Welcome back to the final installment of Incredible India! 🙂
This post covers our second month on this charming, colorful, and chaotic sub-continent. In case you missed the first post, click here. After our brief detour (Days 87-97) into the world of permaculture, Julia and I get back on the road. We survived to tell the tale, so here it is.
Day 98-101: Parbhani
I’m a sedentary city boy, and neither Julia nor I are used to physical labor, so almost two weeks straight on permie farms in rural Telangana leave our minds refreshed but our bodies tired.
Our new permaculture friend Jignasha kindly offers to host us at her house in Parbhani, Maharashtra, more than 250km away. We gratefully accept, happy with another opportunity to experience the countryside and spend time with local people.
Jignasha’s generous hospitality knows no bounds. At her place, we get the rest we need, learn from her permaculture practice, and of course, sample her incredible Maharashtrian cuisine. She also gives us a glimpse of her religious practice as a devout follower of Lord Krishna. Jignasha and her household staff (something Julia and I are not at all used to) spoil us so much. It’s a constant tug-o-war to offer to do chores and we always lose! Angel, the very spoilt housecat quickly makes it known that she is the boss.
As Parbhani lies on a major rail line, Jignasha helps us book trains northeast via Amritsar to Dharamsala so we can finally see the Dalai Lama. At Day 100, Julia and I look back and reflect on how fortunate we are to be here. Things are working out well and falling into place.
I spoke too soon.
The day before our train leaves for Amritsar, riots break out in surrounding areas. Apparently, the followers of a popular baba (religious leader) are outraged at his rape conviction. Official reports say the riot – which killed 31 and injured at least than 300 people – was carefully planned to resist the conviction of their guru, whom the followers revere as a demigod.
Our train is canceled by the Indian Government and we are forced to again change plans. Whole towns are placed under security lockdown. As train and bus stations are closed we have no choice but to travel to Aurangabad and take a flight. We have mixed feelings about the affair – glad that the rape victims secured justice, yet saddened that people continue to suffer because of blind fanaticism.
Leaving Parbhani, we say thank you and goodbye to our hosts, grateful for their kindness and prudent advice. The flight north to Delhi is uneventful – until we hit a huge storm. Times like this, Julia the atheist rapidly turns religious, and I chant several malas for Green Tara to assure our safety. We crash, bump and drop turbulently through the clouds and are very glad to land safely.
I do wonder how things might’ve played out had we been caught in those riots, since protesters burned trains and buses.
Day 102-114: New Delhi
Back in the sprawling Indian capital, Julia and I decide to let go of our Dharamsala plans. After two failed attempts, perhaps it’s simply not my karma to hear the Dalai Lama teach. At least we’re safe.
We decide to play the tourist for a while and stay in Pahar Ganj, the backpacker district that now feels familiar enough to get lost in. We spend the cool afternoons and evenings walking, marveling at the mad, frantic scenery, impressed that life moves so well despite the seeming dysfunction. It reminds me of downtown Manila in more ways than one, minus the cows.
We take an incredible bicycle tour through the streets of old Delhi, and survive! Julia captures the exhilaration through her writing. So come for a ride with us, if you dare…
Beep! Beep! Honk! Beeeeeeeeppppp!! Tuk-tuks, motorbikes, bullock carts, trucks, taxis, cows, fruit carts, and pedestrians carrying heavy loads. We cut through the middle of the chaos. It’s a blur.
Beeeeeeppp!! A large carcass lurches towards me, two strong men buckle under the weight of the beast. Wait, what? That’s a cow! They’re sacred! A dripping thigh bone swings centimetres from my face, then something resembling innards. The odour of minutes-old raw flesh and blood permeates every space.
Narrow streets, women wearing niqabs, men wearing taqiyah caps. Potholes, plastic wrappers, loose gravel, spotted goats adorned with floral wreaths. Colourful turbans, vibrant saris, bubbling chai in huge aluminium pots.
Mangy dogs missing clumps of hair scratch frantically. Cats drape themselves over motorbikes, and smelly, watery liquid trickles underfoot. Wooden carts buckling with pomegranates and bananas squeeze through narrow gaps. Everywhere I look is a beautiful photograph but I dare not multitask. Bump, bump, bump. Beep! Hoooonnnk!!!
Chai stop. Delicious spicy nectar from a local chai wala. He tosses in a variety of spices and pours the sweet liquid from above. Bells clang as Hindus pray in the five temples along the alley. Tika-stained foreheads, bowing, eyes closed in worship. Delhi is musical, sacred, and beautiful.
A few turns of my spokes, a dying rat convulses from poisoning. As it gasps for air my eyes fill with tears and I hurriedly mutter some om mani padme hums. In the next moment, its head is crushed by traffic. Delhi is cruel, ugly, and brutal.
An incline causes strain on the men manually wheeling hefty loads of sacks and boxes. Sweating and puffing they take turns to help each other to the top of the crest. On my left the largest bullock I have ever seen heaves a 10ft trailer of goods, his brass neck bell dinging with each strained step.
