“Prepare yourself.”

These were the words we heard over and over again before touching down in Mumbai to begin our two-month journey through India. A brief pit stop in the airport loo introduced us to the infamous Asian squat toilets and the cantankerous ATM machine in Terminal 1 reminded us we weren’t in Kansas anymore. But it was the step outside, into the traffic-choked lanes of the sprawling metropolis where more than 20 million people call home, when we realized we could have never been fully prepared.

After all, we had arrived in India on the “holiest” of days, just in time for Holi Festival. Winding our way through the streets of Mumbai, India welcomed us in a riot of color as celebrants welcomed the arrival of spring. From the window of our yellow and black taxicab we clanked along the Indian roadways all the while enjoying a bouquet of dancing characters and colors. The smog-filled air was joined by clouds of pink, green and turquoise as pyramids of colorful powder was smeared on faces. Splashing, singing and dancing, these Mumbaikers shed all inhibition and differences, if only for one day, as we whizzed by in pure fascination.

Here are the faces of Holi.

When it comes to food and drink I don’t bring out the “Oh, dear baby Jesus” comment unless something really, really, really merits the swearing of the Lord. Well, India’s lassis are worthy.

My Indian friends, when giving recommendations, all made a point of telling me that I couldn’t visit India without enjoying one of these bad boys. So I did – about fifty of them.

To start, what is a lassi? A lassi is a yogurt-based drink common to the Indian subcontinent and parts of the Middle East, traditionally served salty or sweet. Never got around to trying the salty lassi, mostly because of the discovery of a sweeter kind, the mango lassi. Mangos lassis are only served when mangos are in season so when the season began, about a month into our time there, I simply doubled down every day to make up for lost time. Mango lassis are creamy, cold, smooth, sweet, and delicious and the perfect antidote to India’s heat.

I tried many great lassis but none better than the makhani or saffron lassi at Shri Mishrilal in the blue city of Jodhpur in Rajasthan. Our guidebook had claimed that it might have the best makhani lassi in all of India and we wanted to put it to the test.

This place was indeed an institution. They served one thing and one thing only – saffron lassis. Your only decision was ice or no ice. We chose to forgo the ice as Indian water is the quickest way to trouble. You simply ordered and the waiter brought you over the extra-thick and creamy lassi with a a much-needed spoon and glass of water. Bliss in a glass, people, bliss in a glass.

The of course there is the ever-popular bang lassi. Alcohol is frowned upon by many Indians, but marijuana or hashish in your drink – well, that’s a different thing. You see, the Hindu god Shiva loved a good smoke as the next guy. As a result, the holy men that follow in Shiva’s footsteps often smoke in his honor. That same transitive experience from smoking weed has spread to India’s favorite drink – the lassi.

The result is the soporific bang lassi, essentially a lassi laced with weed. I never actually got around to trying this “special” lassi (as it is referred to when ordering at restaurants) found in many parts of Rajasthan, but I’m told that its effects are indeed very real and quite transformational. I’m very sure Shiva would be delighted that Western tourists are doing their best to follow his ways.

Vapid, tasteless, uninspiring, Kingfisher beer is all of the above. But even its watered-down taste can’t take away from how good it feels to cool off from the omnipresent and oppressive heat in India with a surreptitious swig of this icy beer.

Because many Hindus and Buddhists abstain from drinking alcohol, beer is often hard to find in India (or very expensive). In some states, there are laws forbidding the sale of alcohol. This does not, however, deter Indians’ capitalist interests. You simply have to ask for an “iced coffee.” In the beach area of Varkala in the south our Kingfisher arrived in a tea pot and in Udaipur we had to hide the bottle under the table to avert the eyes of suspecting authorities.

The old adage “you want what you can’t have” seems to be true. Somehow, drinking a tasteless beer just tastes better when you know you shouldn’t be having it. Nothing like an Indian speakeasy to bring out the flavor in an icy Kingfisher.

Chicken Tikka Masala is a classic Punjabi dish

Before coming to India when I thought of Indian cuisine chicken tikka masala would always come to mind. This was my go-to dish at Hema’s Kitchen, my favorite Indian restaurant in Chicago. But, while in India, many days and weeks passed before I ever even saw this on a menu.

