India: Not a Place, But a Feeling

India was not the first country I travelled to, nor would it be the last. Yet it has held something within me that remains very special, spiritual even. It was a trip taken after what I considered a lifetime of running from my past, and it was there that I finally found a sense of freedom. Perhaps it was the mystique of the place, or perhaps it was a land so opposite to my own that it anchored me long after I had left.

To this day, I am often caught off guard by a memory. But it’s never just a memory, there’s always something more attached to it, something that arrives before the image itself. Allow me to explain. I could be sitting at home, at the gym, or out walking the dog when suddenly, from nowhere, I’ll sense a dampness on my skin, like sweat, followed by a heavy humidity. Then from somewhere deep in my mind, the faint aroma of incense begins to rise and almost shimmering like a reflection, I’d be transported back to an apartment in Mumbai.

A vivid recollection begins to unfold – horns blaring from the street below; the view of black and yellow taxis; rickshaws buzzing; voices of a million people echoing through the stained concrete buildings; streets lined with bending palm trees. It’s as if I have slipped effortlessly through time, returning to a precise moment from that first journey to India. It’s always that first trip that returns so clearly – never the ones that followed.

These memories cannot be forced. They must come naturally. I can’t overthink them or will them to arrive. Without warning, I may find myself whisked away to Leh, sitting at a small table as the dawn’s first light touches the peaks. A flask of coffee and apple-jam muffins rest before me; my tiny bare room lingers somewhere in the shadows. Warm faces of long-lost friends drift in and out like ghosts. My heart aches as I yearn to be back there again, but I am comforted by the knowledge that they will always remain with me. They never truly leave. They return when I need them most – when the time is right.

As I write this now, I’m in tune with that life I left behind nearly thirty years ago, as if I were still there. The intensity of heat and chaos in the streets of Delhi; the stillness and serenity beneath a full moon on a mountain in Manali. The solitude of a much younger self in Nainital, stepping into a rickety paddle boat questioning what the future might hold. The smell of fresh cedarwood from a newly built houseboat in Kashmir, followed by nearby gunfire. The rush of fear, the frantic breath as I race through the streets, desperate to avoid conflict, yet not before firing off a few frames of film. My camera, the evidence to myself, that yes, I was there.

India has awarded me with so much more than just travel. It gave me a sense of purpose, that there was something so much greater than who I thought I was, a mere mortal scrabbling through life. There was, I began to understand, a greater force at play. In my darkest hours, that strange and fantastic world still returns to me, reminding me of the richness and enchantment that life can hold. It gives me confidence, courage, and strength.

Through India, I ventured deep into the corners of my soul and came back changed. It remains with me still, a beautiful companion by my side for all time.

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