Author: Gopi Chandroth

I drink whisky only occasionally. Ten days ago, I knew very little on the subject. I could just about identify a single malt from a blended variety, and that was the limit of my knowledge. Now I can tell my Dalwhinnie from my Balvenie, my Bruichladdich from my Bunnahabhain. I can hold forth on the difference between peated and non-peated whiskies.

Press the right buttons and I will rattle off the names of the officially designated whisky regions: Highlands, Campbeltown, Islay, Lowlands, and Speyside. If you had mentioned Islay to me before, I would have thought it was a fish (Mackerel in Malayalam), blissfully unaware that the place name is pronounced Eye–Luh instead of Ice-Lay; that a whisky sommelier knows the little island hosts nine distilleries, each producing its own style – Ardbeg, Ardnahoe, Bowmore, Bruichladdich, Bunnahabhain, Caol Ila, Kilchoman, Lagavulin, and Laphroaig. I will state with authority that Bruichladdich is particularly versatile, making both unpeated whiskies like Classic Laddie and heavily peated versions like Port Charlotte and Octomore.

I can explain the malting process: barley is steeped in water, tricking it into thinking it is spring, allowed to germinate briefly on temperature-controlled floors, and dried in kilns burning peat. This process produces enzymes. The barley then acquires that wonderfully smoky, peaty flavour – think Laphroaig, Lagavulin, Ardbeg; hot air is used if unpeated, as with Macallan, Glenmorangie, and other “Glens” – the Gaelic word for valleys.

Challenge me, and I’ll describe the next stages: milling, where the malted barley is ground into a coarse flour called grist; and mashing, where the grist is mixed with hot water in a large wooden or stainless-steel vessel called a mash tun. The enzymes activated during malting now convert the starches in the barley into sugars.

Allow me to pontificate some more: the sugary liquid, called wort, is then fed yeast, which converts the sugars into alcohol over a few days. But don’t drink it yet – what you have here is essentially a rough beer, though the brewer’s yeast is a different beast from the distiller’s yeast. The solid waste is removed and used as cattle food and biofuel. We now call the fermented liquid ‘wash’.

Let us continue because I can’t stop now: the wash is sent to the stills, where, when heated, the alcohol vapour rises. It then condenses in traditional shell-and-tube condensers to produce low-strength spirit at roughly 26% ABV (alcohol by volume). The liquid is called ‘low wines’ at this stage and passes through a second or third stage distillation process where the alcohol produced is around 66% ABV.

“What colour now?” you ask. Colourless! None of that golden glow, no halcyon hues of gloaming in the colour of your favourite tipple. Just stark, plain colour of water – simply, no colour.

It would be unfair to leave you there. So let me show you the whisky casks, where the spirit, diluted down to around 64% ABV, is stored for maturation. The casks are ex-sherry or bourbon casks and rarely used for whisky straight away. You still cannot drink it, though you are now thirsty. It must remain in the casks for at least three years to earn the legal designation of whisky. The alcohol gradually evaporates over the years losing around 2% ABV annually. In the industry, they call this loss “Angel’s share”.

Finally, it is bottled, labelled, and sold – to you. A toast to the technology of whisky production, and a toast to you, dear reader, for your forbearance with my childlike display of newly acquired knowledge. Ten days in this beautiful part of the country, visits to over fifteen distilleries and I feel like an expert. But I’m like a four-year-old who thinks he knows everything worth knowing. I have only scratched the surface.

What a difference a whisky pilgrimage makes. When did a wee dram of Caol Ila enthuse me so much that I could enjoy it neat with half a spoon of water (as my cousin and travel companion advises me). How pertinent the name of the distillery becomes when I remember rushing in to escape the rain, only to emerge with the flavour of smoke and the spirit of Scotland lingering on the palate.

