Capital: New Delhi … 1,438,000,000 People … 3,278,263 km² 
The Country
Renowned for its spicy curries, Bollywood films and majestic temples, India is a vast and vibrant country that stretches from the towering Himalayas to the sun-drenched beaches of the south. With a history shaped by ancient civilizations, royal empires and spiritual traditions, India has evolved into a dynamic nation where timeless cultural heritage coexists with rapid technological and economic advancement.
Fun Facts
India is home to more than 2,000 distinct languages, with 22 officially recognized languages including Hindi, Bengali, Telugu, and Tamil.
The game of chess originated in India 1,500 years ago.
India has the highest number of vegetarians in the world. This is largely influenced by religious and cultural practices, especially among Hindus, Jains, and some Buddhists. 38% of the population of India is vegetarian.
My Experience
Two flights, 17 hours in the air, and 12,330 kilometers from home. The journey of a lifetime had officially begun as I descended into the vibrant heart of Mumbai. Stepping out of the airport, I was met with a warm, humid night hovering around 30°C. Hopping into a taxi, we weaved through the relentless flow of traffic towards old Mumbai (lane markings seemingly optional). Horns blared, pedestrians seized every opportunity to dart across the street, and yet, amid the frenzy, there was an undeniable rhythm. This was my first taste of India’s beautifully orchestrated chaos.
Crossing the iconic Bandra-Worli Sea Link bridge, fireworks sparkled in the sky from different Diwali celebrations. Shorly after, I arrived in Colaba - a lively, bustling quarter of Mumbai. As I lay in bed, the symphony of honking horns and animated street life seeped through my window. With jet lag on my side, however, I drifted off to sleep almost instantly. Though, a mix of excitement and nervous anticipation lingered in the air. Just a year earlier, my first solo adventure had taken me to Japan and South Korea, but this felt different. Had I bit off more than I could chew? Would India, in response, chew me up and spit me out?
Day 1
As I woke, the symphony of sounds from the night before had completely faded. Just steps from my hotel, along an oddly quiet street, the Gateway of India stood on the shores of the Arabian Sea. Built in 1924 to commemorate the visit of King George V and Queen Mary, it was originally a symbol of colonial power. Decades later, however, it became a historic marker of India’s independence. On February 28, 1948, the last British troops ceremoniously departed through its arch, signifying the end of nearly two centuries of colonial rule.
The sea was covered in a thick, persistent haze, with dozens of small boats idling nearby. As I walked along the shoreline, I couldn’t help but notice how tranquil the morning was. A few people came up offering to sell photos or cups of chai, but overall I hardly saw anyone in the area (except for a few cats lounging in the streets).
Searching for breakfast, I walked into Café Leopold, just a few blocks from the Gateway of India. Founded in 1871, Café Leopold is renowned for bustling atmosphere. It became tragically famous during the 2008 Mumbai terrorist attacks when gunmen opened fire inside, killing several people and leaving lasting scars on the café.
The bullet holes still remain as a stark reminder of the violence, but despite this dark chapter, Café Leopold continues to stand as a symbol of resilience, drawing visitors from around the world (myself included).
I’m generally an anxious person, but one warning I was constantly given before going to India was that the food will make me sick. Not “might” make me sick, but “will” make me sick. Among the advice I was given, I was told to only drink bottled water, eat cooked vegetables and peel-able fruits, be careful around meat, etc. This, accompanied with a bit of a language barrier, I accidentally ordered the following meal for breakfast at 9 a.m: sizzling vegetable patties smothered in gravy, with a side of fries, rice and chocolate cake. Not the most appropriate breakfast, but it honestly was pretty good (although unbelievably heavy).
Next, I caught a ride to visit the Dharavi, Asia’s largest slum. Initially, this wasn’t a place I wanted to visit. The idea felt uncomfortable, even a bit voyeuristic, and I wasn’t sure how to approach it. However, my friend from Mumbai, who knew the area well, persuaded me otherwise. She explained that visiting Dharavi wasn’t about exploiting poverty but about understanding the strength and ingenuity of its population. It was an opportunity to witness a thriving community that generates an impressive $2 billion annually, driven by hardworking individuals who are shaping the economy from the ground up. Her perspective shifted my view, and I realized it was a chance to see a truly unique place.
I was greeted by my guide, Pooja, the first woman tour guide for the slum. She was born and raised in the area, and she welcomed myself and two other young travellers into her neighbourhood. Walking through the narrow, bustling lanes of Dharavi felt like stepping into a world of confined intensity. Everywhere I looked, people were hard at work, creating products that would make their way to markets around the world. Massive bags of imported plastic were cut open and sifted, with workers finding the best pieces to be melted down into something new.
In one building, artisans were stitching backpacks with precision and speed, while just a few steps away, a small-scale soap factory hummed with activity, producing blocks of industrial soap appearing nearly identical to chocolate. Although intently focused on their work, a few people would take a moment to smile and wave.
As I wandered deeper into the area, I walked through residential spaces, where most sunlight was shrouded behind tangles of electrical cables high above our heads. Despite the small living spaces, there was a sense of warmth and community, with neighbours chatting over the hum of daily life and children playing in the narrow alleys - often practicing their English with us. The contrast of industriousness and familial togetherness was an incredible thing to experience.
From plastic and chemical recycling to leatherworks and food production, we experienced just a small part of how Dhravi’s population of more than a million people generates vast economic outputs.
We stopped for a chai tea (first of many over the next few weeks), before we departed the slums and I joined another tour of more areas in Mumbai. Next stop - Dhobi Ghat.
Dhobi Ghat, Mumbai’s legendary open-air laundry, is a vast maze of concrete wash pens where hundreds of dhobis (laundry workers) work every day. Established in 1890, it remains the world’s largest outdoor laundry, where thousands of garments from hotels, hospitals and households are washed, beaten against stone slabs, rinsed, and hung in neat rows to dry under the Mumbai sun.
Continuing from there, we entered Crawford Market (officially known as Mahatma Jyotiba Phule Market), one of Mumbai’s most vibrant and historic bazaars. The market is a sensory overload. Aromas of fresh fruits and spices mix with the cramped walkways and massive crowds. Stalls were brightly lit and packed with a variety of goods, from decorative boxes and candies to playful puppies and kittens.
Next, we visited Chhatrapati Shivaji Maharaj Terminus (CSMT), formerly known as Victoria Terminus. It is one of Mumbai’s most iconic landmarks and a masterpiece of Victorian Gothic architecture. Built in 1887 to commemorate Queen Victoria’s Golden Jubilee, the station is a striking blend of Indo-Saracenic, Gothic, and Mughal influences, with soaring domes, intricate stone carvings, and stained-glass windows that make it feel more like a cathedral than a railway hub. Although named after Queen Victoria, she never ended up visiting. It was renamed after Maratha warrior king, Chhatrapati Shivaji Maharaj, in 1996.
