What I'll miss most about India

People really like having their picture taken. After you show it to them, they inevitably thank you.

Most of the time on this blog I complain about India—the men are too aggressive, the postal system sucks, I got robbed, etc. It’s easier (and more fun) for me to write about the bad than the good. But now that I’m back in the States, I want to mention all the things I'll miss about this enthralling, vibrant, lively place.

I’ll miss sitting in the open doorway of a train, parking my feet on the steps, and watching the sun set on some of the most beautiful landscapes I've ever seen.

I’ll miss seeing cricket games in the weirdest of places—narrow alleyways, mountainside trails, a slum’s garbage heap—and the kids who let me play with them (as it turns out, I’m not a bad bowler).

I’ll miss getting afternoon chai in the office, and drinking a cold lemon soda on a stifling hot day.

I’ll miss those random sights that never fail to surprise or delight me: women draped in saris, swinging pickaxes and doing construction work alongside men; the colors that look like a rainbow exploded; the little girls and women in the south, wearing flowers in their beautiful sleek hair.

Women in Hampi.

I’ll miss all the children who come up and say, “Hello, how are you? What is your name?” to practice speaking to a foreigner, and the beaming, proud parents who look on.

I’ll miss people like the woman who saw me weeping to myself and who touched my hand, looking at me with the most understanding eyes. The tailor in Munnar who wouldn’t take money for the spool of thread I desperately needed. Ankitha on the bus to Chennai, who cheerfully invited me to her wedding in one month and who insisted that her fiancé treat me to lunch (had I known he was paying I never would have asked for extra parottas).

I’ll miss meeting other travelers and hearing their stories, because anyone who chooses to travel in a place like India is a kindred spirit.

I’ll miss the way Indians feed animals here, whether it's dropping popcorn in the Ganges to feed the fish, putting out leftovers for stray dogs, or bringing leafy greens for the deer in a Delhi park. 

I’ll miss the constant reminder of faith. The many temples and mosques, the shopkeeper sprinkling Ganges water around his shop, the paint everyone throws on each other on Holi. A few times I got stuck in traffic because a drum-beating parade was slowly making its way down the street. “It’s just puja,” my rickshaw driver shrugged, saying the word for a religious ritual.

I’ll miss the friendly stray dogs, who I couldn’t keep my hands off, rabies scares be damned. I have a special place in my heart for little Brit, who trekked half of the Singalila Ridge with me and who I carried to protect her from aggressive male dogs.

One thing I hope I don’t miss is the person I’ve had to be here—tougher, more resourceful, and usually more than ready to rumble with rude rickshaw drivers, handsy men and scamming touts. One reason I came here was to re-gain my confidence, and if I don’t have that now—after four months of what feels like an entire subcontinent challenging and surprising me in myriad ways—I don’t know if I’ll ever have it.

Good-bye, India, and thank you for the memories. You meant more than you knew.