I remember visiting the Taj Mahal as a boy. Perhaps the Taj Mahal in my mind was grander than it really was – as I had seen it on posters and calendars. I had imagined the white marble mausoleum melding into the gloaming, bathed in the golden glow of the full moon. But our visit was on a midsummer afternoon. In the sweltering heat, the seventh wonder of the world did not overly impress me. I was, in one word: underwhelmed.

There have been occasions when I have experienced the opposite. Visiting the Vatican in my youth, I was completely overwhelmed. Everything I had pictured was multiplied several times in real life – the grandeur of the Sistine Chapel, the exquisite Michelangelo paintings on its ceiling, the immensity of the grand Piazza San Pietro, where people gather for papal audiences – to cite only from memory, some forty years past.

My recent visit to see Fingal’s Cave on Staffa Island (Scotland) was similar to the Vatican experience – it exceeded my expectations by several orders of magnitude. A cave with a basaltic rock formation at its mouth was all I thought it would be. How could anyone be inspired to compose music by such a venue, I did wonder.

The trouble is, we rarely imagine concurrently with all our senses – instead, we think of a visual picture as in a photograph, deaf to the sounds. We ignore the feel of the sea under our boat, silence the surging waves crashing against the rocks. We do not think of the smell and taste of the salty spray as we take in the enormity of the natural rock formations in front of us, trying not to fall off our boat tossed violently about by the sea. If we could, we need not go anywhere but imagine everything for ourselves.

Perhaps there are people who conjure up such images complete with the five senses, and perhaps other ‘modern’ senses like equilibrioception (sense of orientation and movement) and proprioception (awareness of the location of our body parts). I am not one of them, but Felix Mendelssohn’s classical music composition ‘Fingal’s Cave’ makes me speculate he was one among this gifted ilk.

Mendelssohn composed the Fingal’s Cave Overture (The Hebrides, Opus 26), inspired by the echoes of the waves in the cave. Formed by the cooling and cracking of solidified lava from volcanic eruptions millions of years ago, the hexagonal basalt columns stand like silent sentinels on either side of the cave. They reassure me of the rich provenance of our beautiful planet. Our boat did not land due to the rough seas that prevailed; most tourists on board were seasick, but I was perversely glad not only for my seasoned sea legs but also because I had a reason to revisit Fingal’s Cave at a time when the sea is calmer.

Occasionally one comes across something that compels one to stop and stare in astounded, open-mouthed wonder. The magnolia tree in full bloom at the start of spring is such a sight that catches me every year. But I am in Scotland, on a whisky pilgrimage with my whisky-buff cousin from Singapore. It is the start of autumn. It had rained so heavily yesterday that it reminded me of a tropical deluge, where everything else vanishes except the water gushing down in finger-thick streams – ike one of the forty days of Noah’s rain.

This morning, the weather had turned and the sun was up there, smiling down at us who had survived the torrent the day before. It was such a contrast – almost as if this day was in complete denial of yesterday. ‘Rain, what rain?’ it seemed to ask.

We were driving along a country road in Port Ellen, Islay, between distilleries. At one point I had to stop the car. Breathtaking may sound clichéd, but there is no other phrase to describe it. The sight was not unusual for Scotland. However, the time of day when the light was still mild and slanting, and the sun was out in full and dazzling glory, gave it an other-worldly feel. The azure water in the bay rippled like a soft silken fabric gently fluttering in the breeze. The seaweed lining the shoreline added a lustrous ochre hue while the rocky outcrop contrasted with the softness all around. Seals with pups rested on rocks diving in occasionally. They appeared one with the granite boulders until their little flippers moved. The plaintive sounding cries echoed across the crags. Others nearby responded. In the absence of traffic or other people on the road, their calls – somewhere between the moo of a cow and the growl of a caged lion – lingered in the silence, reinforced the solitude. A lone grey heron stood rock-still, staring at the water in anticipation of its next meal.

Being the driver, I did not take part in the whisky tasting. I was intoxicated, nevertheless, by the perfect pictures that nature painted for me.

