All posts by Jajabor

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About Jajabor

My best memories have always been my journeys. Observing people, places, nuances, customs, food habits, clothes, and little idiosyncrasies—that’s my favorite pastime. Somewhere along the way, without even realizing it, I fell in love with traveling. And no, I’m not talking about the packaged kind with fixed itineraries and hurried photo stops. I’m talking about unraveling a place—layer by layer. Because the best memories of a trip are rarely from what’s printed in the brochure; they’re born from the moments beyond it. For safety, I might let a tour operator book my hotels, but the rest? That’s mine to discover. I read about the place, strike up conversations with locals, and follow history’s faint whispers down winding lanes. There’s a certain thrill in peeling back a place’s layers—its stories, its silences, its soul. I hope, through my words, I can share that thrill with you.

Walking Through Time: Mehrauli Archaeological Park

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Delhi is often said to be a city of seven historical cities, each founded by different rulers and woven together to form the capital as we know it. Among them, Lal Kot or Qila Rai Pithora is believed to be the first city of Delhi, located in present-day Mehrauli.

This Sunday, I joined a walk by Enroute Indian History inside the Mehrauli Archaeological Park. Spread across undulating terrain, the park houses nearly 55 archaeological monuments—some documented, others fading into obscurity, their stories lost to time.

Jamali Kamali Mosque & Tomb

Our walk began at the Jamali Kamali mosque, dedicated to Shaikh Fazlullah, also known as Jamali—a courtier of Sikander Lodhi who later fought and died for Humayun.

Beside the mosque lies a locked chamber, believed to be the resting place of Jamali and Kamali. The identity of Kamali is cloaked in folklore; some accounts call him Jamali’s beloved. Both are said to be buried together in this compound, a rare tale of intimacy and companionship from medieval Delhi.

The land itself was a grant from Sikander Lodhi, and the mosque reflects syncretic architecture—kalash motifs, inverted lotuses, and temple-like details—likely owing to local craftsmen more used to building temples.

Rajon ki Baoli

Next, we descended into the quiet depths of Rajon ki Baoli, a stepwell built in 1510 by Daulat Khan, the military commander of Ibrahim Lodhi. History records that it was this very Daulat Khan who invited Babur to India, setting the stage for the Mughal dynasty.

The four-storey stepwell is flanked by rooms used for bathing and washing, fitted with terracotta pipe outlets that ensured fresh water circulation. Yet, curiously, the baoli is not remembered by its builder’s name. Instead, after Partition, it became home to raj mistris (masons), and so the name Rajon ki Baoli endured.

Dilkhusha: Metcalfe’s Retreat

We then arrived at the picturesque ruins of Dilkhusha, once the country house of Sir Thomas Metcalfe, a civil servant of the East India Company and agent of the Governor General at Bahadur Shah Zafar’s court.

The first structure is a quaint boat house, curiously perched atop a Lodhi-era tomb. Though Metcalfe’s residence was later dismantled to restore the tomb, traces of its outer walls remain. From here, one can glimpse the soaring silhouette of the Qutub Minar.

The estate was built around the tomb of Muhammad Quli Khan, the foster brother of Emperor Akbar. Like many Mughal-era tombs, it was repurposed into a colonial residence, perhaps to establish distance between the ruling elite and the ordinary people.

The complex also houses what was once described as a “honeymoon suite”, complete with a fireplace and private pool. Today, it functions as a small museum, but in its day, it was rented out as a luxurious retreat.

Echoes of a Forgotten Past

Much of the park lies in decay, its walls slowly surrendering to time and nature. Yet a walk here feels like time travel—through the Sultanate, the Mughals, and the British Raj—when Mehrauli was alive with kings, saints, travelers, and storytellers.

It is a reminder that Delhi is not just a capital city but a palimpsest of civilizations, each layer shaping its destiny.

History at Krishna’s Doorstep

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Do most people love hoarding things? Even the ones that don’t work anymore? I certainly do. But space is finite, and eventually, sentiment has to bow to practicality.

One casualty of this weekend’s decluttering was my old point-and-shoot camera — long kaput, yet faithfully carried through every house shift. In its final moments, it gave me a parting gift: an SD card with forgotten photographs.

They took me back almost a decade, to a time when my mother and I were enthusiastic long-weekend travelers. And to one trip in particular — to Krishnanagar in West Bengal — born out of nothing less than maternal blackmail.

Blackmail in the Name of Travel

The culprit? My mother. The crime? Forcing me — almost at gunpoint — to accompany her to Mayapur, ISKCON’s headquarters. Her partner, my aunt.

