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Designing Tourism Experience: I have developed a framework for Designing Tourism Experience for Hotels, resorts and other Tourism related organizations. Publishing Travel Magazine Freelance writer on Travel, Music, Culture. Publish in Deccan Herald, The Hindu, Swagat (Indian Airlines), Namaskaar (Air India), Simplifly (Air Deccan), Discover India, etc. Review books (only as commissioned projects) Visit: itravelMarket THE CHILD This is about a child who had always dreamt of travelling to far away places. He would listen with awe, people talking about places they have been to. He would visit those places, stealthily, in the darkness of his bed. He would pray hard. “God. Take me to Darjeeling. Just once”. Everyone else of his childhood Calcutta seemed to have been there. “Let me fly in an aeroplane, just once,” he prayed again. The boys had jeered him for never having flown. He was 10 years old and tried to correct the geography of a just-US-returned relative. “Washington D.C. is not in Washington State,” he had said. The result was catastrophic, given that our child had never travelled 200 kilometers for Calcutta. But he flew in his mind. In an essay writing competition in school, he clinched the prize on the topic- My first flight. In bed at night, he became Don Quixote, vanquishing the boundary between fact and fiction, and took off from there. His little pillow, his Sancho. Even today, with hair turning gray, he has never ceased to be Don Quixote. He thanked God on many occasions. He had always wanted to visit Heidelberg and Jerusalem (don’t ask why). He had been to Heidelberg several times since then. But Jerusalem? The evening his bus was negotiating the rugged bends on its way back to Tel Aviv from a visit to Jerusalem and Bethlehem, he silently cried in gratitude. He has been to 25 odd countries – why “odd”? Not sure whether can count Palestine or not. But that is just a drop in the ocean. To him, Madurai or Montreal, places are friends, of flesh and blood. He belongs to them, and they to him. -x- Death of a Poem The poem is lost And only the grime menacing words are left to lurch In this sullen brown evening. In the bazaar, Love is to be bartered And all the beggars have clamored for a glimpse, Their slimy tongue slurp As love is stripped and bathed Before put on the stake. This is the new opera Everyone agrees And you can be the player and the play, Now the player, Now the play. Not so long a time ago Words were still free To make love To let passion have its wondrous way To slip in and out of beige reality To roam the azure sky and the purple sea To paint the past in scarlet And kiss the present deep in the mouth. But now, today, The future has won the traitors' war And sucks like an aging whore. Future says it all - Conscience a commodity Flipped across for a night's stand. All that matters is To touch the electric blue of future Crackling, groaning, grappling. Verse lay strewn Like week-old autumn leaves In the garbage can of past. Amen. -x- Sign in to be able to view Ashis's guestbook and friends list!
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