India - Chaos, Colour and Kindness

India doesn’t let you sit back and take it easy. It demands your attention. It grabs you by the collar, pulls you in close, and asks if you’re ready for a ride. I found myself knee deep in that chaos and colour, using its buses and trains to inch my way across the country like a bead slipping along a thread. This journey wasn’t about checking places off a map. It was about experiencing the pulse of a land that feels ancient and alive all at once.

 Kerala was where it began. I arrived by train, the rhythmic clack-clack-clack of the tracks still in my ears. The state is often called “God’s Own Country,” and I could see why. Green doesn’t even begin to describe it.

In the backwaters, I took a rickety old boat past scenes that felt almost staged in their perfection, palm trees leaning over narrow channels, women in bright saris washing clothes by hand and the smell of coconut oil drifting through the air. There was a peace here that felt untouched by time. But I also learned that even the beauty in Kerala hides stories; the land is fertile, but the people often work hard just to scrape by.

 When I reached Goa, the vibe shifted. It was hard to ignore the echoes of its Portuguese past in the whitewashed churches and vibrant beach life. Goa has a laid back allure, a seductive charm that promises freedom and endless sunsets.

The food here was something else, a blend of Indian spice and European richness. I ordered prawn balchao from a tiny shack that had a cracked sign overhead and a cook with a knowing smile. The dish was a firecracker, spicy enough to make my eyes water, but balanced with a depth of flavour I’d never tasted. Goa isn’t just a place to visit; it’s a place to be absorbed by.

Mumbai hit me like a wall. The city throbs with a frenetic energy, an endless stream of cars, people, and dreams. The first night, I walked through Crawford Market, where the air was thick with the scent of fresh fruit, marigolds, and humanity. I found myself at a stall selling vada pav, a spicy potato patty stuffed into a bun, drizzled with a green chutney that practically slapped me awake.

Mumbai’s streets are a tapestry of contrasts; people in business suits brushed past barefoot kids playing cricket, and I understood why they call it the City of Dreams. Everyone here is chasing something.

In Rajasthan, I slowed down a bit. Udaipur, the “City of Lakes,” was hauntingly beautiful with its palaces reflecting on the water like something out of a fantasy.

But it was Jaipur that left a mark on me. The Pink City, its buildings washed in hues of terracotta and rose. I took an overnight train there, a rugged experience that involved sharing bunks with strangers who treated me like family, offering up chai from thermoses and snacks that their mothers had packed. There’s a kindness in India’s people that feels rare in our world today, a hospitality that’s almost disarming.

Then there was Varanasi. The city wasn’t just alive; it vibrated. The ghats stretched along the Ganges like stairways leading into some spiritual abyss.
I watched as people performed pujas, sending small leaf boats filled with marigolds and candles onto the river. You could feel the weight of centuries here. Varanasi is one of the oldest continuously inhabited cities in the world, and every corner seemed to hum with history. I wasn’t prepared for the way this place would affect me, the life, the death, the river carrying it all.

India, for me, was a visceral experience. There’s no gentle introduction to this country; it sweeps you into its embrace, a mix of beauty and hardship, laughter and struggle. I left with dust in my hair, spices on my tongue, and memories etched in places I hadn’t even known existed. India isn’t just a destination. It’s a baptism by fire, and when you emerge, you’re forever changed.