Creating space around travel experiences…

The suitcases are stacked away, travel clothes are put away… I continue to sort things – in my head – about travel in general. I continue to write about it.

Here… let me take you on a travel-planning tour… ahem…inside my head. A germ of an idea settles in. The squiggly thing worms around causing sizable neural sparks. Each time a new possibility hits the neural pathway – be it a possible destination, a historical fact, a monument, a museum, a local delicacy… the lightening along the neural network is dazzling. Or so I imagine it must be. 

Yes. I stare wide-eyed at pictures, hold my breath as I read about places, squint at images – nose sticking into computer, stroke magazine pages with amazement, wonder and optimism.

I believe many of us do so in the planning process. Then of course, is the matter of gathering poise and composure and sharing details nonchalantly with the spouse. Admittedly, in the last decade, my plans have been a lot less adventurous and his apprehension lower, questions fewer. But we can save that for another blogpost.

Let’s blame it on the cynicism of age and dwindling of spirit, but I now wonder if the daydreaming and excitement over an upcoming trip, may be the best part of the travel experience.

For in that moment is the sweet knowledge that this will soon be reality. Yet, in that moment, there is no interference from flight delays and dusty roads, and stomach bugs. In that moment, there is no exhaustion from staring at things – no matter how wonderful they may be.

Is there truly such a thing as too much of a good thing? Can there be actual fatigue from taking in too much art, too much history, too much architecture?
Is this all a case of sour grapes – as I find myself more exhausted when I travel? Or old age? Perhaps.

Why then, when I think of the Louvre in Paris, do I think fondly of the café au lait in a tiny café in the adjoining alley? Did I get weary looking at all the art and wonder in the museum? So much so, that rather than Mona Lisa’s smile, I remember my own - filled with satisfaction, sipping the café au lait?

Why then, when I think of the Sistine Chapel, do I think of a to-die-for gelato and a silly salad comprising only roasted peppers that I got, thanks to bad translation? Despite all the wonder, did I get tired of standing in lines and craning my neck, until a wall of humanity pushed me away from beneath Michelangelo’s fresco?  

Why then, when I think of the Rialto bridge in Venice, do I think of a tiny sandwich shop crammed with people? The owner spoke little or no English. Nor did he have time to try and explain. It smelt wonderful in there and apparently, by the crowds filled in the tiny space, the small sandwiches waiting patiently behind glass cases were pieces of art.  They were.

We will never know for sure what we ate. But we polished off every last crumb in wonder, and laughed as we almost spat out one – evidently, we had not acquired the taste for whatever it was inside the sandwich requiring an acquired taste.  

Clearly, I seem to have no taste for art, history or architecture and can think only of coffee and ice-cream and silly salads, and sandwiches with who-knows-what in them. Sigh… yet the person planning the trip, excitedly jotting down possible destinations - picking, choosing, discarding places is doing so based on art, architecture, history and not gelatos or makhanlal’s lassi in the heart of Jodhpur’s old city in Rajasthan (which by the way, needs its own post).

Does a certain saturation set in our mind and our eyes from too much of a good thing? Of staring at things and reading historical factoids, one after another. And no matter how beautiful, does a certain exhaustion creep in?

Take our recent trip to Rajasthan. We stare in awe at palaces and marble structures, chiseled temples and monuments – so much art, so much history, so much wonder… Why then, do pictures progressively decline as we move from day 1 to day 7? I look for pictures of the City palace in Udaipur – I find only a handful, I find fewer that seemed to be clicked with care. Hmm… dusty, hot, tired and ah… right after that delicious traditional lunch we had in the… okay okay…

Not to reveal apparent gaucherie and gluttony in wake of famous, awe inspiring art and history, but does a been-there-done-that mentality creep in as we join the hordes that explore the palace in Udaipur? The palace can be explored only in one direction -- the hallways are tiny, ceilings are low, crowds are plenty. There is boredom in my daughter’s eyes as we look at opulent remnants of bygone times. We seem to politely click pictures for it is beautiful and we know it, yet, we walk with a quickened pace and there is relief on my kid’s face, once we're outside - in the sunshine, away from the opulence.

A series of doors remarkably aligned that they look like framed mirrors
Now only if I had actually stopped walking and taken a good pictures  ~City Palace, Udaipur 

 

Like any framed artwork which shows better with some blank space around it, do my travel experiences need moments of vacant spaces around them to appreciate them better? Do the café au lait and gelato constitute that empty space?