As one of the busiest train stations in India, CSMT pulses with energy. Thousands of commuters stream through its arched entryways daily, rushing to board Mumbai’s legendary local trains. For such a historical building, the station was clean, modern and easy to navigate. One of my guides mentioned that trains are often over capacity, and people hanging off the train as it moves is not uncommon. Unfortunately, his brother fell off a moving train and passed away a few years prior - which is why he (and many other people) always wait for trains with open seats.
Next, we visited Mani Bhavan, Mahatma Gandhi’s Mumbai residence from 1917 to 1934. A modest yet deeply significant building that played a key role in India’s independence movement, it is nestled in a quiet lane in the Gamdevi area. This two-story home-turned-museum was where Gandhi strategized protests, including the Non-Cooperation and Civil Disobedience movements. Walking through Mani Bhavan, I felt a respectful stillness. The walls are lined with photographs, letters, and newspaper clippings chronicling Gandhi’s life and work. Dioramas of important events from Gandhi’s life filled the home, with thousands of books neatly stacked into bookshelves.
We then ascended through the busy streets to an area overlooking Mumbai. Malabar Hill, one of Mumbai’s most upscale and historic neighborhoods, offers a striking contrast to the city’s bustling streets below. Perched on a hilltop overlooking the Arabian Sea, it’s home to lush greenery, colonial-era bungalows, and some of the city’s most prestigious addresses.
The Hanging Gardens of Mumbai, at the top of Malabar Hill, is a lush green oasis offering a welcome escape from the city's chaos. Built in 1881 over a reservoir that supplies drinking water to South Mumbai, these terraced gardens are known for their beautifully manicured hedges. Walking through the gardens, I found a peaceful retreat amid the city's relentless energy. Children played along the winding paths, and couples enjoyed quiet moments on shaded benches. We were a few hours from sunset, but the small orange sun hung low in the sky, fighting smog to wash the gardens in a warm hue.
Heading down, we passed by a view of Antilia, the most expensive home in the world valued at $2 billion. Owned by the Ambani family, the 27-storey residence hosts three helipads, ballroom, theatre, several swimming pools and a room that creates artificial snow. More than 600 full-time employees maintain the residence. Just a few hours prior I was walking through Asia’s largest slum, and now, only a few kilometres away, I was looking at the world’s most expensive house. The contrast was mind numbing.
To watch the sunset, we sat along Marine Drive with thousands of onlookers enjoying the view and taking photos with their loved ones. Lined with palm trees and surrounded by Art Deco buildings, it felt more reminiscent to Miami than what I expected India to be like. As we were sitting, a few students came up to me offering to sell cookies as part of their marketing class; how could I resist?
The final stop on our extensive city tour was the Oval Maidan near Churchgate. This area, named after the nearby St. Thomas Cathedral, serves as a central hub for Mumbai’s commuters and is a vibrant mix of colonial architecture, bustling markets, and lively streets. Oval Maidan is where we watched groups of teens playing cricket, enjoying the perfect weather on this Saturday night.
As I made my way back to the neighborhood around my hotel, I noticed the Gateway of India illuminated in the evening glow, hinting at a special event or show taking place. Just beside it stood the iconic Taj Mahal Palace Hotel, a true symbol of Mumbai's history and grandeur. Built in 1903, the Taj is an architectural masterpiece. From hosting dignitaries and celebrities to surviving the devastating 2008 terrorist attacks, the Taj's story is woven into the fabric of Mumbai itself. Intrigued, I couldn’t resist stepping inside for a drink, soaking in the opulence of its lavish interiors and the hotel’s storied past.
Perhaps a bit out of my element, I took a seat at the Harbour Bar in my polo shirt (still slightly wrinkled from my backpack), feeling slightly out of place as guests draped in designer outfits, their jewelry worth more than my entire annual salary, sat comfortably beside me. I was handed a leather-bound menu featuring dozens enticing cocktails with interesting descriptions and colourful photos - everything, except their prices.
Rolling the dice, I chose a drink named “From the Harbour since 1933”. The bartender prepared the drink at my table, explaining the story behind the name.
“The Harbour Bar's renowned cocktail has a fascinating story behind it. This cocktail was inspired by the arrival of two thirsty sailors to the bar after a 13-year wait, prompted by the announcement of the end of the Prohibition Era. As the bartender asks them to name this cocktail, one of them hurriedly gets on the bar and toasts to all, pronouncing the drink to be called as 'From the Harbour Since 1933. Gin, Pineapple juice, Cranberry juice, and Peach Liqueur are blended to perfection before being topped with flambéed Cognac. Every sip has a story to tell!”
In that moment, I felt like I could finally take my first breath. Looking out over the Gateway of India at night, savouring an exquisite drink at the Taj, it all sank in. Months of planning and countless hours of anticipation had finally culminated in me being here, in Mumbai. India was the 30th country I’d visited, and even after exploring so many places, the thrill of stepping foot in a new country and surviving that first chaotic, exhilarating day never fades. It was an unmatched feeling. One of accomplishment, excitement, and the quiet realization that this journey was only just beginning.
Day 2
Early in the morning, I ventured outside my hotel, walking towards the Gateway of India. Although it was only 7 a.m., the heat from the sun bounced off the pavement. I loved it. As I got closer to the gate, crowds began to form and people began to hop on brightly coloured boats. Seagulls swooped overhead, the smell of the sea hit my nostrils, and I jumped onto one of the boats - squished seating only.
I was beginning the two-hour voyage to Elephanta Caves, a collection of ancient rock-cut temples dedicated to the Hindu god Shiva. As the ferry cruised past a scattering of small islands, I struck up light conversation with a few other travellers, each of us still comfortably tucked within our own personal bubbles, hailing from Brazil, Austria, and the USA.
Upon reaching the island, we were greeted with a long pathway along the beach. Lined with souvenir stalls, the scent of incense and fried foods drifted through the humid air. Monkeys darted between the trees, watching us curiously as we made our way toward the base of the hill. From there, a steep stone staircase beckoned, covered by thin blue tarps toward the caves themselves.
In the dim light, colossal sculptures emerged from the stone. Most striking among them, the three-headed statue of Shiva; each face representing a different aspect of the god: the creator, the preserver, and the destroyer. It stood nearly 20 feet tall, serene and imposing, watching over the temple with a calm omniscience.
Other chambers branched off, some containing shrines with linga (symbols of Shiva), others with intricate carvings of mythological battles, celestial beings, and meditative poses. Every wall seemed alive with stories, scenes frozen mid-movement in stone.
Yet, not all of the caves had survived untouched. In some chambers, defaced sculptures bore the scars of the Portuguese soldiers who once used the site for target practice in the 17th century. Noses, arms, and entire faces had been shot off or hacked away. Famously, the three-headed statue of Shiva is said to have been spared because it bore a resemblance to the Holy Trinity in Catholicism.
