Once, while being interviewed for a film on solo women travellers in India, I had said: “When unable to travel across physical distance, I head to my favourite cafe in the city and travel in words.” The film’s subtitles, however, read that phrase as “travel inwards”. This mondegreen fits well into our current locked-down world during the pandemic two years on.
If ignorance is bliss, awareness is power. As a reporter, one holds a lens to society outside, and, as a soul, to the universe within. In my very first reported story, which was on child football-makers in Meerut during the 2006 FIFA World Cup, I realised that the cost of the beer my friends and I would knock back while watching a match at a pub in one evening was the monthly earnings of an entire family for stitching footballs. The inequality felt stark.
The bicycle became an extension of my feet. But if this contraption that burns no fuel except body fat became one highlight of my year, the others included theatre classes, the nip of the autumn air and my trip to Mexico. While boating in city lakes, gulping chilli-rimmed street drinks, exploring architecture of the century-old post office, touring museums, listening to street singers and sampling street snacks, I found a bit of India in Mexico — generous sunshine, warm people and spicy food.