A cousin of mine used to say കുഴിയിൽ വീണാൽ കാല് പൊക്കുന്നതും ഒരു കഴിവാ, which literally translates to ‘when you fall into a pit, it’s considered a skill to lift your legs.’ Figuratively, it means, instead of being embarrassed and hoping nobody has seen your little mishap, you announce it to the world to show you’re unfazed. A rough English equivalent is ‘If you can’t hide it, flaunt it.‘

Something happened to me yesterday. I could hide it, but I’ll pass it on for the benefit of other gullible old geezers like me. Furthermore, I never miss the opportunity to tell a tale.

It started with a friend request on FB. I generally ignore friend requests from those without mutual friends. But in this case there was one mutual friend — a golf instructor of mine from the past. This prospective friend was young and looked very striking. I did suspect something, but I thought I should verify her bona fides.

I messaged her:
“I have a friend request from you. Could you please tell me why? Sorry to ask you this, but there are too many scamsters these days.“

She replied promptly but with a voice message which went something like:

“I thought your profile is very interesting. I’m sorry if I disturbed you.”

Her accent matched her ethnicity. I was convinced she was genuine. She had also endeared herself to me. At least one person (other than me) thought I was interesting! I accepted the friend request. Jenny Chen (call me Chen) became my latest FB friend.

She sent me more messages on Messenger. She told me a lot about herself. She’s Singaporean (matched her FB profile), she’s living in Paris, she has a garment business in London.

“Your profile picture looks like you’re 45? I can make out you’re a gentleman.“

I’m already liking this gal.

“I’m a lot older.”

“I prefer older people. They have lots of experience.”

I feel the weight of responsibility — what is the best way to deliver the gist of my life experiences to this young woman?

“Some older people are full of themselves and set in their ways.” Subtext: I’m not like those decrepit old gasbags.

“Your writing is full of wisdom.”

At this point, she could’ve asked me to transfer all my money to her and I would’ve gladly done it. Young, gentlemanly, wise! What more do I need?

“What do you do for a living?”

“I have a business, I have investments in the stock markets, cryptocurrency, gold …” Faint alarm bells, dismissed peremptorily. A nice person like her couldn’t be lying. Rich, young, beautiful — she had it all.

“You must be a very busy woman.”

“No, my business partner manages everything. But are you going to tell me your real age? I’m 41.”

This went on for the better part of the afternoon. She extracted (I gave it all willingly) my life story with details of my wife and her career. And my son lives in Bristol, I volunteered. I have this habit of supplying more information than requested: the truth, nothing but the truth, and true answers to all the questions you might yet ask.

She just wouldn’t stop. I was running out of things to say. Luckily, it was time for my old man’s walk.

“I’m sorry Chen, but I have to go for my walk. Stay in touch.”

“Let’s exchange WhatsApp numbers. That way it’s easier to stay in touch.” Big Ben–size alarm bells.

“I’m really sorry to be so rude. But you’ve only met me today. You can contact me on Messenger.”

“My number is +33 123 etc. What’s yours?”

This is when I thought of a solution. I googled myself. There I was for anyone to see: email, phone number, etc. She couldn’t be a scamster. If she were, she would’ve just taken my phone number off the internet.

My number is +44 790 etc.

The next thing I know, I get a WhatsApp message from Chen. But it was a business account set up in August 2025. The business was called Wind! That convinced me. I blocked the number and blocked her on Messenger, but not before explaining in the most decent words why I felt compelled to block her.

Then I received a WhatsApp message from a UK number.

“Why you blocked me? I’m curious.”

“I don’t think you’re real.”

What happens next? I receive a video call from Chen, who looked like Chen and talked like Chen! What am I to do? Did I block an innocent person? Especially at a time when I need more friends who may buy my forthcoming book? How cruel of me!

I did the safe thing. I bought myself time. I apologised to her and grovelled a bit, explaining weakly that in the times we live in, one can’t be too careful. Chen stared at me with doleful eyes – a look of incredulity and hurt. I must have come across as a right bastard, a heartless knave.

