense the change about to overwhelm this culture. 

Culture here is an adaptation to the land, and a mere tool for survival

The Ladakhi culture evolved as a response to the environment, which looms over everything. At the heart of it, probably most of the culture is an adaptation to the land and a mere tool for survival. What you eat, what you wear, how you spend your day, the common language and the common challenges shape that culture. Life revolves around winters, even the summers are about winters – a chance to store food, repair the houses, prepare for the winter. Here everyone has to carry that burden, and women have equal rights. Polygamy and polyamory have been part of culture. Resources are scarce, and mere survival is the goal here, and the rituals and culture probably help cope with it all.

We spend a night at Indus River Camp. I getup early to witness the sunrise on the Indus river, as the sun breaks out from behind the mountain. This river has been the reference point for India, and even gave India its name (Indus/ Hindos/ Indos). It has since then become the root of culture wars – is Hindu a reference to a religion or to geography, a name for people on the other side of Indus? Is it even fair to subsume all the practices on other side of the sub-continent under one name? It is an outsiders construct, imposed on the people, and undermines a culture that has always been syncretic. The river flows, showing no respect for the cultural or political borders, oblivious to the chaos it has caused, and serving as a lifeline to millions across India and Pakistan.

The Indus river flows, oblivious to the cultural chaos it may have caused

This is not the Himalayas. It is part of the trans-Himalayan range, and shares its geology with the Tibetan plateau. Culture here has pre-Buddhist roots, and even Buddhism has elements of the Bon traditions. This land has been a trade route, and on the borders of many nations, which gives it a frontier spirit and adds to its cultural evolution.

The palaces and Monasteries have survived thousands of years, but it’s uncertain if they will survive the shoddy repair jobs with the cheapest quotes. The biggest existential threat to Leh palace is from being washed way in pee – men seem to like to pee into the wall of the toilet which is seeping into the walls weakening them. So as a safety precaution toilets are closed to public now.

The are all built on some handsome hillock, overlooking the valley. The palaces are all small and dark, the architecture is basic, and is difficult to imagine royalty living here. Most of the older places and forts have been adopted by the Buddhists as monasteries, ensuring some basic level of upkeep and maintenance.

We stop for lunch on the way to Pangong lake. A group of solders are sitting on the table next to ours, dressed in their combat gear. They look like fresh recruits, maybe their first posting here. The pact that soldiers have with the nation is to lay down their lives in the line of duty if needed – a level of commitment that has no parallel. I remember when my father, an Army veteran, used to be deployed into such remote locations. and how tough it used to be on him and our whole family. 

We offer to pay for their meal. They are a bit taken aback, and resist it. It became too awkward for them as we continue to insist. They relent, thank us and quietly walk out.

Level of commitment of soldiers, to lay down their lives in the line of duty, has no parallel.

The presence of the Army creates a complex dynamic with the local community. It brings in many resources, jobs, infrastructure, but it takes away the tranquillity that the people here have been used to. There as no resources here worth fighting for, but it has still become one of the world’s most sensitive and contested lands.

A new form of culture is taking hold which values things for their viral ability, and nothing else.

The Pangong lake is spectacular, the blue sky and the blue water are separated by the jagged mountain ranges, a sight unique to Ladakh. Not a blade of grass grows around this massive pool of water. A decade ago only a rare adventurer would land up here. Then a Bollywood film (Three Idiots) showcased it, and now there are tourist installations everywhere and Insta influencers lining to up take selfies. A new form of culture is starting to take hold, which values things for their viral ability, and nothing else.

All flights were cancelled yesterday because of unexpected rains. Those stranded are scheduled for flights four days later since this is a high tourist season. Our flight is still on schedule, but the pilot has announced that rain is thirty minutes away, and he hopes to fly out before it arrives. Then there is an unexpected delay in boarding because of loading a passenger with a deep leg fracture. A few raindrops are starting to fall and anxiety builds all around, and the staff rush around to finish the boarding. We exit Leh just in time as rain sets in again.

This culture will not survive the onslaught of modernity, tourism, army buildup, Instagram influencers and the sharp demographic change

I looks down at the incredible landscape as we fly out, thinking about the last few days of immersion. The land is a harsh teacher, and has shaped the rugged spirit of the people here over thousands of years. The traditions have evolved in rhythm with the place, and have helped them survive. But these lived traditions will not survive the onslaught of modernity, tourism, army buildup, Instagram influencers and the sharp demographic change. This is a unique heritage of our world, which is still a lived culture, but will probably be relegated to museums and curios shops in just a few decades. I feel lucky to have experienced a small part of it, for real.