How naïve was I? A nation of over one billion people, more than 30 separate states and therefore a wide variety of food, and I couldn’t wait to get to India to try the dish I love so much from my favorite ethnic restaurant back home.

What I learned is that Indian food in other parts of the world almost invariably hails from one state – Punjab. This is not altogether a bad thing. The northwestern state of Punjab is well-known in its own country for its tasty cuisine. But it, of course, is not all that Indian food has to offer.

Nonetheless, I was elated when we ate at our first Punjabi restaurant in India and I was able to have my still favorite Indian dish, chicken tikka masala. Chicken tikka is made up of boneless cubes of chicken cooked in a tandoor, or a clay oven, with yogurt and is cooked in a masala, a curry with a slew of spices.

Due to the slow cooking preparation, the meat is soft and melts in your mouth. The spicy curry and thick gravy give the chicken an extra kick.

Passengers boarding the train

To conclude our Indian adventure, we plotted out a week-long stay in the serene, green northeast territory of the country. We had a first class train ticket in hand and a charming hotel awaited our arrival. Although tranquility was what we were after, we soon learned India had something else up her sleeve. She preferred to give us a more authentic adieu.

Setting off from the holy city of Varanasi to the hill station of Darjeeling, our journey began. Loading up our bulky packs, we marched through a maze of tight, crowded alleyways and fought through the hissing and heckling of an aggressive mob of rickshaw drivers. Coughing our way through the muggy air, we made the hour-long journey to the train station to arrive in time for our 9 p.m. train.

Upon our arrival we received news that our 16-hour overnight train was delayed. It wasn’t just any delay. It was a delay of eleven hours. We were doomed.

All simple, logical solutions were faulty. Trains are typically full for weeks in advance (especially if you are looking to ride away from the smut and grime of the economy cabin) so canceling our ticket and buying another was out of the question. Finding a hotel to stay in proved impossible. By this hour, hotels were closed, adhering to the strictly enforced curfew policy in Varanasi. Further, with the city’s nightly power outage the pitch black ride back to the city, at this time, would be treacherous.

Crowded floors of the Mughal Serai train station at night

I will try to describe the grim situation of the Mughal Serai train station to the best of my ability, but I can assure you it will not do justice. The smell is overwhelming. It’s a toxic odor of burning trash stinging your eyes and singeing your nose. It’s the piercing stench of fecal matter squirting out of busted pipes and spewing from the bottoms of trains. It’s the sticky puddles of stale-smelling urine covering the station platforms. The dim low-hanging, lights reveal a thick layer of filth and mounds of litter, providing a feast to the swarms of flies and beetles that surround.

Truly disgusted with the conditions, we were directed to the ‘upper-class’ waiting room where we could wait it out. After settling our bags and wiping away the damp sweat covering our bodies, we noticed the room was crawling with rats. With seemingly nowhere else to go, we escaped to the adjacent train station restaurant in hopes to find a resting place for the night.

Passengers catch some shut eye while waiting for train

India was certainly testing me again. This time I was pushed to my breaking point, teetering over the edge. But she’s tricky, that India. Just when you are about to lose it she takes you in and shows you just how bad it could be. She reveals a reality a million times worse.

Out of the train tracks came the children. At 2 a.m. a group of four, five and six year olds roamed barefoot along the tracks. With their ratted hair and dressed in filthy rags, they gathered broken bottles and empty cardboard thrown from windows of the trains and piled them high into giant, burlap bags slung over their shoulders. They laughed and giggled as they walked through mounds of litter while dodging rats scurrying across the tracks and swatting flies off each other’s faces.

Child sleeping on the floor of the train station

My heart was broken.

For the remainder of the night we too made a bed on the platform floor. Laying on our backpacks, mosquitoes and flies feasted on our bodies and we pretended we didn’t hear the rats squeaking and scurrying beside us. We even tried to ignore the peering strangers huddling around us, plotting out a moment to rummage through our bags.

By the time the sun rose, the children were already off to work the new arrivals to the station. They were joined by tens of scrawny invalids scrambling for change. And when our eleven hour delay turned into fifteen hours, it somehow didn’t seem all that bad.

Our train did finally arrive, and we slept in the air conditioned sleeping car for the duration of the journey. When the forty hour trip o Darjeeling finally came to an end, I realized this might have been just the goodbye we needed to conclude our Indian journey. She wouldn’t have it any other way.