“Chen, I’m indeed sorry that I suspected you. Can’t talk right now as I’m walking. Maybe later?”

“Ok. I’ll send you my location in Paris. So you know I’m genuine. Maybe you can visit me.” That did it for me. I’m gullible, but not that gullible. Phrases like honey trap and love bombing popped up in my head.

I walked on listening to Fingal’s Cave. My mind was in a bigger turmoil than the sea that battered the cave inspiring Mendelssohn’s famous orchestral piece. I racked my brain until it hurt. Then I narrated the entire story to ChatGPT, my best friend and agony aunt. This is the crux of its response:

Cease all contact, block on all platforms, review privacy settings — treat this as a likely organised scam, not a lost friendship.

I’ll be preparing to receive more junk mail – easy funeral plans, stair lifts, comfortable care homes. If you see versions of me popping up all over the place, ignore them. There’s only one me.

This story attempts to illustrate how our dormant identities shape our worldview, and how transient these identities truly are. The corollary is that although our worldviews may differ, essentially it is the same world we argue about. It is only human fallibility that makes us view the world from a single perspective and deny all others. Man’s worst enemy is his dogma.

Many years ago I was visiting my sister who lived in Malakkallu (Kerala), at the southern end of the 1000-mile-long mountain range that bisects the Indian Peninsula. I had acquired a new camera and intended to capture the sights of Kerala for my friends back in London.

When I looked around, however, I saw only mundane, everyday sights: cashew fruits in bright yellows and reds, translucent orange mangoes falling in the wind, oversized and abundant jackfruits with their succulent flesh hidden by the spiked outer skin, hibiscus flowers spilling over the fences, and the occasional goat lazily nibbling at them, coconut and betel nut trees competing to canopy the clear blue skies, precarious bamboo bridges swaying in the wind, the shy touch-me-not leaves closing in on themselves on contact, and a myriad other sights. Nothing novel to photograph.

It was my sister’s 60th birthday. A priest conducted ancient Vedic rites in her honour, chanting Sanskrit verses and gesticulating with timeless gestures. The ritual fire, fed with the occasional spoon of ghee, leaped and raged. A mother hen chaperoned her chicks, feeding them grains scattered across the hard, earthen courtyard. The mountain stream flowed nearby, and a cement tank interspersed in its path sparkled with clear fresh water, forever overflowing back into the stream. The delighted cries of little children splashing about mingled with the mantras invoked by the priest.

I sat there mesmerised by the flames of the sacred fire, the air intense with the smell of burning ghee and camphor. There I was: born here, grew up here, part of the scene in every sense. I slipped into a semi-trance, induced by the evocative smells and sounds. I had moved beyond the present as I floated on the magic carpet of happy childhood memories. The spirits of my departed parents smiled upon me.

Suddenly and without warning, I thought of London. I was trudging across London Bridge on my daily march to work. I thought of my home in England: the breathtaking beauty of magnolias in April, the daffodils and cherry blossoms of spring, the robins, the swallows, and the blackbird. I was suddenly homesick! I missed my family and friends back in London. I longed for my Guardian newspaper there and then.

I was sitting in one part of the world and missing another. I was curiously happy and thankful for this dichotomy. The existential concepts of the West—free will, choice, and personal responsibility—sat comfortably with my Eastern Karma and its very diminution of the self. Sarvam Maya—“All you behold is an illusion”—seemed more palatable in that fleeting moment. I observed the dualities of my mind with an objectivity that comes to one at rare moments. I felt thankful for everything: for my past and my present, for my mental reconciliation of divergent philosophies, and above all for my feeling of comfort with them. 

Almost without thinking, I started seeing the sights I had grown up with as if for the first time. I photographed everything—the jackfruits, the cashew, the untranslatable vegetables, and the misty mountains. Even the stark, unforgiving laterite soil where I had grazed my knees as a child.