Never keen on religious tourism, I dug deep for excuses. She countered with an irresistible teaser: “There’s more to Mayapur than just ISKCON.” And as they say — “Tujhe sab he pata hai, na Ma.”

A little research revealed that the area was steeped in history. Soon, my resistance melted into curiosity.

The Journey Begins

Mayapur lies at the confluence of the Ganges and Jalangi rivers, in West Bengal’s Nadia district, about 130 km from Kolkata. It’s near Navadwip, the seat of Vaishnavism, and is considered the birthplace of Sri Chaitanya Mahaprabhu, regarded as Krishna’s incarnation.

We booked ISKCON guesthouse rooms through their Kolkata office, checked in, and immediately set off for our first stop: Palashi — better known as Plassey.

Palashi — Where History Changed Hands

On June 23, 1757, Palashi witnessed the Battle of Plassey — a turning point in Indian history. Nawab Siraj ud-Daulah’s forces fell to Robert Clive’s East India Company, paving the way for British dominance in Bengal and eventually the subcontinent.

Arriving at the site, we found nothing but green fields. A paan shop owner confirmed, “Yes, the battle was fought here… but now we grow crops.” No plaques, no elaborate memorials — just paddy swaying in the wind.

My driver refused to let the anticlimax stand. Guided by an elderly local, we eventually found a small, plain monument marking the spot. For a battle that altered India’s destiny, the simplicity was striking.

Krishnanagar — Churches, Palaces, and Clay Dolls

From Palashi, we headed to Krishnanagar. Our first stop: the Roman Catholic Church — an elegant cathedral housing 27 oil paintings depicting the life of Jesus Christ, alongside intricate wooden sculptures by Italian artists.

Catholic missionaries arrived in the region as early as the 17th century, and the current church was built in 1899 by Bishop Frances Pozzi.

The mood shifted when we visited the Rajbari of Raja Krishna Chandra Rai. Once a royal showpiece, the palace now serves as a parking lot and fairground. The grandeur has faded, its arches and courtyards bearing the scars of neglect.

Ghurni, however, brought back the charm. This neighbourhood remains a hub for Krishnanagar clay dolls, a tradition championed by Raja Krishna Chandra himself. The lifelike figurines, some no taller than a thumb, seemed to hold entire stories in their painted expressions.

Ballal Dhipi — Unearthing the Past

The next day took us to Ballal Dhipi in Bamunpukur village — a 30-foot-high mound spread over 1,300 square feet. Excavated in the 1980s, it revealed a massive brick complex, stucco heads, terracotta figurines, and copper utensils — dating as far back as the 8th–9th centuries, with later structures attributed to the 12th-century Sena dynasty ruler, Ballal Sen.

Standing there, with the wind carrying whispers of centuries past, it felt like touching the layered skin of Bengal’s history.

A Line on the Map

On our way back to Kolkata, a roadside sign brought a geographic surprise: “You are now crossing the Tropic of Cancer.” Not many trips let you straddle history and geography in the same breath.

And Mayapur?

That tale will need another trip — and another story.

As for this one, the blackmail was worth it. My mother loved the historical detour, even if she missed the spiritual one she had planned. And I walked away with a camera full of memories I’d only rediscover years later.

Kenya Diary – A World Apart, Yet Strangely Familiar

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Travel often teaches you that while landscapes may change, people, cultures, and everyday joys remain strikingly similar across borders.

Over my week in Kenya, I found myself constantly reminded of home—through food, traditions, and small, ordinary moments.

🥭 Mangoes on the way to Samburu

My first brush with this familiarity came on the drive from Nairobi to Samburu. As we sped along the highway, my eyes caught the lush green spread of mango orchards.

To find our very own mango—something we hold so dear in India—thriving on African soil felt both surprising and comforting. Denis, my guide, told me the trees are laden with fruit in February, and people flock to buy them. In that moment, it didn’t matter which continent I was on—the king of fruits had found a home here too.

🍲 Ugali and Saag – Across Continents

Then came Ugali—a staple in Kenyan homes. It’s a porridge made with maize flour (or as we now call it, corn), cooked by stirring the flour into boiling water until it thickens into a dough-like ball. In tourist lodges, it’s often shaped into elegant servings, but in homes, it’s eaten simply—often with spinach.

That spinach, to my surprise, looked just like the saag I grew up eating in Bengal.

And then it hit me—we have makke ki roti with sarson da saag; here they have Ugali with spinach. Different grains, same comfort.