I spent the next few hours wandering the island, watching monkeys steal bottled drinks from visitors and cracking them open to their (and my) amazement. Cows stood unbothered near the food stalls, and vendors fought to grab the attention of tourists. As we trekked down, we re-boarded our boat and made our way back to Mumbai. Maybe it was the fresh air, or maybe it was the people fast asleep on the boat around me, but I felt a true sense of calmness as we headed back to the mainland.
Back in Mumbai, that sense of calmness quickly faded. The area around the Gateway of India was far more crowded than before. Hawkers calling out, families snapping photos and the humid air thick with the mingling smells of sweat and sea breeze. The few friends I’d made on the ferry pushed through the crowd with practiced ease, and we ducked into Café Mondegar to escape the chaos.
Inside, the hum of the city was replaced by retro rock music and the comforting clatter of plates and glasses. The walls, covered in Mario Miranda’s cartoon murals, added a playful energy, and we slid into a corner booth under a whirring ceiling fan. Over cold beers, curry and spicy cheese triangles, we shared stories of our travels. Home of the first jukebox in Mumbai, Café Mondegar is a nearly 100 year old establishment in the heart of Colaba, and it made for the perfect lunch spot.
When I travel, I always try to do as much as possible. Relaxing feels like missing out on something. Maybe it was the heat, or the jet lag, or maybe something deeper shifting inside me, but that evening I just felt like strolling around the neighbourhood with no real plan. Even though I’d already been the day before, multiple people in Dharavi had insisted that the best butter chicken and garlic naan in the city was at Café Leopold. So that’s exactly where I went. This time on a mission, not accidentally ordering sizzling vegetable patties smothered in gravy.
That butter chicken and garlic naan was the best I’ve ever had. Rich, creamy, just the right amount of heat, and perfectly balanced with buttery naan still warm from the tandoor. Sometimes, it’s okay to revisit places. That night, it wasn’t just a repeat—it was a completely different experience. One I’ll remember forever.
Day 3
My time in Mumbai had come to an end. Stepping out into the bustling streets, I hopped into a cab and watched the vibrant city unfold around me, its sounds and colours a final, fleeting impression as I made my way to the airport.
One experience I thought I’d miss out on was enjoying vada pav, a classic Mumbai street food made of a deep-fried potato dumpling nestled inside a soft bun, accompanied by tangy chutneys and a blend of spices. But luck was on my side. At the airport, I found a stall serving the iconic snack, and I enjoyed it alongside a paneer sandwich and a saffron latte. It was an incredible way to indulge before my flight to Delhi.
Landing in Delhi, thick smog veiled the runway, the city’s signature haze hanging heavy in the air. After deplaning, I hopped into a cab, the driver weaving through the organized and clean streets as I made my way to my hotel in Karol Bagh.
Karol Bagh is one of Delhi’s most vibrant and bustling neighborhoods, a blend of old-world charm and modern energy. The narrow, winding streets are packed with shops selling everything from vibrant saris and intricate jewelry to electronics and spices. The sidewalks are a maze of people; locals haggling for the best deals, street vendors calling out to passersby, and the occasional cow or rickshaw squeezing through the traffic.
The old buildings with their worn facades (which happened to describe my hotel perfectly) sit side-by-side with newer structures, giving the area a unique, timeless feel. Above the chaos, colourful signs and neon lights flicker, guiding shoppers through the maze of stores.
As a solo traveler, I decided to join a group for part of my trip to get the most out of the experience. Having a bit of a safety net on the road is never a bad thing, and as a self-proclaimed social butterfly, I love meeting new people. I met our guide and fellow-group mates in the hotel lobby, as we set out through the streets to a restaurant I never thought I would see in India: Hooters. (Not THAT Hooters, but an upscale restaurant in the heart of the neighbourhood).
Over dinner, our guide began to answer our initial questions about India and provided us a deeper understanding of the rich history of not just the country, but Delhi itself. He described Delhi as “The Phoenix City”, referring to the city’s long history of being destroyed and rebuilt throughout history. Just like the mythical phoenix that rises from its ashes, Delhi has seen repeated cycles of ruin and rebirth.
After indulging in more butter chicken and garlic naan (hard to break the habit) and sharing a couple of Kingfisher lagers, we strolled back to our hotel, picking up some fruit and snacks along the way to fuel us for the busy day ahead.
Even late at night, the streets were alive. Crowded, noisy, and almost overwhelming. The air was thick with the scent of spices and grilled meat, as vendors lined the sidewalks under flickering lights, shouting out deals and calling us over to try their street food. We had to weave through waves of people, tuk-tuks, and roadside stalls, sometimes shoulder to shoulder, almost always stepping off the curb just to keep moving. There’s a layer of dust on everything, the sound of horns and shouts never quite fades, and the smell is a mix of diesel, incense, and fried snacks. It’s chaotic, overwhelming, and was very much a preview of the chaos of India. It was the kind of energy that hits you all at once and leaves you buzzing, even after you make it back to the calm of your hotel room (or maybe the buzz was from the Kingfisher beer? Probably, actually).
Day 4
Bright and early (I assume it would have been bright, if it wasn’t for the smog), we made our way through quiet streets lined with polished homes and government buildings to the India Gate, a grand war memorial standing tall in the heart of Delhi. Even shrouded in haze, the monument was striking; its towering archway a solemn tribute to the thousands of Indian soldiers who lost their lives in World War I. The surrounding lawns, dotted with school groups, sleeping dogs, morning walkers and chai vendors gave the place a quiet, steady pulse- like the city was slowly waking up around it.
The sun hung low in the sky- a small orange dot that slowly began to rise. Checking my phone, the Air Quality Index for Delhi was 334- about 334x more than I’m used to at home. Breathing wasn’t impossible, but it definitely wasn’t easy either. Each inhale felt a little heavier, like the air had texture. Not painful, just... noticeably different.
After walking around the India Gate for about an hour, we hopped on a bus bound for Jaipur- a five-hour trek ahead of us. As we left the dense sprawl of Delhi behind, the sky began to clear almost instantly, like a grey film had been peeled away. The roadside was lined with a never-ending stream of businesses- small restaurants, roadside dhabas, hardware shops, tire stalls and budget hotels, many with sun-faded signs and rust creeping along metal shutters and rooftops. It felt like the highway was stitched together by these pockets of life, each one busy in its own way.
At times, the paved road would vanish without warning, giving way to long, jarring stretches of dirt and gravel. The ride turned rough, dust swirling behind us. Along the way, we kept seeing people selling bags of grass, literal grass, for locals to feed cows as an act of good karma. Funny enough, we found out most of the sellers actually owned the cows too. Not a bad business model.
After a few hours we arrived at Hotel Highway King- an India-wide chain of restaurants with great, affordable food choices. It was here I was introduced to stuffed Paratha: crispy, warm flatbread filled with spiced potatoes, peas, and onions. The finishing touch was a generous smear of butter, soaking into the paratha and adding an extra layer of richness. It was simple but incredibly satisfying.