Perhaps it is in these moments of rest – of gelatos and lassis, and unpronounceable salads and sandwiches, that we catch our breath – away from the spectacular wonder. And perhaps, these moments filled with rest and tired and empty staring, add spots of vacant mental gaps and a certain space around everything the eyes and minds and soul have experienced.

A little empty background that allows the wonder to stick out.

Staring at a giant iron kadhai bubbling with Rajasthani kachoris

Lilt of the flute provides space around the marbled opulence

 

Traditional music in the Mehrangarh fort - a musical respite from the amazing architecture and artifacts 

 

Awakening wonder… travel and other…

Fact well known: We miss something only after it’s gone.

Fact not so well known to me: Sense of wonder can be one such thing

Of the things we take for granted, I never imagined sense of wonder could figure on my list. I never imagined it could be so central to our being. I couldn’t imagine why I hadn’t noticed it as much, never appreciated it.

I never imagined I could miss it so much.

A sense of wonder is a remarkable thing. It’s the sparkle in the eye, the light on the face, a smile, a spark, awakened curiosity… wonder.

It’s the process of discovery, it’s a sense of marvel, it’s heightened curiosity, it’s the quick awareness of beauty in our surroundings.

A child is full of wonder. It’s wonderful to watch a child experience wonder. They are so open to it. They await it. They receive it with abandon, without hesitation; their minds are tiny sponges waiting to soak up anything in their surrounding that sparks their imagination.  

As we age, we are increasingly preoccupied by life and worries and responsibilities and everything we deem more important, more valuable, more worthy of our time. Does that leave less room for wonder?

Or are we less willing to make room for wonder? For wonder is big, and at times silly, or uncomfortable or even incongruous in our present.

There are many things that awaken wonder and each of us would have a different list if we ever decided to make that list. Wonder can exist in small unexpected things - if and when we choose to notice them. Wonder can exist prominently – in a no-denying-it manner. At times, quick, fleeting, and unexpected. Other times, we are well aware of what stirs wonder in us. 

Of the things I know for certain awakens wonder in me, is travel. It inspires awe, awakens wonder. It stirs gratitude, arouses and satisfies curiosity. In travel, we make the space and time to experience wonder, stay awake to it – in small, silly experiences, and big, breathtaking moments.

Yet, when life gets hard, energy declines, and spirit dwindles, it seems difficult to allow wonder in. It seems misplaced and incongruous in the current scheme of things. Even when I see it, there is a sense of detachment, it seems a misfit in the environment. I look at it as a stranger I can no longer relate to.  

Some months ago – five, to be almost precise, my husband and I waited at an ultrasound appointment. Having spent six weeks in the hospital and undergone back-to-back surgeries, I was wobbly and sufficiently medicated.

I flipped pages of a Good Housekeeping (or some such) magazine. My husband saw a travel magazine nearby, and handed it to me. I studied the enticing, adventure and wonder-filled locations on the cover.

It seemed too much to even dare to hold it. I knew it would awaken wonder inside me. Yet, there seemed no room for wonder in that moment. It seemed incongruous in that situation filled with so much pain, worry and apprehension. I could not relate to it. I could not give in to the sense of wonder – perhaps in the fear that it would make my pain seem sharper? Or make me weaker? Or sadder?  

It seemed unfair that wonder should have to share a space with pain and fear. Perhaps I felt I didn’t deserve it in that situation, that it could create a havoc of dissatisfaction.

I refused the magazine, and continued to disinterestedly flip page after page of recipes I would never cook and organizing tips I would never follow.

Even if I was not in a place – physically or emotionally to allow wonder in, I understood there was a strangeness to my actions, to my thoughts.

The following month, I made travel plans. The thought of family and friends was nurturing, despite the long travel and the immense fatigue and apprehension I felt.

The silly magazine incident stuck with me. I felt as if I had to do something about it. We made plans to travel within India. The plans were more conservative than they otherwise might have been, but did include a camel safari, a stay in the dessert and other travel and exploration.

The thought of travel, awakened wonder. Alongside, it awakened panic and a certain realization of possible insanity that I had so far held in denial.

The magazine episode reminded me that I was closing up, that the walls of guardedness were so high, little wonder could leap past (okay, let’s ditch the metaphors, but you get the idea).