I tasted Ugali. It had no distinct flavour of its own, much like plain rice or roti—it’s the stews and sauces that bring it alive. When I told Denis I’d tried it, he asked with a chuckle, “Did you eat it with a fork?” Then he explained that it’s traditionally eaten with the hand, scooped up with vegetables or meat—something that reminded me of my first visit to Chennai, watching locals mix idli with sambar and eat it by hand.

🌽 Bhutta by the Roadside

On the road from Naivasha to Maasai Mara, I passed vendors at regular intervals selling roasted corn. The sight and smell instantly transported me home—rains and roasted bhutta are a thing in India too. The crackle of husks over the fire, the warm kernels dusted with salt—it’s the same roadside snack, halfway across the world.

💃 Dance and the Echo of Home

The welcome dance at the Maasai Village was another moment of déjà vu. Performed by both men and women, each group had its own distinct style.

The women moved slowly and rhythmically, their steps reminding me of Shad Suk Mynsiem, the graceful spring dance of Khasi women in Meghalaya.

But it was the men’s movements that truly surprised me. One by one, each stepped forward, jumped in place three or four times, and then rejoined the group. I couldn’t help but think of Bhangra performances in Punjab, where dancers break from formation for short, spirited solos before returning to the rhythm.

🎺 The Horn that Spoke Across Lands

Finally, there was the wind instrument used by the Maasai—crafted from the spiralled horn of a kudu deer. It’s played to signal danger or mark special occasions.

As soon as I saw it, my mind flew to Pepa, the buffalo-horn pipe of Assam, an essential part of Bihu celebrations. Different animals, different lands, yet the same instinct to turn nature’s gifts into music.

🌍 Far from Home, Yet Close to It

It’s often said that the farther you travel from home, the closer you get to it.

In Kenya’s markets, on its roadsides, in its kitchens, and in the beats of its dances, I saw fragments of my own culture reflected back at me.

And I was reminded that beyond borders, beyond language, the human story is one of shared rhythms—of work, of celebration, of food, of finding joy in the small things.

Kenya Safari Diary – Day 6: Lessons in Stillness, Strength, and Goodbye

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🌅 The Final Morning Begins

How do you begin to describe your last day in the Mara?

Perhaps with a question.

As we rolled out in the early morning, Denis—my ever-curious guide—asked,
“What would you like to see today?”
I smiled. “Whatever we can.”
No checklist. No expectations. Just openness. And somehow, that became the theme of the day.

🐃 Buffaloes, Tension, and the Echo of a Predator

We headed into an area often frequented by rhinos and leopards, but it was a large herd of Cape buffalo that greeted us instead. Their energy was different—tense, alert. As our vehicle approached, a young male gave a warning grunt. We slowed down, gave them space, and eventually he returned to grazing.

Denis pointed to the pugmarks of a large cat in the dirt. The herd had calves—perhaps they were hunted during the night, and the trauma lingered. A little further, two adult males mock-charged us before fading into the grass.

We hadn’t seen a rhino or leopard, but the story told through behaviour and footprints was just as compelling.

🐘 Wandering Giants and Resting Lions

Further along, a lone male elephant, likely in search of a mate, walked across the plains. We waited patiently for him to move on before continuing.

Among the tall grasses, we saw a lioness. The area was filled with antelope—potential prey. Soon, we spotted another lioness nearby. Would they hunt? We waited, watched.

But no. They stretched, yawned, and settled into the shade.
Nature’s quiet truth: even predators don’t kill without need.

🦓 Zebras, Hartebeest, and a Royal Blockade

Our path was soon blocked by a herd of zebras, strutting confidently until they decided we were worth letting through. We passed them and found a lone hartebeest, calmly grazing.

The drama of the day had quieted. But the Mara is never still for long.

🛖 Meeting the Maasai: Culture, Community, and Resilience

No safari is truly complete without a visit to a Maasai village.

We arrived to warm smiles, a spirited traditional welcome dance, and an invitation into their world. The community, while rooted in its customs, has embraced modernity with measured grace. Many still wear their vibrant traditional shukas, and I had the privilege of visiting a typical Maasai hut, witnessing fire-making with ancestral techniques, and learning about their way of life.

The village had over 230 residents, all related. My guide was one of the first four people in the village to be educated. Since the 1990s, the community has prioritised education, opening a school on community land funded entirely through tourism.

One unforgettable moment: being shown a ceremonial lion headgear, mane intact, used in rites of passage. A physical link to ancient tradition.

🐾 The Wild Continues: Hyenas, Cheetahs, and Vultures

Post-lunch, we returned to the reserve.

First came two hyenas, emerging from the swamp, rolling on dry earth like mischievous puppies. They paused long enough for a perfect photograph before melting into the tall grass.