(The travel itinerary curated by Break Away)

I relaxed as I landed back in Mumbai from Johannesburg, I wasn’t hyper-vigilant anymore. I could trust that I wont be mugged at a traffic light and there wont be a day-light car jacking, even though I could still fall into some open ditch left by BMC in the middle of the road or be stuck in traffic and be forced to breathe in the pollution – but at least it wont be personal. No incident happened to me in Joburg, but I couldn’t shake off the anxiousness of it there. Small talk there was about the crime, like it is about traffic jams and dug up roads in Mumbai.

It is normal for every decision here to be based on hyper-vigilance and sense of insecurity – which car to buy (the ones that don’t get carjacked much), which area of live (where there is less crime), where to cross the road (never at the traffic-light where you can be accosted to hand over your valuable (so maybe cross in the middle of the road), till what time will you stay out, is someone following you etc. Everyone goes about living as if these are not major issues. Gated communities and electric fences are everywhere, and those with means have a great life behind those walls.

In South Africa, you can feel the social tension in the air. The scars of apartheid run deep, and the legacy of apartheid seems frozen in time. Land ownership and occupancy is still mostly held along race lines, and the blacks still don’t feel fully integrated into the economic system. The unemployment rate of more than 40% is increasing the inequality across the society.

Contrary to general advice, I decided to brave a city walk in the inner lanes, and the central business district and do some street photography. I was anxious as I tried to find the pickup=point and locate my Guide. We had agreed to meet at a cafe, and I was entering into a bit of the unknown here. My guide was polite, knowledgeable and a thorough professional, and he put me at ease. Two more people who were supposed to join, but they cancelled so it was just him and me.. We decided to walk through the neighbourhood of Maboneng and Central Business district – both are worlds apart, and are alternative destinies that this country could have. Maboneng shows what is possible with a good intent, and the Central business district shows how things can go wrong.

Maboneng is an incredible story of the power of art to transform lives.

The area of Maboneng was once known only for it crime and poverty. It has now become the art and culture hub of Joburg, all because of the initiative and vision of a young entrepreneur – Jonathan Liebmann. He bought a few abandoned buildings in the area, refurbished them, attracted business to the area, invited artist to the create their masterpieces on the walls. And the magic of art seems to be working. The tourists are coming, investments are slowly coming in, locals are getting a chance to start small business catering to the new demands, and a poor neighbourhood is slowly changing into a hip part of the city. It’s a great case-study in urban rejuvenation, and the impact that art can have on people’s lives.

The art on the walls moved me emotionally. Part of the impact was the artistry, but a bigger part was possibly the contrast with the environment in which they existed. These artists had created beauty in the middle of desperation and deprivation. It was a reminder of all that is beautiful in life, and gave hope that creativity can sprout anywhere.

Sublime art on the walls by many local and international artists in Maboneng

The central business district (CBD) was a contrast to Maboneng. It felt like I was walking through into a set of an apocalypse movie. There are entire buildings that have been abandoned and are lying unused. Some companies left as the new regime was coming in, and expected the transition to democracy to be messy – which it wasn’t. Some others left because of the economic downturn due to COVID. Many of these multi-storey buildings have even been ‘hijacked’ by the homeless – with electricity and water supply intact. It was a glimpse of an alternative future of our world, and a lesson in how things can go wrong when social development takes a skewed path, when inequality and desperation grows, and when crime spirals out of control.

I was specifically warned about taking any pictures of people without permission. Not because people are shy, or because of cultural of privacy sensitivities, but because the subject of my photograph may be someone who is wanted by the cops, and I may not want to deal with the consequences of that.

The gains from the fight for freedom has not been fully realised 

I asked the guide about the legacy of Nelson Madela and what he felt about the transition away from the apartheid. He shook his head, and spoke about other names who were bigger heroes for him – people like Walter Sisulu, Steve Biko and Sol Plaatje. People still debate whether of the pursuit of stability at the time of transition from the Apartheid government came at the expense of radical transformation. Did the inequalities and unfairness of Apartheid get frozen in time, and was justice denied, and was a chance of radical-change squandered? Mandela’s leadership undoubtedly steered the nation away from the abyss of endless civil strife, and was a ray of hope amidst the darkness of Apartheid which that the country had lived through for 50 years. But those trusted with carrying that opportunity ahead have surely faltered, and have put into question the entire approach. The country still needs to heal from its trauma of Apartheid to realise its full potential.

How do you measure the success of a society? There is a simple test for it..

Youth is restless for change, and the country is at a cusp of big choices.

Amid the problems and struggles of the city, there are many signs of resilience too. The younger generation is full of ambition – they are hustling and navigating multiple jobs while grappling with their identity. It’s a young nation, and the youthful energy is waiting to be tapped. And above all, there is widespread impatience with the status-quo.

I left Joburg feeling hopeful for its future. Its restless youth will find its voice soon. The success here may have a much simpler measure than any economic metric – if some day the streets are buzzing with intermingling of people across races, and when there is acceptance and acknowledgement of each other in public spaces, and one feels safe walking down the street. So many things have to go right for it to happen. But this will be the real freedom, for which so many generations have fought here.