There was much wonder in our travels. There was also much fatigue and at times questioning of intention and ahem… sanity.  

I felt as if I needed to be removed from my surroundings filled with worry and medical issues, and routine and responsibility. And thrown in a place and situation where I would willingly or unwillingly allow myself to take in at least some ounces of wonder.

I took in plenty.

I understand it is easy to slip back to a place of wonder deprivation. To focus on the problems and fatigue, that wonder seems an object far away that we can no longer relate to. I also understand there is no need to be in exotic, adventure filled situations to awaken wonder.

How do we stay open to wonder? How do we notice it? How do we allow it be, to breathe, despite the surrounding ugliness?

 

Art: beneath it… within the artist…

I stare at magnificent carvings in magnificent temples. I stare at magnificent structures – palaces and forts, from centuries ago.  The temples, the forts, the palaces, the paintings, the art… they have all witnessed greatness and devastation, glory and war and plunder.

They have stood through time. History unfolding, art undying. Beauty and magnificence everlasting.

Every pillar, every mural, every wall, every corner has witnessed history. Some art has withered away in the ravages of time and the rage of war. But even in ruin, the art seems whole. 

Jaisalmer - temple carvings

 

Mughal Paintings: paints made from ground up semi-precious stone

 

Carvings in sandstone

 

Jodhpur: the blue city

One head, multiple bodies

 

From a generation constantly rushed and overwhelmed, I wonder about these artisans. I imagine them – hundreds of them slowly, devotionally, chiseling, painting… meditatively creating art.

I look at the five foot single stone carving. I imagine artisans molding it as if it were clay. The stone is cold and unforgiving, no do-overs here. If it breaks, it is gone. They would start all over. Yet this cold, unforgiving stone is rendered soft and supple by their art.

They must have lives and worries and preadolescent kids too, I imagine. Yet, staring at the block of stone, or their medium of choice, they forget everything, and give in only to the art?

I don’t imagine them staring at their computer screen, deciding that the entire story plot is too predictable, sighing and then deciding to go get a cookie. I don’t imagine them questioning their art or their skill, or getting so distracted on their way back from the pantry – they never return to the computer.

Yes. All art (even amateurish) requires some slowing down, some letting go. The more exquisite the art, the more devotion it must require. The more true the artiste, the more willing they must be to relinquish the ugliness within, the distractions, the pain, the mundane, and be able to see the bigger vision, to draw out the beauty.

True, angst is sometimes the source of art too. But even if the subject matter is filled with pain, an artiste would have to forget all else, and bring it out with truth and inner peace or pain and beauty. Yes. Art must result from the paradox of concentration and letting go.

How much beauty must an artiste create within? How much beauty from within must an artist release? How do we know if there is even enough beauty within us to create art?
 

carved ceilings

King's quarters inside Mehrangarh fort

royal cenotaphs

 

Musings on nature, hesitation and milking a cow…

Children are sometimes hesitant to try new things. We egg them on, encourage them, extol benefits… you know the drill…

Often times as adults, we weigh the situation, determine if we should do it, hum, haw, hesitate…

Then we watch a child jump into that same situation with a no-big-deal attitude that makes us question what we’re waiting for.

We are all about making educated guesses, about ‘discretion being the better part of valor’ and all those good things.

Children seem to follow their intuition. Life is simpler to them, situations easier.

Especially of things in nature, environments in which they are comfortable and people with whom they are happy to be.

Take for instance, our recent trip to Satara in Maharashtra, India. Our ten-year-old loves it there. When I told her of our trip to India, the first question she asked was if we were going to Satara.

Not only is she extremely fond of the relatives who indulge and pamper her, but my guess is that she enjoys their lifestyle that is so close to nature. Her aunt puts food to cook on an outdoor earthen stove, where the food bubbles and cooks happily for hours on heat generated by twigs and leaves. Everything tastes so much better.

She talks excitedly about their sugarcane-eating dog, Chikoo. The dog eats sugarcane - not like most canines who would simply wolf it down. No, this intelligent creature gnaws on a piece of sugarcane till all the sugary juicy goodness is gone and then spits out the stringy remnants – just as humans do.

Much as I marvel this creature, I do not go near him, as he may not be the friendliest of souls. She, however, rushes to meet and pet him. He seems to not mind the attention either. Surprised, I go near, making sure he is tied. The dog eyes me suspiciously and we hear a low growl forming at his throat.