Next, a huddle of vehicles pointed to three cheetahs, napping under a bush—impervious to the click of cameras. Further along, we saw vultures on the ground, circling something.

We approached carefully.

A wounded male gazelle was lying on the earth, breathing heavily. A deep wound marked its flank. The vultures waited, patient and merciless.
Nature’s second lesson of the day: survival belongs to the fittest.

A little later, we joined another cluster of vehicles to find a lone lion, resting silently in the open field.

🪶 The Parting Gift

As the sun began to dip, we started the journey back. But the Mara wasn’t done yet.

An ostrich strutted into view—posing perfectly, as if it knew this was my last day.

And then, my final memory:
Grasslands dotted with zebras, wildebeest, elands, topis, gazelles—and just before the gate, a group of giraffes, statuesque and still, silhouetted against the amber light.

🧡 Goodbye, Mara

Six days.
Countless memories.
No two moments alike.

From the silence of stalking predators to the rustle of hoofbeats across the plains… the Mara gave me more than a safari. It gave me stories, stillness, and a deeper connection to the wild.

The savannah has a rhythm—and for six unforgettable days, I walked in time with it.

Kenya Safari Diary – Day 5: Balloons, Crossings & the Thrill of the Wild

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🎈 A Postcard Comes Alive

A few years ago, I had come across a postcard that showed hot air balloons floating over the Maasai Mara at sunrise. That image stuck with me. So when I first planned this trip, the idea of a balloon safari was very much on my wishlist. But I was told all slots were full.

Then, two days ago—a surprise opening. No second thoughts. I booked it.

🌅 Sunrise in the Skies: The Balloon Safari Experience

Balloon safaris in Mara start before dawn. The early hours offer the best chance to watch the animals wake up with the sun. Each basket is divided into four sections, seating four people each.

As I waited with the group, I noticed two more women who, like me, weren’t particularly tall. The captain quickly grouped us together. That’s how I met Joyce and Jasmine, friendly fellow travellers from Singapore. Soon, we were chatting like old friends.

After a short safety briefing, we boarded. The balloon lifted slowly into the glowing sky—and below us, Mara came alive.

We floated above gazelles, foxes, and giraffes. Two lionesses strolled with majestic calm. A lone elephant, startled by the balloon’s hiss, scampered into the bush. Then, as we glided over the Talek River, we saw them—hundreds of wildebeest and zebras, grazing in massive herds. Further below, hippos wallowed in the water.

One magical hour passed in a heartbeat.

🥂 Bush Breakfast: A Meal to Remember

We landed softly on the plains and were greeted with a sumptuous bush breakfast—complete with an omelette station. Eating breakfast in the middle of the Mara, still buzzing from the flight, felt almost surreal.

After saying my goodbyes to Joyce and Jasmine and meeting up with Denis, it was time to chase another dream: witnessing the Great Migration river crossing.

🐃 The Waiting Game: Wildebeest at the Mara River

Our mission was clear: spot the wildebeest crossing the Mara River.

We began driving along the river’s edge. Crocodiles lay sunbathing on the banks. A family of hippos relaxed on a sandbar in the middle. And then—we saw a herd of wildebeest gathering at the edge.

Denis nodded. “They’re thinking about it.”

Soon, other vehicles joined us. Park rangers arrived and parked strategically, ensuring no game vehicles got too close and disturbed the herd. The waiting game began at 9:40 AM.

For hours, we watched the wildebeest inch toward the bank, only to retreat. Vehicles came and went. But I stayed—standing on the seat, glued to my binoculars. So did Denis.

And then, suddenly—movement.

Denis told me to sit. “It’s about to start. And when it starts, it gets wild—among the drivers.”

Engines roared. Vehicles surged toward the edge. The rangers were respectfully ignored. Denis, master of the moment, got us a perfect spot.

And then… it happened.

One wildebeest jumped into the river. The others followed. A chaos of hooves, splashes, dust, and instinct.

Years of watching this on screen didn’t dull the impact. Seeing it live, raw, unfiltered—was nothing short of breathtaking. The four-hour wait felt worth every second.

🧺 Lunch with a View (and a Baboon)

With my heart full, my stomach reminded me it was empty. Luckily, I had a picnic lunch packed for the full-day drive. We found a shaded spot, laid out a rug, and I tucked into my meal—under the close surveillance of a baboon and a marabou stork.

🦁 The Afternoon Watch: Lions, Cheetahs, and a Hyena

Post-lunch, we went in search of more wildlife—and Mara delivered.

