February in Bangladesh – the month that resonates with the blood-tinged crusade for the recognition of Bengali as a state language; the month that dedicates itself to the celebration of Bengali language and literature. With the Ekushey Boi Mela (book fair) in full swing to commemorate the language movement of 1952, it is a time to reflect on the literati whose poems and prose have opened a world of wonder to generations of Bengalis, rendering many of us lifelong fans, seeking out every opportunity to learn more about the literary greats. In reading my favourite Bengali writers, I’ve come across several destinations patronised by them. Some of them may be in rather unlikely places, but they are definitely worth visiting.
Watching the ancient sport in Japan, I came to realise that size does NOT matter.
In my quest to create the perfect walking tour for my friends, I came across a number of tailor made guided tours. Here’s a handy list for when you’re in a quandary like me and need to show a tourist around.
Flemington, Melbourne. It had only been a few months since I’d moved to this bustling inner-city suburb; its streets lined with quaint Victorian cottages in stark contrast with the ethnic restaurants that plied their trade on the main strip. While out on an afternoon stroll around the neighbourhood, I decided to follow the sounds of what promised to be a heady carnival and turned up at the Melbourne Showgrounds. The annual Royal Melbourne Show was underway.
Dragons exist, and not just on Westeros. Recounting my encounter with Komodo Dragons in Indonesia.
Finalist, World Nomads Passport & Plate Food Scholarship 2015 – for the best travel story that transports readers to a new place through food.
They call it “The City of Love.” And indeed, droves of hand-holding couples flock to Paris, taking in all that the city has to offer. I too am drawn to this city where I indulge in my most decadent pleasures – of the gastronomic kind rather than your general amorous pursuits.
sky was an angry gray, the sea a heaving mass; rain lashed against the windows and gale force winds rattled the tiny cabin. I looked out and watched in trepidation as three large figures, hulked across the windswept plain. Three men tumbled through the door of the communal kitchen.
An account of my travels around ancient Greek sites.
Our idea of Eastern Europe has been largely influenced by the drab communist blocks of Zagreb and Bratislava. As the sleeper from Munich chugged to a stop at Budapest rail station, we were accosted by the customary spectrum of people – the loud voiced tourist touts following in the wakes of Western Backpackers, head scarved ladies bustling past with their wicker baskets, bedraggled beggars prostrated on the ground, seeking alms from the largely ignorant commuters rushing past.