With no restaurants, pubs, and stand-up shows to enjoy, isolation is better spent away from the hustle and bustle that city-dwellers usually endure. In the past year, I’ve travelled more in India than ever before: a ski trip to Kashmir with friends who would normally rush to Europe, a couple of Goa holidays, and a family vacation to the Nilgiris.

Much before I was spoilt for choice by in-flight entertainment options, I’ve enjoyed a dubbed version of The Transporter with a Hindi-speaking Jason Statham just as much as a double-header of Hungama and Hulchul on bus rides. As a broke college student with adventurous dreams but limited means, the movies played in the bus quickly became my favourite part of travel.

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.

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?

While mandatory adventure sports and sharing a room with 15 people wasn’t ever my idea of a good time, hindsight has transformed school camps into a bittersweet memory, cherished and embarrassing in equal measure. When you pit a bunch of seventh graders against Mother Nature, the outcome is always memorable.

A few days into your vacation, you are in a constant state of wondering and wandering. You are far from “finding yourself” and all you can think of is scrubbing the bathroom floor. That’s when it strikes you. You’re homesick in the middle of an exquisite holiday.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?”

If headphones were stolen from the Tejas Express, will Indian passengers spare lifejackets and safety floats on Angriya, the Mumbai-Goa cruise? Expect windows to be smashed and a “Pappu loves Pinky” graffiti to magically appear on the boat overnight.

Being the car DJ is like being a parent. No matter what you do, it’s never going to be enough. If you play pop music, you’ll be asked if you’re 12 years old. Try playing classic rock, you’ll be asked if you’re 100. Crank up some Arijit Singh, you’ll be asked if you broke up recently.

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.

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.

Safaris start with a lot of excitement and end up in complete disappointment. At the end of it all, you emerge dustier than Gurgaon in peak summer. And all you spot is tiger poop, pug marks, and indifferent deer.

Manali through the eyes of its daredevil downhill mountain bikers. Brought to you in partnership with 4Play

Sonia Jain traveled to Mana, the last Indian village on a bike. You won't believe what happened next!

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.

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

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

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.

After spending a night camping at Alaska’s Denali National Park, I realised that not all adventures need to be perfect.

Grab all the climate-change deniers you know and tell them that after #HurricaneHarvey, #HurricaneIrma, and the floods in India, climate change is no longer just a threat. It's a reality, happening in front of our eyes.

The villagers of Khichan in Rajasthan are gracious hosts to Demoiselle cranes, who escape the freezing winters of the Eurasian Steppes and Mongolia, and fly almost 5,000 kilometres to reach India in search of food and shelter.

Hungary can be satisfying to the soul, palate, and the pocket. The Hungarian Forint, unlike its Euro cousin, also plays well with our rupee.