We found four lions sleeping under a bush, unfazed by clicking cameras and murmurs. Park rangers arrived, gently dispersing the crowd to avoid stress on the animals. A little further, we saw a solitary lion lying in the grass. Again, as vehicles gathered, a ranger arrived to maintain the calm.

Later, we drove to the Kenya-Tanzania border for a quick photo-op, then spotted herds of Eland and Topi on the open plains.

Just as the afternoon light turned golden, the radio buzzed again—a cheetah had made a fresh kill. We rushed to the location. There she was, panting in the shade, having just taken down a gazelle.

As the day neared its end, I squinted at something in the distance.
“Is that an elephant?” I asked.
Denis laughed, “I think you’re just tired.”
Then, “Have you seen a hyena yet?”
We set off—and found a lone hyena resting in the shade, completing yet another chapter in this day’s wildlife drama.

🐘 One Last Surprise

As we made our way back to the lodge, the real elephants appeared—lumbering through the golden grass, just in time to remind me that in the Mara, the wild always has the last word.

Kenya Diary – Day 4: The Magic of Maasai Mara

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After an unforgettable time in Samburu and Lake Naivasha, it was time to head to the crown jewel of Kenya’s wilderness—Maasai Mara. The drive from Naivasha was smooth, the scenery rolling and expansive. Somewhere along the highway, I was treated to a scene straight out of a nature documentary: giraffes casually crossing the road while long-haul trucks bound for Uganda came to a respectful stop. That moment said everything—Kenya, like India, is a land where humans and animals have coexisted for centuries. The roads might belong to us, but the land? It belongs to all.

An Influencer Moment… That Was Real

I arrived at my lodge in the Nashulai Maasai Conservancy, adjacent to the Mara Reserve. As I was being briefed, someone mentioned that wildlife often roams the property—zebras, giraffes, antelopes, the works. I smiled politely, silently filing it away under “influencer exaggeration.”

But as I walked into my tent, I stopped in my tracks. Two zebras were grazing calmly right outside. Unbothered by my presence. Completely at home. Apparently, those influencer videos were real after all.

Into the Mara

Post-lunch, I was itching to head into the Mara Game Reserve, but Denis—my guide and voice of reason—suggested we wait till 3:00 PM for better sightings. By 2:30, I was already in the vehicle.

As soon as we entered the park, the Mara began to unfold its magic.

First, a lone elephant stood tall in the golden grass.
“In India, elephants are considered lucky,” I told Denis.
He smiled, “Then Mara is welcoming you.”

Next came herds of zebras, followed by wildebeest, impalas, and Thomson’s gazelles grazing together in peaceful coexistence. The giraffes soon followed—towering, gentle silhouettes against the sky. One of them turned ever so slightly, as if offering a perfect pose. I took the shot.

The Leopard in the Tree

Suddenly, the radio crackled with excitement. Denis stepped on the gas. We arrived at a clearing where at least 20 vehicles had gathered under a single tree. Up in its branches, a leopard, perfectly camouflaged, draped across the limbs with feline grace. Through the binoculars, I spotted its kill—an impala—tucked carefully into a crook of the tree.

And then, as if aware of all the attention, the leopard shifted. Slowly, dramatically, from one branch to another. And then descended—regal, deliberate, unhurried—before disappearing into the grass. A moment I will never forget.

More Elephants, Lion Cubs, and a Buffalo Parade

We continued, only to find a larger herd of elephants, slowly making their way to a lone tree. One stopped to scratch its back, reminding me once again how relatable elephants are—gentle giants with very human gestures.

Further along, two vehicles stood near a bush, cameras poised. We slowed down and waited. Soon, three lionesses emerged, followed by a tumble of cubs, rolling and pouncing on each other in playful chaos. For a few minutes, we all watched in reverent silence. But as more tourists gathered, the lions melted back into the bush.

As we turned to leave the park, thinking the day couldn’t offer more, a herd of Cape Buffaloes made their appearance—one of Africa’s Big Five. We waited as they crossed the road, closing the day with quiet power.

A Day of Living Documentaries

You can watch all the wildlife documentaries in the world, but nothing prepares you for the real thing—for the silence before a leopard moves, for the thunderous stillness of buffaloes, for the fluttering tails of lion cubs in grass.

The Mara doesn’t just show you wildlife—it welcomes you into its ancient rhythm. And on this day, it felt like it was opening its arms just for me.

Kenya Diary – Day Three: From Rift Valleys to Hippo Eyes

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On the third day of my African safari, I bid farewell to Samburu, my heart still full from the wildlife encounters of the past two days. As the vehicle wound its way out of the park in the early morning, nature gifted me a parting glance—giraffes, impalas, gerenuks, and dik-diks crossing our path, calm and unhurried, as if they knew I needed one last look.