We brake for a moment to relish the spice market – iridescent hues of red, yellow and orange as far as the eye can see. Dried fruits, chillies and seeds fill large hessian sacks. Nestled amongst them perch the vendors, calculators ready to do you the best price. The smell is delicious and tickles my nose. Inevitably I have a sneezing fit. Spot the foreigner!
Two men lie sound asleep atop a mattress oozing stuffing. On the street, this stained, ripped bed means luxury. The sweet smell of incense engulfs us, cats pick through rubbish piles, and pantless children – the age of my nieces and nephews – play carefree on the roadside.
People excitedly shout “hello” as we pass. Power lines dangle dangerously low. We duck to avoid decapitation. I begin to get a cramp in my right thumb from bell ringing. I have rung it every 15 seconds since we set off to forge my path. If you do not ring your bell, you do not survive.
The places of worship for Sikhs, Muslims, Hindus, Jains and Christians line a single street. India is so beautiful like that, many different faiths co-existing peacefully together.
Anxiously, I watch Joseph’s bald head bob through the traffic. There are some near misses, but he’s doing well to navigate the bumps and turns. A scooter pulls out at the same time as a tuk-tuk cuts him off. His back wheel slides in the dirt but he recovers and keeps on riding.
The streets are choked with single-use plastic. I vow again to do better on this myself. Men bathe in their briefs under the nearest tap. Joseph, the lucky devil, is licked by a sacred cow!
A few days later, Julia catches the dreaded Delhi Belly, an acutely painful bout of gastroenteritis usually caught from contaminated food and drink.
This is the most serious experience of gastro she’s ever had. She cannot eat and becomes very weak, so when it doesn’t subside we rush to the emergency department of the nearest hospital. The doctors put her on a drip but do nothing more, not even an explanation of what’s happening and what they plan to do. It’s frustrating that I have to nag hospital staff for information, but we make it out after half a day of intravenous treatment and observation.
Later on, we learn that Indian doctors don’t normally relate to their patients with the bedside manners and consideration we take for granted.
Julia’s guts seem to hate her with a passion, the poor thing is bedridden for five days. I do my best to keep her alive with as much fruit, plain naan, and corny jokes as she can handle.
Before long, despite losing 6 kg, Julia gets well enough to go outside again and socialize. We catch up with Venerable Kabir for tea and Dharma conversations. Sidney, one of Julia’s former students now in India for a yearlong placement, joins us for dinner and we share survival stories. Healing comes with good food and good company, thankfully.
Day 115-116: Jaipur
Now Julia’s strong enough to travel again, we push southwest to the iconic city with a well-founded reputation for romance and grandeur: Jaipur. Every year, millions of tourists flock to this jewel in the crown of Rajasthani flair and heritage. The famous Pink City is the stage for centuries of art and lore, from majestic medieval palaces to modern blockbusters like The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel. Jaipur is the stuff of dreams.
But we don’t see any of this.
Photos aren’t ours. They’re from here.
We arrive to find the historic district under total security lockdown, no thanks to another riot that happened the previous day. Our driver tell us the authorities aren’t taking chances, so they impose a curfew, close key roads, and suspend internet access for days.
We stop for tea and ask the shopkeeper if he’s worried. Another day, another riot, he shrugs. When he learns I’m Filipino, he’s quick to say he supports Philippine president Rodrigo Duterte’s war on drugs. I inform him that his policy has led to the killing of 13,000 people – including infants. Awkward silence.
Expressing support for mass murder isn’t particularly helpful for customer service. I guess he didn’t get the memo.
We leave Jaipur for Agra as soon as the highways open, and manage to see a few places off the beaten track. Tucked away behind secondary roads are some glorious views of the Amber Fort and a couple of smaller temples. We’ll take it.
Day 117-118: Agra
By now, we’re rapidly losing our enthusiasm for India. The outside temperature’s unbearable, the heat oppressive. Julia’s frail stomach is struggling. The past two weeks have been painful for her. Though I try to stay strong and stoic, the stress is starting to get to me too.
All is not lost, our batteries are instantly recharged when we see the Taj Mahal in all her glory.
The Taj Mahal commands the skyline before us, but ever so gently, like a cloud rising from the red earth towards the pale blue sky. Tradition holds that Shah Jahan’s love for queen Mumtaz Mahal inspired this palace. These days, as if to mirror its structural symmetry, the palace inspires love. Built hundreds of years ago, this temple of beauty endures, surviving wars and outlasting empires, its majesty undiminished. In contrast, the foot coverings we’re required to wear make us look like total dorks. But who cares!
Refreshed, we make our way to the Fatehpur Sikri complex, built during the reign of Akbar the Great. The temples and palaces in Fatehpur Sikri embody Akbar’s philosophy of unity in diversity. The imperial complex is a synthesis of grand proportions and fine detail.
Towards the evening, we make our way to the train station to catch our ride to Varanasi. It takes forever to arrive, so we read our books on the platform to pass the time, while being stared at by locals. The train finally comes, only four hours late. We count ourselves lucky, other peoples’ trains are delayed by thirteen. That said, delays are the least of your worries because in some places, people get killed.