“I don’t think he likes you”, announces the ten-year-old. Hmm… Obviously, another generation has failed in the tact department, I think.  
Does he truly not like me or does he simply sense my apprehension – and is that contagious?

On arrival, we go to the stable where her cousin is milking the cows. He asks her is she would like to try. Without an ounce of hesitation, she walks to the cow, sits on the stool he puts before her, and follows instructions. (Yes. Follows instructions.)   

I stare in amazement at her ease, her willingness to try new things… I wonder if it is the same child.

He asks me if I would like to try. I hesitate. I wonder if we may have exhausted the poor cow’s patience. She is one of two cows unlikely to kick when milked by a stranger. I decide it best to give her a break and wait for the next milking in the morning.

I mull over it some more and deliberate if I should further torture the poor cow. Will she give me a nice solid kick?

I put my hesitation aside, wake up bright and early, and give it a try. While milking the cow, which feels both strange and intimate, I am flooded with compassion for this creature. I am happy to be there with the cows and their gentleness and fears of being kicked melt away. Hesitation does take grip again and I wonder if I may be tormenting her with my lack of technique.

I think of how nonchalant my kid was about the whole matter. So much more seamless, so much more natural, so much more intuition-driven rather than thought.

I wonder again if it is natural proximity to nature, which given her age and life-experience is still somewhat intact. Children, with their intuitive sense, know what is natural and embrace it easily and willingly.

I question when and how we lose that in the ‘growing-up’ process. I wonder if she will lose some of it in her daily overly-urban living.

And when she does, I hope such experiences and her fondness of family who live so close to nature in Satara, will bring her back.

Travel and a kid…

As a family, we like to travel, explore the world, encounter people and ways of life, share history, see beautiful sights, experience wonder…

Correct that. I like - for us - as a family, to travel, explore, etc. etc..

I suppose every traveler seeks or embraces travel experiences differently. As for children, they may be full of wonder – about travel or life in general, but as travelers, their wonder may lay in things that we adults can no longer comprehend.

My breath almost halts as I am struck by the serenity and sculpted spectacle of the marble temple in Ranakpur. 1440 pillars surround. The eye tries to capture them all.

One look at the pillars and my kid decides it is the perfect spot for hide and seek. In fact, she finds an energetic game for most destinations.  Notice any disparity? I want to stare into space, feel the poetry of the place. My kid wants to run around, embrace it with noise and vigor and movement, and even lend some of her energy to the place.

As adults, we appreciate the value of the voyage and the effort made to experience once-in-a-lifetime experiences. Children on the other hand, live in the moment and experience and verbalize that which is uppermost on their minds – which is mostly hunger, heat/cold, smells, tiredness…

Words as “we may never come back here again/ we may never experience this…” are totally wasted before a plea for ice cream, horse ride or a shiny, noise-making something being sold in the vicinity.

Often heard on our recent travel to Rajasthan, India:

Me: Oh, look at all that sculpture/art…
Kid: I’m hungry.
Me: Did you know that this stone carving is from the 14^th century and that it took them xyz years to construct it?
Kid: But you promised me ice-cream.

But then, you get the gist. You’ve been there too.

Now I am not one to give up. I like to nurture the lofty goal of trying to get a sense of ethos of a place, connect with the history a little (even if I forget it in five minutes). With guide book in hand, armed with information, I share snippets with my family.

Not one to wither before eyes that roll and glaze, and body that slumps, and interest that dwindles -- with forced enthusiasm, I continue to read aloud to my kid. My husband sighs at the disparity, creases an occasional worry line on the brow and then allows it to play out.  Yes. Welcome to our family. 

I stare in wonder at the palaces, the havelis, the monuments, the temples - the rich architecture, the fine carvings, the ancient paintings…
She stares in wonder at the stray animals on the streets and countryside. We have a few hundred pictures of cows, pigs, stray dogs and cats, a few inches of a fleeting monkey’s tail, a blur that was an attempt to get a peacock from the car, and other hazy pictures of wild camels.

 

 

Same time. Same spot.

My camera captures a corner of the Jaisalmer fort – the yellow sandstone structure that gleams golden in the sun.

 

Her camera captures the four-legged that roam the streets.