Continuing on, we ventured down a long dirt road, seemingly heading to the middle of nowhere, until we eventually broke out of the tall grass and arrived at Anoothi; a women-owned social enterprise that creates textile goods while following a zero-waste policy. Established in 2008, Anoothi empowers marginalized women, many from impoverished backgrounds or forced into sex work, to gain financial independence and dignity through traditional textile crafts like block printing and organic dyeing.
Upon arriving, we were warmly welcomed with a traditional bindi, the small red dot gently placed on our foreheads as a symbol of blessing and respect. The bindi, nestled between the eyebrows, is said to represent the "third eye," a point of spiritual insight and wisdom in many Indian traditions. Then, we were treated to chai and delicious, crispy pakoras- perfectly spiced and paired with the sweet, fragrant tea. Afterward, we were led into a lively block-ink workshop, where we learned to create designs on fabric alongside skilled artisans from local communities. It was a hands-on experience that connected us to both the tradition and the people behind it.
In addition to uplifting women, Anoothi supports education for underprivileged children, especially girls, by donating a portion of its profits to Vatsalya: an organization that provides residential care and schooling. Remarkably, the children of Anoothi’s artisans attend school on the same property, ensuring that the next generation benefits from the opportunities their mothers have worked hard to create. Hand-painted signs were all across the property providing uplifting and powerful messages.
After spending some time learning about the business and picking up a few beautiful textiles, we set off on our next stop, Jaipur. As we approached the city, the Jaipur revealed its iconic hue- buildings bathed in soft pink tones, a legacy dating back to 1876 when Maharaja Sawai Ram Singh II painted the city to honour the Prince of Wales. This thoughtful gesture transformed Jaipur into the "Pink City," a symbol of hospitality and heritage.
On that particular day, we were fortunate to witness a vibrant celebration of love and tradition. It was an auspicious wedding day, known as a "Vivah Muhurat," a time considered highly favourable for marriages in Hindu culture. Throughout the city we saw grooms adorned in colourfu attire, riding majestic horses, accompanied by lively processions of family and friends. The air was filled with music, laughter and the rhythmic beats of drums, creating an atmosphere of joy and festivity.
As we arrived at our hotel, the stained glass windows offered a glimpse of Mrignayani Palace, a 300-year-old residence once owned by the Prime Minister of Jaipur. It had since been seized and transformed into a hotel, preserving its historic charm. We were welcomed with a traditional bindi and a vibrant necklace of orange flowers, and a woman gently threw flowers on us as we went up the stairs.
Wandering through the hotel, it quickly became clear that no two rooms were the same. Some of us stayed in old bathhouses that had been creatively converted into rooms, while others enjoyed ornate, regal bedrooms. As for me, I was placed in what could only be described as a converted closet- but certainly the most luxurious closet imaginable. It was probably over 1,000 square feet, complete with high ceilings and intricate details, making it an unexpectedly grand space.
After a bit of downtime at the hotel, I set out on foot, weaving through the lively streets of Jaipur. The air buzzed with the constant honking of rickshaws and motorbikes, while vendors lined the sidewalks vying for attention. After a short walk through this sensory overload, I arrived at the breathtaking Hawa Mahal, better known as the Palace of the Winds. Its honeycomb façade stood tall and delicate, like a carved rose-colored screen. Built in 1799, the palace was created as an extension of the royal City Palace to allow the women of the royal household (who followed purdah, the practice of seclusion) to discreetly observe street festivals and daily life below without being seen.
The sun began to set, and the hues of the sky began to resemble the pink buildings that enveloped Jaipur. Heading towards dinner, we sat on a rooftop overlooking a dark neighbourhood of city, with the sound of weddings and fireworks in the distance from happy families celebrating - all while the Jaipur metro glided across the skyline.
To eat, I indulged in laal maas, a fiery Rajasthani mutton curry that gets its signature deep red colour and heat from mathania red chilies. My guide told me it was made with gunpowder, while in reality, the myth was the dish is so spicy it could be used as gunpowder. Whether or not that’s true, it packed a punch.
Halfway through dinner, our guide had a surprise in store. Without much warning, a local band and dance group showed up. The musicians started playing traditional Rajasthani instruments, and the dancer, dressed in a bright outfit, began to move with impressive speed and precision. She began stacking bowls on here head, one by one, until it was almost as tall as her. We went from a casual rooftop meal to being pulled into a full-on celebration.
Day 5
At 5 a.m., myself and a few others ventured outside before the city woke to do a cycling tour of the city (to the disapproval of my family back home). The streets were clean, empty and perfectly flat - ideal conditions for a bike ride. It felt like we had the entire city to ourselves, and the early morning calm set the perfect tone for the tour.
A few minutes after we set off, there was a loud bang, almost like a gunshot. We found ourselves in a narrow, dark alley with barely any space to maneuver, so the sudden noise didn’t exactly make us feel at ease. Turns out, someone had just popped a tire. Thankfully it wasn’t a big deal, and we were back on the road within a few minutes.
As we rode through the city in the early hours, locals would often call out 'Ratay Ratay’, a courteous greeting exchanged before sunrise. We, of course called back the same, and were often met with smiles.
Still under darkness, we arrived at Gulab Ji Chai Wale, a famous shop for chai tea. It was barely past 6 a.m., but a large crowd had already formed. The shop proudly featured photos of the owner serving chai to Indian Prime Minister Modi, and French President Marcon. I was handed a piping hot cup of chai in clay cup, and it was incredible. I stood at the roadside, sipping slowly, gazing up at the faint stars still clinging to the early morning sky. When we were done, we tossed our cups into a bin where they shattered on impact; destined to be melted down and reshaped into new ones. A simple, ingenious cycle of sustainability.
Continuing on, the sun began to rise and we did a few relaxed laps around the State Museum of Rajasthan before weaving our way through a bustling flower market—an explosion of color and fragrance—followed by a vegetable market, where the smells were... decidedly less charming. Eventually, we rolled into a quiet park where other cycling groups had gathered. There, we were invited to stretch out with a bit of yoga, shake off any lingering stress, and end the morning by tossing handfuls of flowers into the air.
Right beside the park we were suddenly swept up and rushed over to the Govind Dev Ji Temple. Shoes off, energy up. We stepped into a sea of people, all singing, swaying and praying with full-hearted devotion. The atmosphere was electric, like walking straight into the middle of a celebration you didn’t know you were invited to, but were instantly welcomed into anyway. It was a truly powerful and moving experience.
From there, the sun had fully risen and the streets were packed once again. This made the once leisurely bike ride into a chaotic game of dodge-the-rickshaw, complete with honking horns, surprise potholes, and the occasional rogue cow. I loved it. We stopped at another small hole-in-the-wall vendor for kachori (a deep-fried, spicy pastry stuffed with vegetables) and jalebi (a sugary, syrup-drenched spiral that crunch and melt at the same time). Breakfast of champions. We then concluded the cycling tour with a clay cup filled with lassi, a delicious yogurt-based beverage. And it wasn’t even 9 a.m.