Day 119-121: Varanasi
Set on the banks of the holiest river Ganges, Varanasi is the most sacred city in all of India – mostly to Hindus, but also to Jains, Buddhists, and Sikhs.
Varanasi’s origins lie in the mists of myth and legend. The most popular accounts say the city emerged from the earth when the destroyer god Shiva defeated and beheaded the creator god Brahma.
The Ganges and Varanasi draw countless pilgrims to pay homage, continuing an unbroken lineage spanning at least 4,000 years. However, modern pollution and global warming threaten the Ganges and the wider river ecosystem of the North Indian plain.
But this doesn’t prevent devotees coming to pray and bathe in the water, performing sacred rituals handed down for generations. Such is the strength of their conviction. At sunrise, the ablutions of thousands along the banks are a sight to behold.
Varanasi is also home to Banaras Hindu University, the largest residential public university campus in Asia, so we made sure to visit. With more than 15,000 students and 9,700 teachers and staff, BHU has a long history of academic excellence and community service in India.
From Varanasi, it’s only an hour by tuk-tuk to Sarnath, where the Buddha gave his first teaching. We expect hundreds of pilgrims here, but see relatively few. Except for the chanting in some monasteries, the town is mostly quiet.
There’s a local festival for women happening in Varanasi tonight, and swarms of people are surging towards the banks of their sacred river. Pushing through a sea of people is heart-pumping.
Later that evening, after pacing through a maze of alleyways, we find ourselves in a small studio, only slightly bigger than a lounge room. Front and center, two men wait with unfamiliar instruments. This isn’t your typical jam session, it seems, and what follows is two hours of pure musical genius.
That night, we fell in love with India anew.
Day 122-123: Bodh Gaya
Two hours into waiting for our train to arrive, a group of young men hurry past us. They walk back a few minutes later, but this time, they’re carrying the dead body of a young man on a makeshift stretcher. We’re gutted and hope he didn’t suffer too much, whatever happened.
Samsara. Impermanence. By the time we arrive in Bodhgaya, these Buddhist concepts are well and truly fixed in our minds.
Over the next two days, Julia and I pay homage to and meditate at the holiest site of Buddhism, the Mahabodhi Temple. This is where the Buddha sat over 2,600 years ago to unlock the vast powers of the human mind and uncover the answer to human suffering.
I’m sorry to say, neither Julia nor I attained enlightenment here. I’m also sorry to say, the original bodhi tree under which the Buddha supposedly meditated died centuries ago. What people see and revere today is either the sixth or seventh bodhi tree; no one knows for sure.
But I feel certain people come here not to find inner peace. They seem to already have it and freely share it. We feel a deep calm and unmistakable serenity in Bodhgaya from the people around us.
Beyond the temples, you can see signs of commercial development everywhere – new hotels, chain stores, and roads being built – but it’s still a small town where everybody seems to know everybody else.
Not everyone is reaping the benefits of development, though, and the picture isn’t as rosy as it seems. Here in Bihar State, 70% of the population lives below the poverty line, and the state has the lowest literacy rate in all of India.
Bodhgaya, like many Indian cities, has its slum areas tucked away behind major roads. When you explore on foot as much as we do, there’s no escaping them. Walking through these communities, we feel sad and angry for the families who are being left behind.
Things come full circle for Julia when we pay a visit to Root Institute. She recalls her first stay here in 2009, when she met Lama Zopa Rinpoche. The staff are excited to know we’re students of Venerable Kabir Saxena, who started Root from mud huts in the early 1980s.
While watching squirrels play near the main stupa, we strike up a conversation with a humble, soft-spoken Tibetan monk. It turns out he’s the senior resident teacher at Root, Geshe Ngawang Rabga. His eyes light up as we tell him what we saw in the land of his birth. Our hearts break, knowing he’ll probably never see Tibet again.
When our train to Kolkata arrives on the platform almost six hours late, we just shrug it off because we’ve cultivated a little more equanimity. At least the train’s here. Namaste.
Day 124-125: Kolkata
We wake up the next morning in Kolkata. We realize we don’t have much left to do but rest and prepare for our next country – Thailand. This leaves us in a pensive mood, and there’s certainly a lot to process and talk about.
I think I can summarize by saying a trip to India is like a roller coaster ride. But there are no seat belts or harnesses. And the ride takes a lifetime to start. When it does, the cars barely creep forward, creaking along. Without warning, the ride gains momentum, and you’re thrust forward careening through twists and turns you never thought possible. You hang on for dear life, palms sweaty, knuckles white. You scream, but no sound comes out. As the ride comes to an end, you collapse on the platform, heart racing, to kiss solid ground.
And you’ve never felt more alive.
From beauty and chaos with love,
J & J
When Micro Meets Macro 
Thanks, Sarah! You summed it up perfectly! So glad you enjoyed reading it. 😊
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Wow!! What an absolutely overwhelming and incredible experience for you both! So many challenges and opportunities. Sadness and joy. A microcosm of all things life! Thanks for sharing once again! xx
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