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Where the Cranes fly -----Sultanpur

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SULTANPUR BIRD Sanctuary About 15 km from my house in Gurgaon lays the famous Sultanpur bird sanctuary. Before it attained the status of National Wildlife Sanctuary it was known as Sultanpur Jheel. Peter Jackson, a famous ornithologist stumbled upon it in the seventies and decided to pursue the Indian government to convert it into an exclusive reserve for birds. Finally in the eighties the jheel attained the national status of bird sanctuary. The sanctuary is situated on the way to Farruknagar in Haryana. From Gurgaon it is the road which runs almost parallel to the road leading to Pataudi, the princely estate of late Mansoor Ali Khan -- ‘Tiger Pat’ to cricket lovers all over the world. The sanctuary used to be a favorite haunt for late Dr Salim Ali, the greatest ornithologist of all times. Haryana is a state where one gets the chance to see the rarest of birds,compared to all other states in India . Haryana Tourist Lodges  are all  named after birds , like ‘Jungle B...

Home is where one grows up

Home is where you grow up. Home is where you settle. Home is where one sighs in relief after a tiring day out. But home is not as simple as that. My son Arjun, when he was in class XII at St. Thomas’ Boys’ School, Calcutta wrote a single-page article on what home means to him. He sent this in to a writing competition held by Sheffield University, UK. He was awarded the second prize. For some reason, I lost that single typed sheet. I have been looking for it ever since I started this blog—and finally, a few days back, my wife found the page, torn and tattered. Here’s Arjun’s essay—I hope you enjoy reading it as much as we did. And please leave your views and comments!                             WHAT HOME MEANS TO ME Home is where you are. On the streets . People stare because you got yourself tonsured. You stare back because you find them int...

ALONG THE RIVER VLTAVA

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ALONG THE VLTAVA RIVER – A Photo Essay on journey to Praha   The Berlin Central train station or Berlin Hauptbahnhof. It looks more like an international airport than a railway terminus. There are several tiers of platforms both above and below the main concourse, everything is shiny and spotlessly clean, large shafts send in streams of sunlight, and there’s the smell of coffee in the air. From here, the express train to Prague. The coupes are cozy and comfortable, and we had only one co-passenger—an immaculately dressed elderly person who seemed to have emerged out of the sketches found in nineteenth-century novels like Charles Dickens’s ‘The Pickwick Papers’. He sat quietly like a statue throughout the journey (perhaps because he did not speak English, and we did not speak German) and got off at Dresden, a picturesque border town in Germany famous for farmers’ carnivals, like the melas at Pushkar in Rajasthan and Santiniketan in West Bengal. After Dresden, the journey t...

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