We then made our way to the Amer Fort by rickshaw, the only real option for navigating the narrow, winding streets that led up toward its gates. Along the way, we passed elephants with painted trunks lumbering through the streets, their handlers preparing them for wedding processions.
Each time we stopped, merchants appeared almost instantly, offering fans, jewelry, trinkets; anything that could be sold in a moment. The climb grew steeper the closer we got, but a traffic jam forced us to abandon the rickshaw before reaching the top. It turned out to be a gift in disguise, as we had time to see Panna Meena ka Kund, the centuries-old stepwell carved with perfect symmetry.
Eventually the traffic cleared and we reached the entrance of the fort. Inside, the space opened up into a series of delicate courtyards and passageways, each turn revealing something new: quiet arches, detailed carvings and faded frescoes that hinted at centuries of stories.
Amer Fort was built in the late 16th century by Raja Man Singh I as both a royal residence and military stronghold built along the aravali mountain range. Today it stands as a preserved monument, no longer inhabited, but still bustling with life.
One area of the fort particularly stood out- a hall with its walls covered in thousands of tiny mirrors. Even in the dim light, they caught reflections like stars on stone, throwing back fragments of our movement as we passed through. From the higher levels of the fort, the walls stretched across the hills in every direction, snaking along the ridges like a smaller version of the Great Wall of China. I spent hours wandering through the fort, getting lost through its passageways, and admiring the incredible panoramic views of Maotha lake and the town below.
That evening, we walked through a bustling vegetable market in Chandpole Bazar, where vendors called out prices - their only true form of marketing. As I moved through the crowd, the Muslim call to prayer began, echoing across the rooftops with a calm, melodic contrast to the chaos within the market. Tall stacks of dark red chilies and mounds of tantalizing spices led our way to the Sita Ram Mandir. Dedicated to Lord Rama and Goddess Sita, the temple has been a spiritual centre for centuries in the heart of Jaipur.
Walking up a set of worn stone stairs, we were warmly invited inside and welcomed to view the intricately carved shrines and the lively street bustling below. A Hindu holy man sat near the entrance, playing a harmonium; the soft music and his gentle singing floated through the otherwise hushed temple. Above us, the domed ceiling of the temple bloomed into cascading layers of intricate colour and detail. The curved walls were lined with vibrant frescoes and carved alcoves, each containing beautifully painted statues of Rama and Sita. Surrounding them, bands of intricate floral designs, arches, and geometric patterns wrapped the dome in layers of red, blue, green, and gold.
From there, I was back on a rickshaw, headed to another rooftop patio. Fireworks still burst overhead from wedding celebrations across the city, and the faint outline of Nahargarh Fort hovered on the horizon. As I sat beneath the open sky, the noise of the day slowly faded into the warm night.
Day 6
We departed Jaipur at first light heading toward Agra, home of the Taj Mahal, along the smooth highway that cuts across Rajasthan’s countryside. The morning air was thick with smoke, hanging low over the fields on either side of the road. Farmers were burning the leftover stubble from the harvest, a common practice this time of year, and the fires sent a dense haze rolling across the landscape.
Dramatic photos of heavy smog in India are often attributed to industrial waste or traffic pollution. While those are certainly factors, a large portion of the haze comes from the widespread burning of agricultural crops, particularly rice and wheat stubble, after the harvest. Farmers set fire to the leftover stalks to quickly clear the fields for the next planting season, a practice that sends thick smoke billowing across the countryside and into the cities, especially during the cooler months. Its this smoke that made worldwide headlines of pollution in Delhi in November 2024.
The sun, struggling to break through, cast everything in a muted, golden light. In the distance, figures moved slowly through the fields, tending the fires or walking along dirt paths. The smoke gave the land a soft, almost blurred appearance.
After hours of driving, the thick smoke finally began to lift — just slightly — as we approached Agra. The fields gave way to the edges of the city, where modern buildings rose behind wide, orderly roads. The streets were surprisingly clean, lined with manicured medians and newly painted curbs, a sharp contrast to the chaotic, dust-choked avenues I had seen in Delhi. My hotel sat just steps from the East Gate of the Taj Mahal, tucked along a spotless stone street that shimmered under the late afternoon sun. Just before sunset, I walked towards the East Gate entrance. Towering sandstone walls rose up around me, blocking any glimpse of the monument (for now). Long queues of eager tourists were being throughly searched and scanned, with large signs warning visitors of dangerous monkeys.
Before the the Taj Mahal reveals itself, visitors first pass through the Jilaukhana, or Forecourt; a grand, walled enclosure that once served as a ceremonial gathering space. The sandstone walls rise high on all sides, creating a sense of both grandeur and anticipation. Lush gardens and pathways line the interior, framed by rows of elegant arched chambers that once housed shops and resting areas for travellers and pilgrims. At the far end stands the imposing Great Gate (Darwaza-i-Rauza), its towering facade of red sandstone inlaid with white marble calligraphy.
And then, stepping through the Great Gate, the Taj Mahal finally comes into view. So perfect and still against the hazy sky, it almost looks fake, like a green-screen backdrop dropped into place. It felt surreal, too flawless to be real.
The Taj Mahal was commissioned in 1631 by the Mughal emperor Shah Jahan as a mausoleum for his beloved wife Mumtaz Mahal, who died during childbirth of their fourteenth child. On her deathbed, she had three requests: first, she asked that he would never remarry. Second, she asked that their children and family be well cared for. And third, the most famous request, she asked that he build a monument to their love, a tomb so beautiful that it would reflect the depth of their relationship. Construction began shortly after her death and took around 22 years, with completion around 1653.
Legend has it that after the Taj Mahal was completed, Shah Jahan ordered the architect Ustad Ahmad Lahauri to be blinded, ensuring that no other building could ever rival the Taj's beauty. As for the workers, some stories say their hands were cut off so they couldn’t build anything equally grand. But as the tale is often told today, with a modern twist, I was told that the architect was blinded with money, and the workers were simply paid an "arm and a leg" for their labor. While the truth remains unclear, the Taj Mahal’s grandeur, built with incredible precision and artistry, is beyond dispute.
The Taj Mahal is often hailed as the epitome of symmetry; every element of its design is meticulously balanced, creating a sense of harmony that is visually stunning. From the moment you step into the complex, the importance of symmetry is immediately apparent: the entire layout is organized along a central axis, which runs directly from the entrance gate through the reflecting pool to the tomb itself. The main tomb is perfectly centered, flanked by two identical structures: the mosque on one side and the guest house on the other. Even the surrounding gardens follow an (almost) perfectly symmetrical design.
The Taj Mahal is also one of the first structures in the world to incorporate earthquake-resistant architecture. The minarets, which stand tall at each corner of the platform, are actually designed with a subtle tilt: they lean slightly outward. This was intentional. During an earthquake, the minarets would fall away from the main tomb rather than collapse inward, potentially damaging the structure.