The windy road to Darjeeling, India

Along with a motley crew of travelers from Israel, Poland, England and Germany, we hired a jeep to take us from the city of New Jalpaiguiri, where we disembarked our train, to Darjeeling – 80km, 3 hours and 7,000 feet of elevation away. In our mini-UN of a jeep, we discussed, as we always do in situations like these: American politics, health care, Michael Moore films, George Bush vs Barack Obama and why Americans don’t travel outside of the US (almost invariably in that order). The new wrinkle in the conversation came from the German who warned us that Obama is “a master hypnotist” and that we needed to be careful because, as such, we can easily be controlled by his cadence and manner of speech “to do things.” Thank you, duly noted. This is to say nothing of the variety of drugs and personal oddities you can find in India. This place is full of them. Most prevalent are the 30 year Goan veterans who moonlight as yogis/dealers/preachers and daylight as just freaking weird.

Passengers hitch a ride up the mountains to Darjeeling

Smiling children in Darjeeling

Fog lifting off the hills of Darjeeling

Darjeeling is not heaven, but after a month in India it seemed close enough. Having read that, you may think that I hated India. You’d be wrong. You see, India is a complex place that will make you feel. At times – wonderful, happy, joyous, excited and yearning for more. And other times – sad, tired, broken and wanting to give up. We were not crossing any literal borders, but it was obvious, on the road to Darjeeling we were leaving behind a country, and with it, a piece of ourselves. And, at least for the moment, this was OK.

Turban coiled on the head of Rajasthani man

When you picture India, it’s likely Rajasthan you have in mind. Here the clanking sound of sparkling bangles and silver anklets is hushed against the taunts of sari stall vendors pushing intricate fabrics. Bobbing through the narrow alleyways of endless bazaars, there’s a sea of brilliantly colored turbans bantering at the spice markets. It’s India at its best.

We spent three weeks uncovering the splendor of the enchanting state. Here’s a look at some of our fondest memories.

Udaipur

Sunset from Monsoon Palace overlooking Udaipur

We fell in love with the elegant haveli where we stayed. This 300 year old mansion is a structure built for India’s elite where all rooms are centered around a courtyard. We enjoyed calling this place home for our brief stint and spent many a hours on its rooftop terrace enjoying the spectacular views.

Jaisalmer

Camel trek shadow in the Thar Desert

On the back of camels, we wandered through the rolling sands of the Thar Desert, bringing us just 30 miles away from the Pakistani border. Here we set up camp for the night. Wrapped in blankets on a bed of sand under a full moon, it was a night to remember.

Jodhpur

Walking the blue city streets of Jodhpur

Pushkar

Monkey scaling the rooftops at sunset

As a visitor to the ghats, we were invited to partake in a puja (prayer) session. Our puja entailed a priest asking us to repeat prayers while sprinkling rose petals and rice into the holy waters.

Aside from the holy rollers and strange pilgrims crawling all over the place, our favorite memory of Pushkar was at sunset. Atop the rooftop café of our hotel, we were captivated by the sight of monkeys jumping rooftop to rooftop as the blood-red, desert sun dropped behind the white-washed temples and soaring mountains.

Ah, Rajasthan…a magical place.

Mumbai's central train station, Victoria Terminus, at sunset

Our visit to India began with an early-morning flight from Singapore to Mumbai, the sprawling metropolis that more than 20 million people call home. The first thing that struck us upon landing in Mumbai was the slums. The largest slum in Mumbai – Dharavi, which is home to over one million people, is situated between the city’s two main railway lines. Before touching down, Laura and I could only shake our heads in disbelief at the sight of the slum’s corrugated, tin roofs reaching out in all directions. The despair we felt driving into the city and passing through the seemingly interminable slum was so great we knew what others meant by “prepare yourselves.”

Children swimming along the Mumbai fishing wharf slums

It’s hot in Mumbai. It’s always hot. We changed our itinerary around to be here in March before the real heat of April and May sets in. It’s no wonder that summer brings monsoons because the humidity when we arrived was already oppressive. You can feel the wetness hovering overhead. Certainly, we felt it on our bodies. It was readily apparent with the dense air that we’d be smelling as spicy as Mumbai soon enough.