A few days later, we talk about a certain monument.

“Oh, I remember it well,” says 10-year-old. I looked at her impressed by her memory and enthusiasm.

“That was where I saw the dog eating Cheetos. Remember how he had his nose in the bag and was trying to get the crumbs out?”

History lost to laughter. Oh well…

All through Rajasthan, I read accounts of brave Rajputs, and wars and stories behind the palaces and monuments. Most receives lukewarm interest from the 10-year-old. Until we go to the battle place of Haldighati and she learns about Chetak.

Legend has it that Chetak, the brave horse of Maharana Pratap, was wounded by Mann Singh’s elephant in this battle, but carried his master across the pass, finally succumbing to his injuries, but leading the Rajputs to victory.

The story of this brave horse who did his part for Rana Pratap in the battle between Rajput and Mughal forces strikes a chord. She shows interest in history, and everything concerning Rana Pratap and the horse. Pictures in palaces are studied carefully, she wonders if the horse was black or white. After all, the picture on her book cover shows a black horse, yet the paintings in the palaces all show a white horse. I am amused that it took one horse to engage her in the entire Rajput history.  

Yes. Children are not impressed with a place for its past, or its grandeur. They like it if it captures their imagination – for whatever reason. They like it if they can relate to it meaningfully – in their truthful, unpretentious way (or ahem… if ice-cream is involved).

Back in Pune, she announces that on the next trip to India, she does not want to travel within India. It takes away her time from her grandparents. She looks at us firmly. I look at her in surprise, some disappointment and yet, pride.

Travelers through life differ – in the manner in which they live, in the manner in which they travel. In the manner in which they see the world, in the manner in which they experience the world. In the manner in which they travel.

And sometimes, we need to let go of our own and see the wonder from a fellow traveler’s eye. Sometimes, that may be a sight worth taking in too.

Shifting continents again... and jetlag

4 a.m. Jetlag. Back home after a trip to India. That familiar inexplicable hollow feeling inside. Homesickness? Yet I’m home. In my own bed. To some extent, even happy to be. 

I stare at the ceiling. Vignettes of my trip flash before me. It’s mostly people. I think of travels within India – of beautiful sights and scenes. Yet that hollow feeling inside takes me to the people – those I may have met, family and friends I’ve left behind – my people.

I dig up something I had written on my return from my last trip to India. Of loving two places. Of not fitting in anymore. Of leaving behind. Of being the same. Of change.

http://lettinggoexperiment.blogspot.com/2014/02/shifting-continents.html

I try to numb myself and try not to feel whatever it is I feel. I make grocery lists in my head. I start to make mental lists of things I need to do.   

Then I think of the people I was unable to meet. Of those I could not meet long enough. Of those I could not meet a second time.

Being with those who have known you a long time is often fun and comforting. Being with people who have known you before you became guarded, or poised, or formal, or whatever it is we do to grow up acceptably, is a treat. They know you. They know many mad things about you. There’s no fooling them. Since there’s no fooling them, might as well be yourself.

At times, a small part of the old-us comes out. We become our old selves – that may be a good thing or bad, pleasant or painful.

5 a.m. Still awake. Still staring at the ceiling. I decide to stare at my laptop instead. I walk about the kitchen. I find chiwda. Spicy. My mouth prickles in delight. Ah…to wash it down with a cup of ginger chai… I think of endless cups of chai in India. I think of people I had all that chai with.

In India, you cease to be simply you. The Eastern collectivist takes over the Western individualist. Even if at times, you miss your personal space, you realize you are not, you cannot be simply you. I am someone’s daughter and daughter-in-law, and sister and wife and aunt and friend. Relations don’t seem to stop at a single level.

I run into my parent’s neighborhood friends. I may have met them only a few time, but they seem to know everything about me. They seem to have a connection with me – one I may not be aware of or remember. I am surprised that I am even surprised by this. I wonder if the West has changed me. I have mixed feeling about the change.  

At times, I need to keep my sense of humor handy as near strangers dole out advice on how many children I should have, how I should raise them, what I should do for my health, which religious mantra I should chant… you get the gist. They may be near strangers to me, but by token of my relationships with family and friends, and their relationships with the same family and friends, we are more entwined than I imagine. I take their interest in me as an overall indulgence and try to enjoy it, at times clutching hard to my sense of humor, hoping it will not betray me.