I was a complete man of dual identities—both transient, both illusory.

Over the years, I’ve realised that stately homes and mansions hold little appeal for me. Where someone slept, cooked, or entertained simply doesn’t interest me. Plush Persian carpets, silver cutlery, and crystal glassware do nothing – except perhaps stir a faint twinge of envy.

So, when told that we were visiting the “Maison de Pierre Loti” in Rochefort, about 70 km south of Luçon, my first reaction was not delight but a fake “Nice.” Pierre Loti, the darling of Rochefort, was the nom de plume of Julien Viaud (1850–1923), a French naval officer, novelist, and travel writer known for his exotic, romanticised depictions of foreign lands.

When my host returned from his laptop looking crestfallen and announced that all entry tickets were booked until the end of August, I had to work hard to match his disappointment. “What a pity,” I said, summoning an appropriate drop of the lower jaw, while internally smiling in relief. I really should’ve gone into acting.

Envy in one paragraph, fraudulent behaviour in the next two – I’m not exactly painting myself in a flattering light, am I?

We travelled to Rochefort and found lunch in a modest bistro. While the others tucked into hearty meat dishes, I was faced with a goat cheese salad. I do have a weakness for cheese, but goat cheese remains an outlier. It’s one of those strange substances which though mostly odourless, tastes like the smell of a goat. It conjures the unmistakable presence of a goat—perhaps under the table, or lurking just behind the chair. With no other vegetarian options, I ate my salad while trying hard not to think of goat – a difficult feat, given one seemed to be right there with me in the room.

Next stop: a museum. Where else? Two art historians and an archaeologist were in charge of the programme. Fortunately, the Arsenal de Rochefort proved interesting. The pre-Revolution naval base, built on the orders of Louis XIV in 1666, and set beside an estuary, includes a 374-metre-long rope-making factory – the longest building I’ve ever seen. Metal cutout figures of Captain Haddock, Tintin, and other nautical figures welcomed us in the courtyard.

We then visited the Musée Hèbre, which turned out to be a revelation. It houses a fascinating collection of Aboriginal art from Australia and artefacts of ethnographic interest from across the Pacific islands. In that section of the museum I felt like I was peering into another world. One object, a ‘pahu’ drum from French Polynesia, oddly reminded me of the long cylinder liner of a two-stroke marine engine complete with exhaust ports.

As it happens, the Musée Hèbre also coordinates visits to the house of Pierre Loti. We casually mentioned we hadn’t managed to get tickets – and were informed that due to cancellations six places had opened up for the 16:30 tour.

I feigned, once again, an exclamation of delight. But as it turned out, my concerns had been misplaced… (continued).

– continuation of Rochefort and conclusion –

My earlier post on Rochefort ended just before our visit to the house of Pierre Loti, the most famous citizen of the city. The house was under renovation for 10 years and had only opened in June 2025. Who was Pierre Loti, and why do I feel compelled to write about him?

I will answer the second question first. Loti travelled the world on ships as a naval officer, wrote extensively on the places and people he visited, and brought back exquisite artefacts from each of these places. As we were guided through his house, which was crammed full of these objects, I couldn’t help finding some parallels with him in my own career. I too was lucky to visit exotic places around the world during my seafaring career; I wrote about the places I visited, but only in letters to my wife (then girlfriend) and my parents. Loti was elected to the Académie Française in 1891, in recognition of his literary talent. OK, that’s where the parallels end. I wasn’t even elected to our college mess committee! Nevertheless, I felt a certain kinship with the man.

I haven’t read any of his works, having only become aware of him during my recent visit to his city. But I understood the close affinity he developed for the people of the countries he visited. Those were different days. Loti lived between 1850 and 1923. I was born more than a hundred years after him. His naval vessels stayed in ports for months at a time. Mine – vessels of the merchant navy – stayed 10 days if we were lucky, and often only a day or two.