We auspiciously and unknowingly arrived to Mumbai the morning of India’s biggest religious celebration– Holi festival. This meant that instead of the ruinous noise of traffic one can expect from a seething city waking up on a Monday morning, we were treated to a street chalk full of zombies and riotous colors. You see, Indians celebrate Holi by throwing colored powder – or gual pol – at anyone in close proximity, followed by a good dashing of water (for posterity) as a way to welcome the coming of Spring. Our trip through the streets of Mumbai during the early morning hours of Holi was like walking into Michael Jackson’s Thriller video.

Happy Holi greetings from young Mumbaikers

It did not take long for India to exude its national obsession – cricket. It’s everywhere. It’s on TV, on the radio, and most entertainingly, on the streets. Children in Mumbai play cricket like Brooklyners used to play stickball. In places as dense as New York or Mumbai, kids don’t need a field. Any alley, street or museum property will do. As futbol is to about every other country besides the US, cricket is to Indians. Whether it’s club or country, matches are heavily watched and debated by men all over the country. The rivalry between India and Pakistan is especially intense, as one could imagine.

Our first meal in India at Mumbai's Rajdhani

As only a novice of Indian food the word thali meant nothing to me. A thali can loosely be described as a tasting menu where diners are encouraged to sample a variety of different regional foods. In our case, it was an all-you-can-eat affair. And that’s exactly what we did. I absolutely knew we were going to feast in Mumbai. I just didn’t expect it to be our first meal there.

Thalis are served on a silver tray with eight or so small silver bowls. Server after server filled our tray with the various dishes that are part of Gujarat, a regional state north of Mumbai’s state of Maharashtra. First, there was bread in all of its Indian incarnations: chapatti – crispy, unleavened round bread, roti – thicker than chapatti and cooked in a tandoor (clay oven) and naan – thicker still, tear drop-shaped bread cooked with garlic. Bowls were then filled with rice, cucumber salad, curried eggplant, dhal (lentil curry), chutney (made of minced chilies and mint), the ever-present spicy lemon-chili pickle, raita (yoghurt-based dish meant to cool one’s mouth down after all the spice), and, of course, three different desserts: gubal agal (sponge-like cake balls drenched with syrup), a delicious custard with diced apples and kheer – a saffron, pistachio, flaked almond and cardamom-infused rice pudding for the ages! We left feeling very confident that we would not go hungry in India.

Impromptu cricket game on the streets of Mumbai

Now if someone were to ask me, “What did you like about Mumbai?” I could not give a definitive answer. It isn’t a city of spectacular sights or cool neighborhoods or even wonderful culture. But it has a frenetic energy whose palpability absolutely should be felt. It gets under your skin in ways that only a teeming Indian metropolis can. Mentally, physically, psychologically –this dirty, chaotic and strangely beautiful city will challenge you. But if you rise to meet this challenge, I promise you, Mumbai will make an indelible impression and you will, with time, be pondering your return trip.

Scenes from the backwaters of Kerala

In South India’s coastal gem, we explored colonial Fort Cochin. Our noses danced to the tunes emanating from the fragrant spice markets and our eyes feasted upon the rows of fresh prawns, lobster and crab at the shoreline fishing wharf. In search of the country’s best beaches, we made a stop in Varkala where we fought off the oppressive heat Arabian Sea-side. The highlight of our Kerala adventure, however, was undoubtedly our voyage down the backwaters.

The backwaters of Kerala consist of an extensive network (some 575 miles) of canals and waterways running from the sandy coast and flowing inland. Long before highways existed, the backwaters were the only means of transportation for local villagers and still play an important role in daily life. Today, the water passages also find themselves at the center of the Keralan tourism industry. Several of the area’s larger towns now rent out riverboats for excursions down the remote waters.

Houseboat journey through the waterways in Kerala

The bedroom in our houseboat

View of the bow on our houseboat

View of hallway to the kitchen on houseboat

Sailing the backwaters of Kerala, we were treated like royalty, and I felt like an Arabian princess being carried off to my palace. The experience, however, was far more than this. Far away from the chaos of city life, in the stillness of the backwaters, this journey reinforced what I was already beginning to uncover about this country. Amidst the most basic of conditions life is tough, but happy. People struggle but lives are peaceful. And in all helplessness, there is immense sense of hope.

Docking our houseboat meant our Keralan journey had come to an end, but my window into the village life of the Keralan people will be en experience I won’t soon forget.

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