Discomfort. That’s all your experience is supposed to boil down to when you’re a solo woman traveller. No one asks a guy who is travelling on his own whether he felt uncomfortable on his solo trip.

Guilty of not spending any time with my parents, I decided to go on a beach holiday with them. I’d wake up at 8 am, have a healthy breakfast, go sightseeing, and call it a day by 10 pm, without having a drop of daaru. In what universe does this qualify as vacation itinerary?

My boyfriend and I love having sex in the wild. We now plan to make an eco-porn video – to raise donations and help the environment.

Lavasa’s story is not just a story of an environmental disaster or an economic nightmare, it is a cautionary tale of the failure of human hubris and a reminder that it may be easy to build a perfect city, but it is damn near impossible to buy its heart.

A new study holds tourism responsible for nearly a tenth of the world’s carbon emissions. It’s made me question my own rapacious record with mindless travel, brainwashed by propaganda that only a well-travelled life was worthwhile.

Travelling isn’t a leisure activity anymore. In 2019, it is a competitive sport. And social media is where the games are played. But this pressure to be constantly travelling, irrespective of deadlines and limited leaves, is sucking the joy out of wanderlust. Maybe some weekends are meant to just Neftlix and Chill.

Your childhood dream of spending a night inside an igloo is about to come true right here in Manali. Welcome to India's first igloo hotel.

In Shillong, time is set aside to take naps and dream. These dreams are then interpreted and bets are placed on archery.

While tracking tigers from a Gypsy is undoubtedly a pulsating affair, being confined to a vehicle ensures an inauthentic jungle experience. Jim Corbett once said that the fear of death added zest to the life of all jungle inhabitants, and the best way to imbibe that zest is to experience the forest on foot.

While trekking in Ladakh, I find myself buried waist-deep in debris. This is it, I tell myself. This is how I’ll go out, amid the oversold beauty of this high-altitude desert, as a slight disappointment to my mother and no book contract. I leave behind a flimsy legacy of FabIndia kurtas and Nicobar dresses.

As ice descends on the barren land of Ladakh, all we have are photographs to keep us warm for the next six months.

For my generation, travelling has become the catalyst that we believe will magically propel us toward enlightenment. It’s essentially our version of the tree Siddhartha sat under to become Gautam Buddha.

On a road trip to Rajasthan, when I heard Bullet Baba’s story, I sniggered. I probably shouldn’t have.

Bullet riders and road trips are like Indian politicians and black money – all talk and no action. After using it to ride to and fro from their office all week, their grand weekend voyages amount to a grocery shopping trip to the marketplace.

Discovering travel in my early 20s was truly a great thing. It allowed me to see beyond the confines of culture, tradition, food, and gender, but after a decade of globetrotting, the places, the people, and the people of the places, all start to feel like carefully curated prototypes of each other.

How does a perennially loud, judgmental, scene-creating Indian tourist magically metamorphose into the Adarsh Indian Abroad?

I went on a trip alone and realised that 10 minutes of “me time” was all that I needed.