Durga Puja is special for every Bengali. But this year, it turned extra special. This year, Maa came home.
What does it feel like when Maa comes home? It feels like months of planning and tons of shopping. It feels like chaos that somehow turns into joy. It feels like generations coming together—airport meetups filled with hugs, endless food, dressing up in silks and kurtas, and continuous adda sessions that carry through the night.
For me, Durga Puja has always been a community festival. My most vivid memory was from Kolkata, when our apartment complex organised the Puja—collective, chaotic, and deeply rooted in togetherness. I had only read about ghar-er pujo—Durga Pujas held at home—or seen them recreated in films. So when my cousin decided to organise one this year, I knew I had to be there.
And let me tell you, to call it “challenging” is an understatement. Durga Puja is often described as a Rajashik puja—one that kings performed. And here, a family carrying on this grand tradition at home.
I woke up before dawn, ran across airports to catch connecting flights, and landed in the sweltering heat and humidity of Silchar. It was Panchami—the fifth day of Navratri—and time for the first ritual, Bodhon, where Maa Durga is ceremonially invited.
The evening was filled with frantic activity when a power cut threatened to plunge everything into darkness. Out came our mobile phones, lighting up the puja mandap in a glow both modern and makeshift. But Maa, it seemed, wasn’t amused by this arrangement. The power cut lingered, and finally, generators whirred to life, bathing the mandap in light once more. Just when we thought we would melt away in the humid heat, the electricity returned—as if Maa had decided it was time to ease our troubles.
And then it began. The sounds of the conch, ulu, and dhak filled the air, announcing what our hearts already knew— Maa had come home.
One of the joys of being in a diverse workplace is the daily discovery of traditions, rituals, and stories that colleagues carry with them. Over cups of tea or during lunch breaks, conversations turn into cultural exchanges — each person explaining their customs, sometimes teasing one another in their mother tongue, and often leaving everyone a little wiser.
A few weeks ago, I overheard a conversation between two colleagues — a Bengali and a Punjabi. The Bengali was explaining Mahalaya to the Punjabi. For most, Mahalaya simply marks the ending of Pitru Paksh across India. But for Bengalis, it means much more: it is the dawn that ushers in Durga Puja, the most awaited festival of the year.
The Unmistakable Voice of Tradition
For anyone who is not Bengali — and has never heard Birendra Krishna Bhadra’s baritone narration — it is difficult to explain what makes Mahalaya so special. Since its first broadcast in 1931, All India Radio’s iconic programme Mahishasurmardini has become synonymous with the day. Scripted by Bani Kumar, set to music by Pankaj Mullick, and enriched with devotional songs by some of Bengal’s finest singers, the programme’s heart lies in Bhadra’s voice reciting the Chandi Path.
Generations of Bengalis have woken at dawn on Mahalaya to listen to this. The music, the chants, and above all, Bhadra’s voice signal that Durga Puja is just around the corner.
Childhood Rituals and the Magic of Radio
My own memories of Mahalaya go back to childhood. A day before, my father would carefully tune the radio to catch the AIR frequency and then place it by the bedside. An alarm was set for 4 a.m., and when it rang, I would awaken not to the sound of a bell but to Bhadra’s sonorous voice filling the room.
Later, when cassettes of Mahishasurmardini became available, families eagerly bought the two-cassette set. It meant one could listen anytime, without waking up before dawn. Yet, the cassettes never quite captured the magic. The ritual of rising in the pre-dawn darkness, with the crackle of the radio and the collective stillness, held its own irreplaceable charm.
When Change Met Resistance
Technology wasn’t the only agent of change. In the late 1970s, when Uttam Kumar reigned as the Nayak of Bengali cinema, All India Radio attempted to recreate the programme. With narration by Uttam Kumar and music by Hemanta Mukherjee, the new version was expected to captivate audiences. Instead, it sparked a massive backlash. For listeners, replacing Bhadra’s voice felt like sacrilege. The experiment failed, and AIR never tampered with the original again.
For my family, this story carried its own humour. My mother, a devoted Uttam Kumar fan, was disappointed, while my father — who never cared much for Uttam’s acting — recounted the “failure” with a gleeful chuckle every year. Decades later, the controversy found its way onto the silver screen in the 2019 film Mahalaya.
Rituals in a Changing World
Today, the world is very different. Technology has transformed how we consume tradition. Yet, Puja is the anchor of a Bengali’s calendar. Yesterday, I went to CR Park, the hub of Bengalis in Delhi, and it was almost as if I had been transported. A book fair, a saree mela juxtaposed with cultural performances seemed to signal that Pujo had begun.
This morning, I found myself using the Spotify app at 4 a.m. and beginning my day with Bhadra’s immortal narration. The medium has changed, but the ritual remains.