My mother’s friend (who I have known only a few years) crochets me a beautiful top. She doesn’t have time to cook something for me. She hands over a special kind of fish – now frozen, with specific cooking instructions to my mother. She says I will like it. I do.

I meet an Ayurvedic doctor, who is also my mother's friend. With understood ease, she extends to me the friendship she feels for my mother. I receive advice and health tips and suggestions for alternate medicines. I may have known her all my life. Yet this is the first time I’m meeting her.   

Sharing of embarrassing secrets and youthful exploits are the focus of conversation and hours of laughter when we meet a group of my husband’s closest friends. Many hilarious details are now a collective knowledge between over thirty people. We may know each other for several years now, but I remember meeting them for the first time and hearing these stories. It was their welcoming me into the group.

I try to make sense of the individualist vs. collectivist nature of relations between the west and the east. I wonder if relationships are more measured, more careful in the West. That may stem from respect for personal space or hesitation to get into someone else’s personal space. It may stem from wanting to hold on to one’s individuality. I wonder if it is simply a case of roots running deep, with reference to the place we grow up.  

In India, it is not unusual for people call on you without intimation. It is not considered rude or an imposition. Kids shout out a friend’s name from downstairs, continuing to shout till the friend or an annoyed parent shows up at the window. We’ve all done so. Why on earth would you climb stairs, or ring the bell, or get off one’s bike, when strong vocal chords are available.  

The West is more focused and directed. The East in contrast, seems more cyclical and entwined. I may be a bit of both. I am not sure where I belong. I know this matter will slide… until I shift continents again and stare at the ceiling in jetlag again…

 

Pictures and no pictures…

Life serves us several memorable moments. We grab them… with our cameras, smart phones and through other lenses and recording devices.

Curse or blessing of our generation? 

At times however, just as we are struck by the wonder of the moment, we are startled to discover that we cannot capture it through a lens for posterity. Dismaying? Liberating?

All we can do then is to inhale the moment and its magic. No distractions. No lens. No pressure to capture it right. No pressure to capture the many dimension and layers and textures in one flat, single-dimensioned picture.

Just take it in. Allow the senses to flood with its magic… and then let it go…

Exactly what I tell myself standing under a never-ending, domed desert sky, bursting with stars in Rajasthan. Yes. Every star has come out to join the party. The sky sparkles endlessly in the wide black semicircle. The desert sand beneath glistens a lazy golden glimmer under the starlit sky. It awakens wonder. Much wonder.

There is only one thing to do. To drag the large reclining canvas chair outside the tent, recline back and hungrily take in the starlit sky. No photograph can possibly capture this magic. Nor do I need a flat single-dimensioned photograph to remember this starry desert sky. It is mine. It will remain in my mind, heart and perhaps even soul... forever... in all its brilliance.

Much as I love pictures, I understand they are only feeble reminders of the experience. I may smile at a picture in which my 10-year-old attempts to bury me in the desert sand. But I know it cannot capture the golden dunes and soft sand that feel cold to the surface, but are a flood of warmth beneath the cold as our feet and ankles sink in.

No picture can capture the inexplicable sensation in the stomach, when the camel on the safari, sinks knee deep in the sand. So many feet above, yet we feel the crumble of the sand beneath (or perhaps it is fear… hmm..).

The marble temple at Ranakpur in Rajasthan, set against the Aravali mountains inspires awe. Much awe. 1440 pillars. No two pillars alike. Each seems more beautifully carved than the one before. I pull out the camera and click away. No picture seems good enough. No picture seems to do justice to the magic. I wish for a better camera and lens. I wish to be a better photographer. I wish for some method to capture the serenity and mysticism and beauty. I realize I am chasing an impossible. So I decide to let go, put away the camera and take in the moment.

We are greeted by “No Photography” signs outside some ancient temples. Dismayed, I realize that I cannot capture the intricate details of ancient carvings in marble and stone. The knowledge makes me appreciate them better, observe them better. I see everything through my own two eyes, not through a lens. There seems a finality to the experience that lends it a value of its own.

There are over a thousand pictures of our week-long trip to Rajasthan. Yet there are many pictures that don’t exist (tangibly), but will continue to exist. True of travel. True of life.

The many images that photographs cannot capture may be the ones to hold on to... if memory allows...  

Temple at Ranakpur - a few photography attempts...