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

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.

I’m only 20 and as wanderlust-y as they come. But if there’s something I know, it’s that the third day of every vacation is the best. It forces you to rethink your priorities and do what you’d intended to do in the first place: See a city from a fresh perspective.

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.

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.

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.

Being a young adult on a vacation is like trying to finish multiple bucket lists at the same time. Things like making it on time, missing a train, covering all the popular spots, getting killer pictures, exploring hidden spots, and hopefully not blowing up all your money are constantly running through your head.

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.

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.

An Indian’s deepest patriotic feelings are unearthed by tourism. Take a desi tourist to Niagara Falls and he’ll say, “Arré, Bhedaghat gaye ho?”

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

In Himachal, I overheard some foreign tourists, who agreed on a few basic things: Indians do yoga and India is where one goes to find oneself. Twenty metres away, I sat like a lump, not attempting any ancient fitness routine or worshipping Kali. Instead, I contemplated my own Indianness.

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.

Road trips are not about open-air convertibles and flying scarfs. They are about co-existing with cramps in stuffy cars that turn seemingly normal friends into tantrum-throwing monsters.

I moved to Goa restlessly in search of a new turf. I’d always dreamt of a life full of travel. But after eight years, Bangalore is the home I have chosen to return to.

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.

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

I feel deep-rooted love for the country every time I travel abroad. This inexplicable pull toward India, lies somewhere between homesickness and an inherent obligation toward my motherland – that sweet spot of fondness and affection.

Personal accounts of Fitbit users state that the device has made them fatter. How? Well, for every 10,000 steps they complete, these reward-driven users gorge on junk food as if it is their last meal.

The Nainital of my childhood and that of my daughter’s childhood are two very different places. The waters at Naini Lake are already 18 feet below normal. Very soon there may not be a lake left.