My next destination: Lake Naivasha, nestled within the legendary Great Rift Valley. After all those geography lessons in school, how could I possibly be in Africa and not stand somewhere within the mighty Rift?

The drive was long, but it held one geographical delight—the Equator crossing. We stopped at a modest joint proudly announcing our latitude. I stepped out, stretched my legs (yes, even short ones need a break), and soaked in the moment. Just then, a young man offered to take my photo with the sign. We got chatting—and to my surprise, he turned out to be a three-time Chandigarh Marathon winner. Africa, always full of unexpected meetings.

We arrived at Lake Naivasha, a tranquil freshwater lake formed in a volcanic depression, fed by underground springs and the Malewa and Gilgil Rivers. It’s a haven for hippos and over 400 species of birds.

Out on a boat ride, the lake unfolded its quiet drama. Hippos peeked at us from beneath the water’s surface—eyes, ears, and a hint of a snout. Meanwhile, the skies and shores dazzled with avian beauty:
🦢 Great White Pelican
🦅 African Fish Eagle
🪶 Goliath Heron, African Spoonbill, Egyptian Goose, Cormorants, and Lapwings.

One pelican stood out—a veteran with part of its left wing missing. Boats usually toss it a fish, and it catches it mid-air, a little lakeside ritual. But when our guide tossed one, the pelican missed. Even the best have off days.

Next came a walk on Crescent Island, the exposed rim of an ancient volcanic crater. The island gained fame in the film Out of Africa—for which it was stocked with wildlife, including the Big Five. Post-production, the predators were removed, but herbivores like zebras, giraffes, impalas, and waterbucks wandered in during drier years, when a land corridor connected the island to the mainland. With the lake’s water levels now high, the animals are marooned—but serene and accustomed to visitors. They barely blinked as we walked past.

Still, I yearned for a closer view of the hippos. My guide steered the boat toward a quiet cove known for sightings. We waited. Eventually, a family of hippos emerged—but they were not thrilled to see us. One male even performed a mock charge to make his point. We backed off.

Rain clouds gathered, and a drizzle began to fall as we circled back to the landing point. That’s when we saw them again—the same hippo family, now on the shore. My guide began calling softly and tossing vegetables near an open patch. That was the cue.

Out came the giants, waddling forward like seasoned performers hitting their mark. Standing just a few feet away, I finally got the close-up I had been waiting for.

The day ended with a full heart and a camera roll full of hippos. This trip… it keeps unfolding in the most unexpected and beautiful ways.

Kenya Diary – Day Two: Of Giants, Hunters, and a Spoiled Romance

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My second day on the African safari began with unexpected laughter. Denis, my ever-practical guide, had insisted we start early—6:30 a.m. sharp—to catch the best wildlife action. Dutifully ready, I arrived at the lodge reception, eager for another day in Samburu.

As Denis prepared the safari vehicle, he opened the hood—a typical practice to allow unobstructed viewing from the top. Then he turned to me, paused, and stated, quite matter-of-factly, “You are short.”

He wasn’t wrong. At barely five feet, the open-top vantage point posed a bit of a challenge. But Denis, quick with a solution, added, “I think you can remove your shoes and stand on the seat.”

And that’s how my morning began—shoeless, grinning, and standing on the seat, ready to meet the wild.

Samburu is known for its unique quintet of wildlife—The Samburu Special Five: the Reticulated Giraffe, Grevy’s Zebra, Beisa Oryx, Somali Ostrich, and Gerenuk. These arid-adapted species are rarely seen in other Kenyan parks, making sightings here all the more special.

Our day opened with a gentle procession of Reticulated Giraffes, their elegant frames swaying as they nibbled the treetops, impervious to our awestruck gazes. Shortly after, a herd of impalas darted past, as if to say, Welcome to Samburu.

Then came the buzz on the radio—a herd of elephants had been spotted. We raced over and found them, including three playful calves, feeding leisurely as they made their way toward the river. We waited for the herd to cross the road. Just when we thought the last elephant had passed, the matriarch emerged—large, composed, and watchful. She brought up the rear like a regal guardian.

Soon, another radio alert sent us speeding across the terrain again—lions had been seen. In the tall grass, barely visible, we found three lionesses and four cubs, perfectly camouflaged. I raised my binoculars and scanned the horizon—impalas, zebras, and oryx were alert, nervously watching. The lionesses, thin and determined, moved slowly but purposefully toward the prey. In the wild, even the top predator must earn every meal.

As I was still processing the sheer majesty of these moments, Denis pointed out a pair of Gerenuks, the long-necked antelopes that stand upright to feed. But they darted off before we could get close.