Walking through the gardens, the Taj Mahal began to look more and more real - less like a massive poster in the distance. Thousands of visitors walked along the pathways, each fighting for their opportunity to take the perfect picture (especially while sitting on Princess Diana’s bench).
After some time in the hazy heat, I climbed the steps to see inside the tomb. Before entering, I was handed shoe covers, a necessary step to preserve the marble floor. The moment I stepped inside, I immediately felt the temperature drop. The air inside was cool and still, a sharp contrast to the heat outside — though, to be honest, it would have been freezing if it weren’t for the body heat of hundreds of other visitors crammed in close.
Inside, the tomb was very dark, lit only by a few dim lights that barely cut through the shadows. The tomb of Mumtaz Mahal sat at the centre, simple and stark, while Shah Jahan’s tomb rested nearby, slightly off-centre, disrupting the symmetry of the rest of the monument. There were no photos allowed, and the quiet made the space feel more intimate, as if the history of the place hung heavily in the air. The atmosphere was respectful, reflective, and somewhat haunting, as though the love story behind the Taj Mahal was still very much present in the room.
Exiting the tomb, I was then standing on the rarely-seen backside of the Taj Mahal, overlooking the massive Yamuna River. More peaceful, I took some time to walk through the less-traveled through parts of the complex, sitting on quiet benches and snapping countless photo. After a final walk around, I made my way back toward the entrance. The whole experience felt a little surreal, knowing I’d just seen one of the most famous monuments in the world.
That evening, I enjoyed palak paneer, mango lassi, and a bite of petha, a popular sweet treat from Agra. Petha is made from ash gourd (winter melon), and it’s typically cooked in sugar syrup, giving it a translucent, jelly-like texture. Not for everyone, but I found it mildly enjoyable!
Day 7
I had spent a week in India, but I hadn’t stepped foot on a train yet. It was time to change that. I was about to leave the bustling city life behind and head towards Ochhra, a quiet corner of rural India. Standing at the chaotic yet strangely efficient Agra Cantonment Station, I boarded the Shatabdi Express, heading East. The station had a constant churn of people, with blaring announcements, chai vendors, and porters weaving through crowds with luggage piled high. Amidst the noise and energy, there was an order to it all. The platforms were worn but full of life.
Crossing through the Indian countryside, the only colour visible was that of the dusty green fabric from the seats in the train. Outside, the sun was muffled by intensely thick smoke; it was grey as far as the eye could see (which was probably only about half a kilometre). With a five star breakfast of a snap pea omelette, toast and chai, I settled in for the journey.
After a few hours, we arrived in Jhansi. The quiet of the countryside gave way to a city alive with noise and movement. We jumped into tuk-tuks to make our way out of the city, and were immediately met by flooded roads, deep potholes, and cows blocking traffic with total indifference. Holding tight to the open sides of the vehicle, we zigzagged through the mess. As we got closer to Orchha, the roads began to level out. The smog started to thin, and sunlight finally broke through, casting a warm light over the landscape ahead.
Arriving in the town of Orchha, there a noticeable shift in pace. For once, I didn’t have to search for calm within the chaos. It was simply there. The streets were quieter, the honking less relentless, and while the usual traffic of daily life moved along, it did so without the same frantic edge. Vendors still lined the roads, but they weren’t as insistent. Instead, it was the stares of people in town that lingered—curious, steady, and more frequent than I’d experienced elsewhere.
My hotel was on the banks of a quiet river looking up at Orchha Fort, a 500-year-old abandoned fortress filled with monuments and temples. The river was lined with lush greenery, and water buffaloes wandered through the shallows below, grazing and cooling off in the heat.
Stopping for a quick bite of chilli paneer before exploring further, myself and a few others walked up to the fort for a better look of the town below. Walking through the fort felt like stepping into a place time had mostly left alone. The buildings were worn but still impressive, with faded carvings and empty courtyards that hinted at their former importance. There were barely any other visitors around, which made the silence stand out even more. From the upper levels, the view stretched out over the town and the river, with only the occasional sound of a distant honk or a temple bell cutting through the quiet.
Suddenly, the calm was broken by large groups of school kids rushing up to us, all politely asking for photos. I’d had moments like this in other places I traveled to, but their unburdened excitement felt the most genuine. Almost overwhelming. They snapped dozens of photos from every angle, laughing and posing, and for a few minutes, it was hard not to feel like a celebrity.
Later in the day, we drove down to the Royal Chhatris, Orchha’s riverside cenotaphs built in memory of its past rulers. Set against the backdrop of the Betwa River as the sun hung low in the sky, locals were resting in the shade, kids were playing nearby, and wildlife was peacefully coexisting. Perched on the highest points of the Chhatris were dozens of vultures, wings outstretched or hunched in the heat. At first glance, they almost looked like part of the stonework—still and weathered—but every so often, one would take flight, circling silently overhead. Their presence added an eerie, surreal feeling to completely quiet park.
Nearby, the Betwa Nadi Bridge offered an incredible view of the cenotaphs at sunset. The sky turned a fiery red, silhouetting the monuments. Below, teens swam and played in the river’s rapids, happily waving up at us and smiling for photos. On the bridge itself, cows nonchalantly blocked traffic, while large herds of goats ambled across, as if they were the ones in charge.
Later in the evening, once the sun had set, we had the incredible opportunity to visit Ram Raja Temple. Nestled in the heart of Orchha, the temple, dedicated to Lord Ram, stands as a unique blend of spiritual reverence and architectural beauty. It is is the only temple in India where Lord Ram is worshipped as a king, not just a deity. He is treated as the ruler of Orchha, complete with royal honours including a palace guard, a daily darbar (royal court), and ceremonial salutes by police officers.
As we walked through the streets towards the temple, we passed vendors selling brass and gold idols of gods and goddesses. The air was thick with the scent of incense, and the sounds of bargaining filled the space between the stalls.
We took off our shoes before entering the temple, joining the steady flow of people. The energy inside was palpable; a mix of devotion and chaos. The temple was packed, with people jostling for spac, filling every corner. It felt intense, crowded and loud, but there was a deep reverence in the air.
Near the back of the temple, shrouded in a protective mesh, an idol of Lord Ram stood accompanied by other smaller statues. Made from black stone, it stands in a commanding, upright posture. He is depicted in a regal form, holding a bow in his left hand and an arrow in his right, symbolizing his role as a warrior and protector.
Devotees threw handfuls of marigold petals at the statue, their bright orange and yellow colours bursting on impact. Others stepped forward with boxes on sweets, which I later learned symbolized devotion, goodwill, and the desire to share joy with the divine. In return, it's believed the deity blesses the devotee with sweetness in their own life; happiness, peace or success. Watching the steady stream of people all performing these rituals in a packed, buzzing space made the moment feel both deeply personal and entirely communal. Although no photos were allowed in the temple, the experience was hard to forget. The smell of incense, the sound of prayers, and groups dancing together made a strong impression. It didn’t need a photo to be memorable.