Entering the African Savanna felt like a homecoming, as if it triggered a memory in the DNA of our ancient origins.. My eyes took time to adjust from the urban landscape to the open Savanna of Maasai Mara and Amboseli and their infinite horizons of the grasslands. A few days into the trip I started to experience Africa beyond the narratives of scarcity and strife  associated with the continent. The riches of the land were laid out – the sunrise, the sunsets, the nature, the weather, the culture, its hardworking people and the their warmth.

There is a dialogue in the film ‘Out of Africa,’ the earth is round so that you can’t see too far ahead. I followed that advice and didn’t do much research about Kenya and allowed it to open up to to me, one moment at a time. Everything turned into a pleasant surprise and an adventure. A friend put together a great itinerary for us, and we just went along with it (For itinerary and logistics advise in Kenya, DM Bhanu).

The invisible hand of nature and it genius is visible everywhere. The great migration with millions of animals synchronising their movements across thousands of kilometres of ; the rules that govern the heard of elephants and the system of casting out those who don’t adhere to the rules; the way the young lions take over a new pride and even killing all the male cubs to improve their chances of reproduction ; the way the wildebeests and zebra’s help each other survive the apex predators; the way the birds clean the insects off the back of giraffes, Rhinos and Hippos. Everything is in perfect equilibrium – someones dung is someones meal here,

Safaris here feel like entering an immersive emotional drama that is playing out in front of you. There is no filter in their expression of what they feel. You see the emotions of animals in their full intensity  – the pure love of a lioness for her cubs, the indulgence of the elephant for their playful calf, the ferociousness of the wild animals as they attack their prey with no mercy, the sheer terror that grips the animals as predator stalk them, the lustiness of the elephant as it seeks his mates. It is quite a contrast to the polite human society, which is designed to numb our wilder emotional side, and probably for the good too, but which also takes its toll on our authenticity and expression.

The Big Five

The colonial past has left a big trauma on the culture in Kenya. The western culture was alien to this land – of valuing things over people, of ownership, money as the measure of wealth. With the adoption of the modern culture, the country went from being culturally rich to being materially poor, and is now having to start all over again. There are very few indigenous traditions and culture left, and 85% of the population has converted to Christianity. They do go back to their trading faiths is in moments of major crises – the droughts or some climatic chaos.

The onslaught of colonial rule that lasted half a century obliterated the thousands of years of cultural heritage. All  the 41 tribes letgo of their traditions and wisdom. One tribe, the Maasai, tried to hold out the longest, and there are still some remnants of it, but there are merely the commercial photo-ops than the actual lifestyle.

The Moments

It was apparent to me that with its young and hardworking population, this country has a huge potential ahead of it, and it will play a big part in all our futures. But I was also left wondering, will Kenyans wake up one day to reclaim their heritage? Will they seek the wisdom of their ancestors and build their own unique identity incorporating the best of their past and the modern world? Or will they continue to drift away from their unique cultural past, trying to chase more material gains and staying culturally poor for a long time?

The Big Cats

The kindness of the local Kenyans stands out, and so does their hard work. We drove through more than 2000 km across the length and breadth of the country and saw the web of connection between people. Everyone was up for a good chat, even with strangers. The driver always had a kind word to share with anyone he passed. Even when we were on a time crunch, he took out time for small-talk. He would tip some money to every guard, every cop, every parking attendant, and exchange some pleasantries and information. These chats would feed his network of relationships and gave him information that made him such a great guide. He knew where the sightings were, he knew about the state of traffic, or the roads, or the traffic check, or anything that may have changed in the local administration of the wildlife parks. These were not the modern day transactional relationships  – but were personal relationships that had been organically nursed over years, and valued highly.

The Playful Cubs

A week into Kenya, and I felt the modern life lose its grip on me – the city, the work, the routines, all disrupted and more in tune with the animals and nature here. I was now more in synch with a natural rhythm of life which was not distorted by artificial lights, or the demands of the markets, or modern culture. The pace of the days were governed by the the sun and the weather. The day began early, and by 9am the activity level of all animals would to taper off, to again pick up after 5 pm.

As I prepared to leave Kenya, I felt full. The land and its people were generous. the experience had lifted the gloom and weariness that I had came here with. City takes out more from us than it replenishes, but here, despite the hectic schedule and physically demanding travel, I felt more replenished. Nature had been kind, putting on a brilliant display of the weather, uplifting sunrises, emotionally moving sunsets, and the entire spectrum of emotions in all of the animals – a reminder of all that is natural in all of us. It felt like a reset.

–X–

There are always two people in every picture: the photographer and the viewer.

The painter constructs, the photographer discloses.