Further ahead, a female Somali ostrich and her two young paused mid-stride, stared at us with curious eyes, and then—deciding we were harmless—ambled away.

Yet again, the radio crackled—a cheetah had been sighted. We sped to the location and found her resting in the shade, catching her breath beside a fresh kill—a Kirk’s dik-dik. Denis maneuvered the vehicle for the perfect view. The cheetah, the fastest creature on earth, was now a picture of stillness, her sides heaving gently as she gnawed at the bones.

Next on our checklist: the remaining members of the Samburu Five. After scanning the reserve for a while, we found them at last—Grevy’s Zebra and Beisa Oryx, grazing side by side under the open sky. Sightings complete, we began our journey back to the lodge, satisfied.

But Samburu wasn’t done with me yet.

As we rolled along, I noticed two elephants, one on either side of the road. “They’re courting,” Denis explained. We paused, holding our breath. Slowly, the two approached each other and gently touched trunks—a moment so tender it felt almost sacred. But the female clearly didn’t appreciate our intrusion. With a swish of her tail, she turned and walked away. The male turned to us and lingered. In his eyes, I imagined a mildly annoyed question: Did you really have to ruin that?

By now, the sun was high and the air heavy with heat. Just then, the radio crackled again—another lion sighting. We drove to the spot to find several safari vehicles gathered. A lion and a lioness lay in the shade, seemingly unfazed by their human audience. But as more vehicles arrived, the lion gave an irritated grunt, stood up, and disappeared into the bush, his privacy duly invaded.

Thus ended my second day in Samburu—a symphony of sightings, from giraffes to courting elephants, lions on the hunt to the cheetah at rest. The bush, with all its drama and dignity, had begun to reveal its soul. And I knew—this safari was only getting better.

Waking Dreams: First Impressions of Kenya

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African wildlife has held a magnetic pull on me for as long as I can remember—an affinity nurtured by countless hours spent watching Nat Geo and Discovery Channel documentaries. Over time, the dream of witnessing this raw, untamed wilderness evolved into a constant on my ever-expanding bucket list.

Lately, I’ve come to think of bucket lists not as final checklists but as wish wells—meant to be drawn from and replenished continually. The desire to visit Africa had been simmering quietly for years, but it was a chance encounter with an article on the Great Migration that finally tipped the balance. A flurry of research followed, and just like that, a trip to Kenya was set in motion.

The journey from New Delhi to Nairobi was long and tiring, but the moment I landed, a sense of quiet excitement took over. The true beginning of my Kenyan adventure, however, was the drive from Nairobi to Samburu. Samburu lies in northern Kenya, a rugged, remote stretch of land about five to six hours from the capital.

My driver and guide, Denis, was a revelation. Warm, curious, and deeply informed, he peppered our journey with questions—about Indian politics, elections, population, healthcare, and industry. It struck me how much Kenya and India, for all their geographic distance, shared in common: teeming populations, colonial histories, emerging economies, and an abiding concern for the future.

As we cruised down the highway, a lush green blur caught my eye. Denis noticed my curiosity and pointed out that the trees were mango orchards. “In February,” he said, “they’re filled with fruit, and people flock here from nearby villages.” To discover mangoes—India’s beloved king of fruits—thriving in a distant African land felt both surreal and oddly comforting.

A little later, we passed a village where two young girls were seated on the steps of a small shop. They waved enthusiastically at our vehicle. I smiled and waved back, instinctively transported to my childhood in Arunachal Pradesh, where I too would greet passing vehicles with the same innocent joy.

Denis chuckled, “Light-skinned people are rare in these parts—they’re happy you waved back.”
I was momentarily surprised. By Indian standards, I have a darker complexion, yet here, I was ‘light-skinned.’
When I told Denis this, he glanced at me through the rearview mirror and asked earnestly, “Is that good or bad?”

It was a simple question, but one loaded with cultural weight. How could I possibly explain the Indian obsession with fairness, the countless fairness creams, matrimonial filters, and coded compliments? I smiled, choosing instead to steer the conversation elsewhere.

Nearly six hours into our journey, we finally reached Samburu. My lodge was nestled inside the game reserve. As soon as we entered the park, I saw her—a lone giraffe standing tall, unbothered, majestic. Moments later, a zebra appeared. It felt as if the wildlife I’d spent decades admiring on screen had stepped forward to greet me in person.

My long-held wish was no longer just a dream. It was real, and it had only just begun.

