India is like the great act no one wants to follow—anything that comes after feels pale in comparison. Not as exhilarating, not as captivating, not as exciting. At least, that is how it has felt for me as I hesitantly eased back into routine after the most extraordinary adventure.
Returning home required an adjustment. The symphony of honking cars had faded into silence, the streets were no longer alive with the colours of sarees, the aroma of street food and spices, or the sight of cows wandering freely among the crowds. For six weeks, India had felt like home, and leaving it all behind was a bittersweet experience.
Yet, what I have cherished most since returning is the opportunity to share stories of the kindness I encountered. Whenever someone asks about the highlight of my trip, my face lights up as I recount the unwavering hospitality of strangers who welcomed me as though I were family. I gush about the unspoken tradition of offering chai to every guest, the warmth with which I was invited into homes and villages, and the generosity of people who expected nothing in return. Just as eagerly, I show photos of the iconic Taj Mahal and the magic of Varanasi. I laugh about the monkey at Tiger Point in Lonavala that tried to snatch my water bottle, and the hilarity of a spontaneous paragliding trip that found me crammed into a car with fellow adventurers, bouncing up a rocky hill, all of us in fits of laughter at how wonderfully absurd it all was. These moments, now frozen in photos and stories, are ones I will cherish for a lifetime.
Beyond the places I visited, India revealed parts of myself I had not known before. I never imagined that I would find so much joy in stepping beyond my comfort zone—meeting new people each day, navigating unfamiliar cities by myself, and embracing uncertainty with open arms. The very newness I once feared became my greatest thrill. I loved the challenge of finding my way around, asking strangers if I was on the right train, or seeking help from kind women to drape my saree. Being new to everything was humbling and grounding, but it was also a gift. It led to chance encounters, unexpected friendships, and a deep gratitude for the privilege of experiencing exciting things.
I also loved wearing my sei each day, the way it invited curiosity and conversation about where I was from. I would leap at the chance to describe my great blue continent, painting pictures of paradisiacal beaches, coconut trees swaying against an endless blue, and a sea of islands stretching far beyond what they knew. Some had a faint awareness of the Pacific, while for others, it was an entirely new world, and they were eager to learn. I also felt a quiet pride in wearing sarees, feeling like a princess as I skipped around with the flowing fabric trailing behind me.
I feel deeply grateful to have experienced this journey—to have been immersed in the soul of a country so rich in culture, beauty, and kindness. And yet, as much as I desired to stay a little longer, to delay my return home, the words of Robert Frost’s Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening whispered in my mind:
The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
The magic of India—wandering through temples, soaring thousands of feet in the air, riding camels in the mountains, dissolving into a sea of people where I became just a small speck—is a life I could live every day.
But another life was waiting for me back home. A life grounded in commitments—my family, my studies, and the goals I have yet to fulfil. A life that does not hold the same rush of stepping into the unknown, yet carries its own quiet purpose. Not every day can be an adventure along the mystique of the Ganga or beneath the grandeur of the Taj Mahal, but that is precisely what makes those moments so rare, so unforgettable.
So, for now, I have promises to keep. But I will return, India—sooner rather than later, I hope, carrying this wonder with me always and trusting that our paths will cross again.