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Grandeur, Stillness, and the Road South

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Vietnam Diaries -3 From Imperial Silence to Coastal Roads: Hue to Hoi An Photo: Culture Pham travel We had learned the hard way how to schedule our sight-seeing in hot and humid Hue. So, we took a Grab (a local ride-hailing service) early next morning and off we went to see the tomb of Emperor Khai Dinh, another major UNESCO-listed monument in the Complex of Hue Monuments. History says that Emperor Khai Dinh, the twelfth ruler of Vietnam’s Nguyen Dynasty, was closely allied with the French colonial administration and greatly fascinated by European culture . So much so, that he was mocked as “a salaried employee of the French Government”,* and he had himself ordered the building of his Tomb, officially named Ung Mausoleum. Located on Chau Chu Mountain just outside Hue, the structure is unique among the royal mausoleums in Vietnam because of the blend of traditional Vietnamese design and European architectural impact. It was completed after 11 years during the time of his son and ...
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Walking Through the Faded Heart of Hue

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Vietnam Diaries -2 Hue: Empire, Ruins, and Riverlight Truong Tien Bridge on perfume River Our introduction to Hue began with a walk along the Perfume River. Like much in this old imperial city, even the river comes wrapped in its own story. Legend says it earned its name because flowers drifting downstream — lotus blossoms and yellow apricot petals from orchards upriver, once perfumed the water. Standing beside it in the humid late evening, however, we could detect no delicate floral fragrance. To us, it smelled unmistakably like river water: damp weeds, mud, and that faint stagnant scent that makes you instinctively wrinkle your nose. And yet, somehow, the darkness softened everything. Reflections of the lights from the Truong Tien Bridge trembled in water, while couples, families, and solitary walkers moved along the riverside promenade. Hue did not feel dramatic or immediately dazzling. It felt slow and slightly faded. Top:The Noon Gate Bottom Left: Ceremonial Drum in the ri...
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Saigon Stories: A City That Refuses to Pause

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Vietnam Diaries -1 Scooters, Scars and Strong Coffee Left: Town hall building Right:Ho Chi Minh statue The heat and humidity came as a shock as we stepped out of the air-conditioned hotel on our first morning in Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam. About 10 minutes of walking, and we realized hot and humid April-end was not the right time to visit the country. You may point out that April to September is not the right season for a vacation anywhere in the sub-tropical and tropical regions. But we were there and had to make the best of the weather. Ho Chi Minh City or HCMC, as it is generally called, and was earlier known by the name Saigon, offers an interesting contrast of old French style buildings and modern Western-style skyscrapers, fancy restaurants and roadside food carts and vendors, chaotic traffic but clean roads. Hibiscus, ixora, bougainvillea, rubber plants, palm, plumeria, amaltaas shrubs and trees spread their scent and add colour to the roads and alleys. The traffic remind...
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Still Not a Writer

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What Counts as Writing A few days ago, in the middle of an otherwise ordinary conversation about how everyone spends time, a friend mentioned about me "…but she writes.” This was technically true. What followed was predictable. “ Kahan chhapta hai ?” (Where does it get published?), asked the questioner. “Online,” I said. A pause. “ Haan , lekin kis paper mein? ” (But in which newspaper?) I said I write a blog. ‘Oh’, she said, her face looked - processing and contained, like the outside of a blender whirring on hard, dry spices. The conversation died its own death. This is not an isolated interaction. It is a pattern. Somewhere along the way, it has become clear to me that ‘writing’ is not a verb. It is a whole different category with eligibility criteria. This is not new. Even on a newspaper desk, feature writing occupied an ambiguous space, written, published, read, and yet not quite ‘real writing.’  And blogs, unfortunately, do not clear the prelims. A blo...
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The Life We’ve Delegated

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When the Washing Machine Stopped It was a couple of minutes before I realized that something had happened. I looked around. Everything seemed to be in place. Mani was still at his desk, typing furiously, as if one line refused to behave. The house help was not back from the market. The cooker had yet to whistle to announce it had done its job of cooking. But yes, something was missing. The sound in the background had stopped. I sighed, stopped what I was doing, went into the kitchen, switched off the gas, and went to check. The washing machine showed 5 minutes remaining. it had stopped mid-spin. I lifted the lid to find damp clothes sitting in it, waiting for further instructions. I pressed some buttons. They beeped as if trying to humour me, but with no intention of actually doing anything. I jabbed at the panels, tried again. No response. For a minute I felt oddly betrayed. Not because of the inconvenience, the...
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Buying the Colour, Missing the Story

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Puce, and the Pink That Wasn't   The day temperatures have already bounced to 33°C ( 91.4 °F) - quite shameless for the month of March. That also means  conducting the annual exercise: woollens in, summer clothes out, for  those in the northern parts of the country. As I hung my salwar suits on hangers, that pink suit caught my eye again, the one that had rather trespassed into my wardrobe. I had wanted a pastel, brownish pink. Not just pink, but a very particular pink. The readymades online either had synthetic fibres or designs I did not like, so I decided to get fabric and have it stitched. Two shops later, I still hadn’t found it. In the third shop, I told the shopkeeper what I wanted. He disappeared behind a small door and emerged with half a dozen bolts of fabric in different shades of pink. Then he switched on all the lights. Spreading the cloth across his chest, he said, “Dekhiye didi, yeh igjactly wahi hai.” (See sister, this is exactly that colour.) At ev...
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