Day 8
Sleeping in, doing yoga overlooking the river, and hanging out with local cows. Today was all about enjoying the countryside and preparing for the night ahead. I spent the majority of the day wandering around the town and having a few conversations with the locals, simply enjoying my time in Ochhra.
That evening, I was invited to join a cooking class in a local home- a chance to get a firsthand look at how everyday meals are made, and to try my hand at cooking them myself. From masala chai and vegetable curry to dal fry and boondi raita, I made some new friends and gained a few new recipes.
The first drive to from Jhansi to Ochhra was intense, but it was nothing like driving back to Jhansi in the dark. Same speed, same potholes, but with far less visibility. It was great. We arrived back at the train station around 11 p.m., well equipped with snacks, ready for an overnight journey to Varanasi.
Overnight trains in India come in several classes, ranging from budget-friendly to relatively comfortable. At the top, there’s First AC, private cabins with locking doors, bigger beds and fewer passengers. Then there’s Second AC, with curtained berths and slightly less privacy, followed by Third AC, the most common long-distance choice, with more passengers and fewer amenities.
Fully committing to the experience, I was in Third AC. No curtains, packed berths, and constant foot traffic. The air-conditioning worked, but it actually became more of hindrance because of how cold it got. Still, it got me where I needed to go, and came with the full experience of chai vendors, rattling metal and the steady hums of gentle conversations (including some loud ones on speakerphone) and some particularly insistent snoring.
Settling in and climbing to my top berth, I unwrapped a paper packet containing freshly laundered pillows and blankets. I made my “bed” on the thick, yoga mat-like mattress that served as a sleeping surface. It wasn’t exactly plush, but it did the job. Other travellers around me were less than thrilled with the state of the carriage, but personally, I slept like a baby. I absolutely love overnight trains. The gentle rocking, the soft noise of the tracks, and the rhythm of the journey make it one of my favourite ways to travel.
It was a pretty uneventful night, except for the bathroom closest to us overflowing sometime mid-voyage. It wasn’t the cleanest bathroom to start with, so this was an unfortunate escalation in terrible smells. Worst of all, a fellow traveler near me who was half-asleep, went to use the bathroom in her socks. I doubt the socks were salvageable.
Day 9
Stretching my legs, I hopped off the train with my backpack and walked down a nearly empty platform. The nine-hour ride was behind me, and with it, my lingering fear of coming down with food poisoning mid-journey. (Because I couldn’t imagine a worse place having food-poisoning than a train in India in the middle of the night). The early morning air was cool, and the station, although one of India’s busiest, was unusually quiet.
After a short bus ride I reached my hotel and took a much-needed shower, and took some time to get my upcoming visa for Nepal in-order. Around 3 p.m, I stepped out onto the streets of Varanasi, ready to dive into one of the oldest, most chaotic and fascinating cities in the world.
I walked through tight alleyways filled with vibrant murals of Hindu gods and political slogans on the walls, along the occasional cow blocking the entire path like it owned the place (which, in a way, it did). Motorbikes squeezed past at impossible angles, and every turn revealed a new smell: incense, frying food, compost, or all three at once. You didn’t so much walk through Varanasi’s alleys as weave, dodge, and negotiate your way forward.
It was within this labyrinth of narrow alleys that I stumbled upon a small shop selling a delicious, savoury samosa, drenched in a thick, red spiced sauce. Just around the corner a street vendor was dishing out clay pots of lassi, my new personal favourite. He used an old glass photo frame as a makeshift fly shield (which was surprisingly effective). After dodging more motorbikes zooming past and hugging the wall to stay out of harms way, we eventually emerged from the alleys and climbed up to the Alamgir Mosque.
Built during the Mughal era by Emperor Aurangzeb in 1669, it stands on the site of a destroyed Hindu temple. It was completely empty when we arrived apart from a few caretakers, but we were instructed to remove our shoes and climb another incredibly steep stone staircase to the rooftop. Before ascending, however, the courtyard of the mosque provided my first glimpse of the Ganges river. Wide, calm, and hazy in the evening light; it looked almost etherial.
Climbing the stairs, the views of the Ganges only became more dramatic. From its elevated position the views of the are sweeping; you can see boats drifting slowly along the water, people bathing on the distant steps and the chaotic sprawl of Varanasi climbing up from the riverbanks. The contrast is striking: calm, endless water in front of you, and the dense, noisy city just behind it. On nearby rooftops monkeys darted across ledges and low walls, snatching fruit and occasionally pausing to take in the view. They seemed at ease in this chaotic landscape, just as much a part of the city as the people below.
Later, while walking along the banks of the Ganges, it was impossible not to notice the murky, brown water lapping at the stone steps. Trash and offerings floated near the edges, yet people continued to wade in without hesitation. Some bathed, others swam, and a few stood still with their hands pressed in prayer.
These steps, known as the ghats, stretch along the river’s edge. The ghats form a patchwork of open-air platforms, each with its own rhythm and purpose. Some are dedicated to ritual bathing, others serve as communal laundry stations, and a few are used for cremation ceremonies; their fires burning at all hours. The air is thick with a mix of incense, smoke, and river mist, and the activity rarely stops. Here, the sacred and the routine coexist without pause.
Handed a face mask, we were invited to walk through Manikarnika Ghat, known for being one of the holiest, and busiest, cremation sites in India. Thick smoke hung in the air and the smell and heat of burning wood was immediate and intense. Fires crackled steadily along the stone platforms, where bodies wrapped in cloth were laid out in preparation. Nearby, men tended to the fires, stacking logs, fanning flames, and keeping the process moving with quiet efficiency. There was no curtain or barrier. Death here was not hidden away. Families stood close, some silently watching, others speaking with the workers. The atmosphere was heavy but not tumultuous; more matter-of-fact than mournful. And amid all the smoke and ash, the river kept flowing, steady and indifferent.
What was most jarring for me was how seamlessly death and daily life coexisted. Just steps away from the burning fires, modern restaurants served sizzling plates of food. The smell of charred meat from open grills mingled with the smoke of funeral fires, and locals and tourists alike sat on plastic stools, chatting over their meals, seemingly unfazed by the cremations happening just meters away.
There was no clear line between the sacred and the ordinary. Life continued, people ate, worked and laughed, while, only steps away, others mourned and said their final goodbyes. It was intensely raw, powerful, and innately human. I was told here that Varanasi is the city of learning and burning.
After sunset, we boarded a small wooden boat to see the ghats from the water. On the river, the view was completely different; hundreds of people crowded the shoreline, many of them gathered for evening prayers. The glow of lamps and candles flickered against the stone steps, and the sound of bells and chanting carried across the water. Many boats floated nearby, packed with people hoping for a clear view of the ceremony. As we continued down the river, the glow of the ceremonies slowly faded into the darkness. Eventually, we turned back and docked, the night settling in around us, before facing the busy Varanasi traffic back to our hotel.