Tracing Flowers, Faith, and Forgotten Thrones: A Walk Through Mehrauli’s Living History

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Delhi doesn’t reveal itself all at once. It unspools in layers — a whisper here, a ruin there, a breeze carrying the scent of marigolds and memory. On a quiet Sunday morning, I joined a heritage walk curated by Enroute Indian History, tracing the sacred and ceremonial path of Phoolwalon ki Sair — the annual festival of flowers, peace, and communal harmony held in Mehrauli.

But what I encountered was far more than just a trail of rituals — it was a journey through the soul of Delhi.

Where the City Began: Yogmaya Temple

Our walk began at the Yogmaya Temple, one of the few surviving temples from ancient Delhi and possibly as old as the city itself. It stands tucked away in the heart of Mehrauli, quiet yet powerful, like the still eye of a storm that has raged for centuries around it.

Long before Mehrauli acquired its present name, the area was known as Yoginipur — the city of yoginis. The temple, dedicated to Goddess Yogmaya (a sister of Krishna in mythology), still plays a central role during Phoolwalon ki Sair, with floral offerings made here alongside those at the nearby Dargah. As we stood beneath the age-worn arches, time itself seemed to slow down.

A Tomb with a Curse: Adam Khan’s Memorial

Not far from the temple, we made a detour to the tomb of Adam Khan, a monument steeped in local lore. Adam Khan, the foster brother of Akbar, was executed for treason, flung twice from the ramparts of Agra Fort to ensure death.

His tomb stands out for its Indo-Islamic architecture, reminiscent of Delhi Sultanate-era design rather than typical Mughal grandeur. It is said that no local woman of Mehrauli visits the tomb, believing it to be cursed. The only women who do are usually tourists or history students, like us. The air around the tomb is oddly heavy — less reverence, more caution.

A Sacred Journey: Dargah of Khwaja Bakhtiyar Kaki

We then followed the festival’s spiritual trail to the Dargah of Khwaja Bakhtiyar Kaki, the 13th-century Sufi saint and disciple of Khwaja Moinuddin Chishti of Ajmer. A contemporary of Sultan Iltutmish, Kaki is revered as one of Delhi’s patron saints, and his shrine continues to draw pilgrims, politicians, and poets.

It is said that every ruler of Delhi sought the blessings of Sufi saints to gain legitimacy, and this Dargah, in particular, carries that aura of sanctified power.

As we stepped inside the whitewashed courtyard, a qawwal seated by the gateway began to sing. His voice, deep and raw, cut through the morning stillness, carrying the lyrics of Chaap Tilak. The Dargah came alive — not with grandeur, but with music, faith, and centuries of longing.

A Forgotten Well of Healing: Gandak ki Bawli

On the way to the Dargah, we stopped at the near-forgotten Gandak ki Bawli — a stepwell slowly sinking into neglect, yet once central to local life. Gifted by Iltutmish to the Dargah, the stepwell was believed to possess healing powers, and pilgrims would take a dip in its waters before offering prayers.

Later studies revealed the water had a high sulphur content, lending some scientific basis to the belief that it could cure skin ailments and other illnesses. Today, the water is stagnant, the steps cracked, but the legend still lingers — like a half-remembered dream.

Where the Empire Withered: Zafar Mahal

The final stop of our walk was the Zafar Mahal, the summer residence of Bahadur Shah Zafar, Delhi’s last Mughal emperor. Mehrauli, cooler than the rest of Delhi due to its elevation and greenery, became the seasonal retreat of the royal court. And this retreat wasn’t symbolic — the emperor moved with his whole retinue, even shifting the throne to Mehrauli for the duration.

Inside the Mahal is the Moti Masjid, a private prayer space built by Zafar himself. But the site is not just a reminder of royal solitude — it is also the stage for a powerful piece of local lore.

People in Mehrauli still say that the proximity of Zafar Mahal to the Dargah was a fateful misstep. “Sufi badshah se bada hota hai,” they say — a Sufi saint is greater than a king. Perhaps it was no coincidence, they whisper, that the Mughal Empire collapsed soon after. Bahadur Shah Zafar, the poet-emperor, would eventually die in exile, far from his beloved Delhi, and never be laid to rest in the tomb he had built for himself beside the Dargah.

A City of Shadows and Fragrance

As I walked back through Mehrauli’s bylanes, the scent of mogra, the hum of old qawwalis, and the echoes of royal processions accompanied me. Delhi, I realized, isn’t just a city of monuments — it is a city of memory, myth, and mood. Every stone here remembers. Every shrine still breathes.

Phoolwalon ki Sair may be celebrated once a year, but the path it takes is eternal — a living map of Delhi’s soul, etched in fragrance, footsteps, and faith.