Loti was once threatened with dismissal from the French Navy for publishing a series of articles in Le Figaro about the atrocities committed by the French in North Vietnam – just the type of man I admire.

I could empathise with Loti for wanting to become one with the locals, adopting their customs and sartorial habits. I too went ‘native’ when I visited foreign countries, often travelling by the local bus, visiting places of religious interest, and conversing with the locals in mime or whatever smattering of the local language I had picked up.

Loti, like me, didn’t practise any religion. But he was fascinated by Islam, and one of the rooms in his house had a veritable mosque in it, complete with a mihrab. I sometimes pine to hear the melodious azan, the call to prayer from the mosque. It reminds me of my childhood in India, when religion was not practised on the streets as it is today. I’m often enthralled by the weird and wonderful rituals practised by people of all religions. I have visited synagogues, churches and mosques; Tao and Shinto temples; Buddhist, Jain, and Zoroastrian places of worship. I love to visit ancient Hindu temples, more for their architecture than for the gods they house.

I won’t describe the rooms in Loti’s house but will refer you to the photographs included with this post. The experience of peeping into his life left me with the same feelings I had when we visited the Clive Museum (of Loot) in Powys, Wales. Although I had no claim to Tipu Sultan’s sword or the jewel-studded tiger-head finial of his throne, I somehow felt the objects belonged more to me than to Clive. Similarly, looking at the objects in Loti’s house, I couldn’t help but feel that I too had a claim to the places he visited – I shared his intuitive sense of camaraderie with the locals.

In Malayalam, there is an old idiom that translates to: the patient desired milk, the doctor prescribed milk.

When I woke up yesterday, I thought to myself, “I would like to visit some wetlands nearby.” I am writing a children’s story on ecosystems and wished to immerse myself in the subject. ChatGPT suggested the Marais Poitevin, the second largest wetland in France, with some 800 km of canals. Quite serendipitously, our hosts had the same idea—independently!

We drove to Maillezais, the site of a tenth-century Benedictine abbey, now in ruins but still grand in appearance. The monks were responsible for draining the saltwater marshes and creating the network of canals.

We boarded a flat-bottomed boat—a punt—skippered by Paige, a schoolgirl of 16 or 17. I can’t even begin to put in words the scenery: the canopy of willows and ash trees on the banks, the waters at places covered with duckweed that, as our boat glided through, felt like we were in a green tunnel on the way to heaven. No wonder it’s called Green Venice.

The 3 km trip took us an hour and a half to complete. A delightful experience.

It was meant to be a day of rest after the trip to the market, but the oyster episode kept me on my toes for the rest of the day. I consumed an entire box of mints.

At the entrance to the market was a man asking for money. I said, “No français,” to sidestep the awkwardness of refusing him. He switched to impeccable English and asked, “Have you got three or four euros?” I quietly slipped the 50-cent coin I’d intended to give him back into my pocket.

The market itself was overflowing with local produce. My brother-in-law bought generous quantities of vegetables I consider exotic: celery, celeriac, fennel, beetroot, artichokes. I say exotic because I never buy them back in England—I simply don’t know what to do with them. He, on the other hand, has an intimate knowledge of how to transform them into salads and simple dishes.

Herbs like dill, basil, parsley, and others found their rightful place in both salads and lightly cooked vegetables. Beetroot, which usually tastes of mud to me, was miraculously transformed: he boiled it, dressed it with olive oil, vinegar and lemon, and served it with boiled eggs. The result was a delectable salad.

I won’t dwell on the three quails I saw going into the oven—I made a hasty retreat to the rear garden under the pretext of writing this bulletin.

A brisk walk in the local park completed the day. There is a certain charm to these parks, which I can only attribute to the refined aesthetic sense of the French. The topiaries were especially imaginative, some even illustrating little fables displayed nearby.

Excellent wine and good food served in the garden, accompanied by bird calls and the soft sound of a water feature, brought the evening to a perfect close.