As Uttam Kumar’s character says in the film Mahalaya: “Birendra Krishna Bhadra’s voice is Durga Puja.” Indeed, for Bengalis everywhere, the festival begins not with the idol-making, not with the lights or the pandals, but with a voice — deep, resonant, and timeless — announcing that the Goddess is on her way.
Hauz Khas has always been that buzzing South Delhi address — synonymous with nightlife, chic cafés, designer boutiques, and a medley of world cuisines. For me, it had long existed as that happening urban village, where the city comes to unwind. Someone had once mentioned there were “some old monuments” tucked away there, but then, Delhi has monuments scattered like punctuation marks in its long, layered history.
So when an email from INTACH dropped into my inbox about a heritage walk through Hauz Khas, curiosity nudged me to sign up. That is how, on a quiet Sunday morning, I found myself standing with fellow history enthusiasts at the gates of the Hauz Khas mosque — ready to peel back the centuries, guided by the brilliant storyteller Ratnendu Roy.
Stepping Into a Medieval Campus
Hauz Khas was originally built by Alauddin Khilji and reached its pinnacle under Firoz Shah Tughlaq. As we walked into the mosque and madrasa complex — complete with hostel cells once meant for students — it was easy to imagine its glory days: serene gardens, the expansive water tank shimmering beyond, and scholars breathing life into its stone corridors.
Tucked within the complex are several tombs, the most prominent being that of Firoz Shah himself. Legend has it that the surrounding village grew as an ecosystem around this premier centre of learning. Even today, gazing out from the madrasa’s colonnaded windows towards the hauz (reservoir), the scene feels remarkably tranquil — as if time has paused just for a moment.
From Forgotten Village to Trendy Hotspot
Hauz Khas village lay largely forgotten until the mid-1980s, when designers and café owners “discovered” its rustic charm. Boutiques sprang up in old village homes, and the area morphed into Delhi’s go-to party destination. Yet behind the neon signs and polished façades, you can still spot the original mud-brick houses — a whisper of the village it once was.
A short stroll led us into the lush Deer Park. It is one of those rare green islands in Delhi where city sounds dim into silence. Joggers, families, and groups of friends dotted the winding paths. Within its leafy expanse stand two medieval gems: the Lodhi-era Bagh-e-Alam ka Gumbad, said to have taken inspiration from Firoz Shah’s tomb, and the diminutive Kali Gumti, whose cenotaph has vanished into history’s mists.
Munda Gumbad and the Whisper of the Wind
The walk ended at Munda Gumbad — literally the “headless dome” — a pleasure pavilion once located on an island in the middle of the reservoir. Encroachments have since pushed the water’s edge far back, but the charm lingers. Climbing the short steps, I was met with a 360° panorama: the green canopy of the park, the stone silhouettes of monuments, and the glimmering water. A soft breeze wrapped around us, and I found myself imagining an earlier time — boats gliding across the water, ducks splashing, and royalty reclining under the dome to escape the summer sun.
As we were walking towards the Munda Gumbad, a sudden rustling and cacophony above made us look up — a massive colony of bats hung like dark fruits from the branches overhead. I had never seen so many at once; they seemed like watchful guardians of the place’s secrets.
Threads Between Past and Future
Along the walk, our conversations meandered — from vandalised monuments and encroached heritage zones to the challenges of restoration, the scarcity of funds, and the lack of public awareness. It struck me then: history is not just an episode of the past. It is a thread that connects us to the future — a legacy to be understood, protected, and cherished.
A Sunday morning, well spent. A city rediscovered.
Long weekends often slip away under the weight of work commitments, leaving behind a quiet sadness. I’ve always wondered about those who thrive on such relentless dedication—how they cope when personal time is devoured by professional demands. But then again, sometimes one has to do what one has to do.
This weekend, however, I wasn’t lamenting. Instead, I found myself walking through the serene campus of ONGC’s Advanced Training Institute (ATI) in Betul, South Goa—where the Sal river meets the Arabian Sea.
First Impressions and the Green Campus
My first visit to ATI Goa was in 2007. The lush green campus struck me instantly, and over the years, every visit has carried the same charm. The institute is known for its specialised safety trainings and regularly hosts trainees from across India and abroad.
Reimagining Branding Through Mythology
In 2023, ATI underwent a major overhaul of its facilities. Around the same time, I joined ONGC’s Corporate Communications team in Delhi, which was entrusted with the challenge of re-imagining the campus branding. Depicting oil and gas creatively is never easy, and this time we were told to look beyond hydrocarbons—to weave in elements of Indian culture alongside ONGC’s operational identity.
