Himachali women are a refreshing change from those I have encountered in the northern plains of rural India.
Spending some time with a villager almost always assures one that change is the only constant we all look forward to.
Seven households, one school, and one tiny gompa (monastery) make up Hipti, a small village in Ladakh.
In Rajasthan, pride does not take on the ugly avatar of arrogance. It helps the people ground themselves in a coherent identity in the face of a fast globalising landscape.
Being a handicap in a farming family is a deadly curse—the ignominy of being an extra mouth to feed without the solace of being a helping hand.
The secret to happiness, so intangible, and yet so familiar, remains too tantalisingly nebulous to encapsulate in words.
For most of us, opium usually paints a picture of the messy tangle of the narcotics trade, undercover dealings, and sometimes, a withered Chinese lady smoking a pipe.
He sat in a lazy slump in his rotating chair, complete with the mandatory towel that graces every government officer’s throne.
Against the rural landscape, where time takes on another pace, numbers like age have a way of being forgotten.
An attempt to piece together the story of water availability in rural Rajasthan and what farmers are doing to adapt to their changing environment.