Day 10
Waking up just before sunrise, we returned to the banks of the Ganges, eager to witness a morning ceremony. The atmosphere was calmer, with far fewer people gathered. A handful of devotees, dressed in vibrant orange robes held small fire-lit lamps that flickered softly in the early light as they began the ceremony.
The air was filled with the soothing sound of bells and chimes, the rhythmic clink of metal blending with the soft singing of women nearby. Behind them, the pink sun began to rise, casting a soft glow over the scene. It was an incredibly peaceful and rejuvenating way to start the day, the world still and sacred in those first moments of light.
We then learned our guide had yet another surprise for us. We returned to the water in a boat lined with soft orange cushions, and at the front sat a smiling man with a sitar- a traditional Indian string instrument. The gentle rhythm of his music matched the movement of the boat as we glided slowly along the river, the golden daylight revealing layers of scenery we’d missed in the shadows the night before. Vibrant buildings lined the banks, birds darted over the water, and the quiet rhythm of local life unfolded around us. Away from the noise and chaos of Varanasi, floating on the slow-moving river with a cup of chai in hand, it was hard not to feel a sense of peace.
The Ganges is one of the most important rivers in India, both spiritually and practically. For Hindus, it is considered sacred, believed to cleanse sins and help the soul reach liberation after death. That’s why many people come to cities like Varanasi to bathe in the river, perform rituals or scatter the ashes of relatives. The belief is that dying in Varanasi and having one’s ashes placed in the Ganges can break the cycle of rebirth. Despite the pollution, the river still holds deep religious meaning. People trust in its power, even if its waters tell a different story.
Arriving back to shore, I wandered around Varanasi for a few hours before taking a tour of Sarnath, one of the most significant Buddhist pilgrimage sites. When I first arrived I was met with a towering Standing Buddha statue. At over 80 feet tall, it’s one of the tallest Buddha statues in India, depicting him with his hand raised in a gesture of reassurance and protection. Surrounded by landscaped gardens and a peaceful walkway, the statue rises above the treetops, its calm expression visible from a distance.
As we walked through the quiet grounds of Sarnath, the Dhamek Stupa emerged in front of us. Its massive, cylindrical form stood as a silent testament to one of the most pivotal moments in Buddhist history. The stupa marks the spot where Gautam Buddha is believed to have delivered his first sermon after attaining enlightenment, sharing the teachings that would eventually spread across Asia and the world.
Nearby, under a Bodhi tree (a direct descendant of the original tree in Bodh Gaya where Buddha reached enlightenment), a depiction of Buddha sharing his teachings with his disciples provided a serene look into ancient history. The Bodhi tree in Sarnath is a living symbol, grown from a sapling brought here from the original tree, linking the two sites in a profound way. The branches stretched wide and low, offering shade and silence.
Deer grazed peacefully nearby, moving through the grounds in a calm, almost reverent manner, adding to the serene atmosphere that surrounds this deeply spiritual spot. After some time exploring the grounds a bit further, the tour concluded and I made my way back to Varanasi.
Looking for a quick bite, I wandered into a nearby McDonald’s to grab a snack. When I placed my order, the cashier warned me with a smile that it might be too spicy. Feeling slightly challenged, I went ahead with it anyway. Before the trip I made an effort to build up my spice tolerance, and thankfully, it seemed to have paid off. Throughout the journey my guide often joked about how well I handled “Indian heat”- something I started to take a bit of pride in. The McSpicy Paneer and McAloo Tikki Burger didn’t stand a chance against my newly trained taste buds. (I’m also fairly certain the regular, everyday lassi played a key role in my stomach’s survival.)
That evening, I had the chance to see firsthand how Varanasi’s famous silk scarves are made, both by machine and by hand. I walked through the city’s silk district, a maze of narrow lanes filled with the rhythmic sounds of weaving. In one workshop craftsmen hammered precise holes into long wooden cards: punch patterns that serve as instructions for the looms. The process was a blend of tradition and technique, where each hole dictates the movement of threads and ultimately the intricate patterns of the fabric.
I walked with a few others through a series of cramped warehouses where the air was thick with heat, dust and the constant, deafening clatter of machines pulling threads at high speed. Overhead, belts and pulleys moved in chaotic rhythm, and it was immediately clear how dangerous the space could be. Loose wires snaked across the floors and the machinery was exposed and fast-moving; easy to imagine a finger, a sleeve or even a strand of hair getting caught if you weren’t careful. It was a stark contrast to the delicate beauty of the final product.
In another area, a man sat at a handloom, carefully guiding each thread with practiced ease. Watching the scarves take shape, it was clear just how much time, skill and care go into something that might, to most people, seem like just another souvenir. One particular in-progress scarf I was told still had another two months of work to go.
After picking out a few silk scarves to bring home (more as art pieces than just fashion), I set out to find the spiciest butter chicken I could. Still riding the high of my guide’s comment that I could handle “Indian heat,” I ordered from a food truck tucked along a busy roadside. The chicken didn’t disappoint- rich, fiery and packed with flavour. I joined a few new friends, and together we sat on plastic chairs, eating our meals, trading stories and soaking in the warm evening air. The traffic buzzed by, the city hummed around us, and for a moment everything felt perfectly in place.
Day 11
My time in India had come to an end, but the journey was far from over. With one last look at the country that had left an undeniable mark on me, I set my sights north towards Sonauli, a dusty border town where India and Nepal meet.
The road there was calm at first and then a chaotic blur. Traffic crawled through congested streets, occasionally blocked by beggars with outstretched hands, carrying crying babies wrapped in cloth. I wound my way through labyrinthine bureaucratic lines, papers shuffled from one official to another, only to be told to walk a kilometre away to sign yet another form. The endless back-and-forth mirrored the contradictory nature of the country itself: maddening, yet strangely exhilarating.
Finally, with nothing but a stamp in my passport and the promise of a new adventure, I crossed the border into Nepal on foot.
Throughout my eleven days in India, I had somehow managed to avoid the inevitable traveler’s illness that had been a constant worry before I’d left home. No stomach bugs, no fevered nights, no sudden dashes to the nearest restroom. Just a sense of quiet luck (or perhaps a silent blessing). As I walked across that invisible line into Nepal, I couldn’t help but think: India had tested me, but I had come out the other side unscathed.
With a backpack full of tea, scarves, and trinkets for family and friends back home, I took one last, lingering glance at India. The sounds, the smells, the chaos, the serenity. It would stay with me long after I’d left. I had found moments of peace in the madness, calm in the chaos, and it was those collective moments that had shaped my experience. As I passed the border, stepping into a new chapter of my travels, I realized that while the roads ahead were unknown, the journey, and India’s imprint on me, would never really end.
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