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Tiger Traps
In the North of India, lost somewhere in the heart of Rajasthan, near a tiny town with a single dirt road, I went looking for tigers. In a national park as big as a small country, the way you look for tigers is simple: you drive and drive across prairies and through forests, around lakes…
The Halloween Puja
I’m going to be a boxer. I walk to town and ask my tailor to make me a baby blue bathrobe with a hood. This requires a fair amount of pantomiming and gesturing. Then I ask him to make me a pair of red boxing gloves. “Boxing gloves?” asks Rajesh. He sends a boy out…
The Indo-Japan Driver Exchange
Prologue Two lanky gentlemen are standing in a visa application line at the Japanese consulate in Delhi. Mr Sajjan: “Mr. Sharma, remind me again why we're exporting Indian drivers, of all things? Mr Sharma: Sajjan Ji, it's just another ploy by the opposition to trick the ruling government into embarrassing themselves. A conspiracy, I tell…
High Way to Hell
There is a fine line between discomfort and danger in the context of travel. Discomfort is that sexy stretching of one’s personal parameters in pursuit of a broader lens on life. Danger is being reckless, indulgent and getting too stoned on a night train in India. I can’t remember the exact moment my brain ascended…
Ingenuity on the Streets of India
Pottering through a lively marketplace in the lakeside Indian town of Pushkar, I was seized around the elbow by the firm grip of a wily old lady. “Hello my baby,” she said. I turned around eagerly: no one’s called me baby in a while. Unfortunately though, she wasn’t referring to me, but to an adorable…
Bhanged Up Abroad
“Dinner, madam?” A small frame stretched up and peered into my bed with inquisitive eyes as the Aravalli Range whipped past through the window behind him. He was a dabbawala – a lunchbox delivery man – and he couldn’t have come at a better time. For several weeks now, I had been traipsing across the…
Tracking the Exchange Rate of my Trust
Content warning: themes of sexual assault In the winter of New Delhi, the birds of prey drew imaginary circles below the smog; they wouldn’t be seeing blue for a long time. The buildings that surrounded my hotel were hungover, power lines strewn over their stocky bodies like streamers at the end of a party. The…

Astray is run by a team of writers who mostly live, work and play in nipaluna / Hobart. With reverence, we acknowledge the Tasmanian Aboriginal people as the traditional and ongoing custodians of trouwunna / lutruwita / Tasmania: land that was stolen and never ceded. We pay our respects to Elders past, present and emerging.