After several brainstorming sessions, inspiration came from Samudra Manthan—the churning of the ocean in Indian mythology. The idea resonated because it reflected both struggle and discovery, much like ONGC’s journey in exploration. To make the concept tangible, we decided to create sculptures of treasures from the ocean—Ucchashrava , Shankh, Kurma, Dhanvantari, and even the Panch Tatwa—crafted entirely from ONGC’s operational scrap. Each sculpture bore a note of the percentage of scrap used, a small but symbolic nod to sustainability.
A shout out to the incredible team of Debasish Mukherjee, Gagandeep Aneja, Bagmishree, Chandrali Mukherjee, Nikita Chiripal and Arthat Studios, who gave shape to the concepts.
A Walk Among Sculptures and Memories
These sculptures were installed by December 2023, but I hadn’t returned to the campus since February 2024. This morning, walking under the early sun, I was greeted by the chirping of birds and the quiet roads of the leafy campus. The sculptures stood proudly, glowing in the golden light, narrating the story of re-imagining branding for an oil and gas company.
As I walked past them, memories of brainstorming sessions, wild ideas, the race against deadlines, and weekends sacrificed came rushing back. Two years later, standing before the very sculptures that were once sketches on paper, I felt an odd but fulfilling sense of satisfaction.
Sometimes, the reward of lost weekends is not the time you sacrificed, but the legacy you are part of.
A special shout out, once again, to the incredible team of Debasish Mukherjee, Gagandeep Aneja, Bagmishree, Chandrali Mukherjee, Nikita Chiripal and Arthat Studios, without whom these concepts would never have come alive.
Let’s get this out of the way — navigating to Purana Qila or even the Delhi Zoo is a task that tests patience. You’d imagine that such landmark institutions would be well-marked, but no. The absence of clear road signage makes you meander through a confusing network of turns and traffic. You arrive more relieved than excited. Rant over.
First Glimpses, Lasting Impressions
My relationship with Purana Qila began from a distance. I first came to Delhi in 2003. Living in Noida and working in Connaught Place, my daily commute via Mathura Road brought me past those imposing fort walls. Every day, I’d glance at them and wonder — what stories do those stones hold?
But like many things in life, wonder didn’t translate into action. During those five years in Delhi, I never crossed the threshold.
A Scorching Start
Years later, Delhi called me back. This time, I finally entered the fort — albeit during one of its infamous blistering summers. The heat was relentless, and the visit brief, rushed, and largely overshadowed by the lure of an air-conditioned retreat.
This Sunday: A Walk Through Time
Last Sunday, I joined a heritage walk with Enroute Indian History. The experience was different — thoughtful, immersive, and filled with the kind of stories that give walls a voice.
Purana Qila, they said, was built on the ruins of history itself. The Mughal emperor Humayun built his capital, Dinpanah, here. His rival, Sher Shah Suri, later took over, expanding and fortifying the structure into what we now see — layers of ambition etched in sandstone.
The Talaqi Darwaza Mystery
We stopped at the Talaqi Darwaza — a magnificent gateway sealed shut for nearly 200 years. The River Yamuna used to flow next to the fort, and one can still see the boat landings at the Talaqi Darwaza and Humayun Darwaza. We were told no one had walked through it in generations. And then, as if summoned by our collective curiosity, a small pedestrian door in the grand gate creaked open. A workman stepped through. Our group rushed toward the passage, only to be gently turned away by the guard. Restoration work, he said. The door may have opened, but not for us.
A glimpse of the forbidden. A tease of time.
Qila-i-Kuhna Mosque: Geometry and Grace
We moved next to the Qila-i-Kuhna Mosque, a corner masterpiece built by Sher Shah. Its intricately carved arches and calligraphy revealed a confluence of power and piety. The upper floor — once reserved for women — hinted at a forgotten intimacy within this public space of worship.
The Baoli: Secret to Sustenance
To counter Delhi’s relentless summers, the fort holds a baoli — a deep stepwell, once connected to the royal hammam through terracotta pipes. It whispers of ancient engineering and the luxury of cool retreats.
Sher Mandal: A Tragic Legacy
Near the baoli stands the octagonal Sher Mandal, once used by Humayun as a library and astronomical observatory. Ironically, this beautiful tower is where he met his tragic end — falling down its steps after hearing the call to prayer.
Traces of the Lost Village
Few today know that a village once thrived within these very walls. The British cleared it out, leaving no trace. Just open lawns and an eerie sense of absence.
Kunti Mandir: Myth Meets Stone
And then, a mythic interlude. Within the fort stands a modest Kunti Mandir, said to link the fort to Indraprastha of the Mahabharata. Not well-preserved, yet quietly potent — a link between epic pasts and empirical history.
From Wondering Outside to Wandering Inside
What was once a fleeting glance from a car window is now a lingering memory. From the outside to the inside, from myth to masonry, from stories overheard to stories remembered — Purana Qila finally revealed itself.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Jajabor 