“It’s funny: I always imagined when I was a kid that adults had some kind of inner toolbox full of shiny tools: the saw of discernment, the hammer of wisdom, the sandpaper of patience. But then when I grew up I found that life handed you these rusty bent old tools – friendships, prayer, conscience, honesty – and said ‘do the best you can with these, they will have to do.’ And mostly, against all odds, they do.” — Anne Lamott

India is a place of unparalleled beauty. Stunning temples are constantly filled with worshipers and religion is clearly integrated in the community. Children roam freely and motorcycles zip by speedily. And when the sun sets over open land in a country of over 1.3 billion, serenity.

While it’s now been well over five years since I touched down in Delhi, I haven’t yet dared to attach my experience to any symbolic meaning publicly, knowing that pen to paper could never encompass all that it is to visit India. This is the thing itself. India is a place so vast that the grand network of emotions ingrained in the landscape of my mind since my return only represents a small sliver of the place. For the traveler, this sentiment can be quite frustrating, as we often pursue travel as a means to fabricate ourselves in the stories of other cultures, to say ‘I’ve been there, I saw that, and therefore I know. [I came, I saw, I was].’ For better or worse, immersing oneself in India, albeit for a short period, can never be more than a niche experience, a crumb of the place.

Through my university, and a premonition to jaunt to the farther places of the world while I still had youthful energy, I signed up for the Religions and Culture of India travel course that would take place during two and a half weeks of our winter break in northern India. I packed plenty of antibiotics, my digital camera, and an open mind. 

With a set syllabus to study Hinduism, Sikhism, and Buddhism along with a detailed itinerary of Delhi, Khajuraho, Varanasi, Bodhgaya, Amritsar, and Agra, our professor humbly and respectfully guided us through temples and holy sites, in tuk tuks and behind alleyways. Of course, these educational moments were sprinkled in with plenty of time for delicious meals, Gulab Jamun (syrup-soaked doughnut holes), and reflection. That simple concept, reflection, was vital throughout the trip, due to the intense poverty and culture shock we experienced on an hourly basis. 

One of our first destinations was the Jama Masjid of Delhi, a Muslim mosque that was constructed circa 1650 by the Mughal emperor Shah Jahān, the same architect behind the Taj Mahal. Out of respect, we covered our bodies and heads in thin brightly colored robes while roaming around the stunning site. As two pale young women, my friend Myra and I quite literally stood out in the crowd, attracting the attention of several friendly locals. And by friendly, I mean they nonchalantly formed lines next to us waiting for a photo op. This phenomenon happened in several other destinations throughout the trip, especially Khajuraho where we were fortunate to meet gracious locals who kindly shared with us details of their lives and their dreams for the future. To this day, I’d be surprised if we weren’t featured on at least five different Indian people’s Facebook pages.  

Seven modes of transportation in one day were required for us to reach the famous Taj Mahal: bus, train, boat, bike, tuk-tuk, horse carriage, and finally foot. Out of all those methods, the most memorable was actually not the horse carriage, but the train. While our group sat comfortably watching the Indian countryside pass by, a news anchor crew was on board interviewing select groups about their opinions of transportation in India. When the crew selected my friends and myself to participate, the opportunity was kismet. Those photo-ready locals from earlier in the trip must have been onto something, as we ended up being sort of famous on India's national news for a short while.

These moments witnessing the beautiful landscape, lively spirit of the community, and fascinating culture presented a strange dichotomy with the extreme poverty and devastating surroundings further from the city centers. During long bus rides across the countryside, I observed makeshift dwellings that barely stood up straight, severely injured people missing limbs, cramped living quarters, and young children wandering alone in the dirt. Then moments later, we would breeze by a soccer field where those same children played, either obliviously or simply blissfully. 

At the holy site of the Ganges River in Varanasi, I was presented with the same dichotomy and the most intense emotional reality I’ve ever experienced. We set out to visit the Ganges two times in one day, at dusk and dawn. That morning marked the first and only time during the trip we ventured outside our hotel rooms while it was still dark out, as we were not permitted outside during nighttime for safety reasons. With the local guide and bleary eyes, we quietly stepped onto the streets before morning broke and began our mile walk to the river.  

Dozens of skinny outstretched arms hoping for a gift of food. A pregnant woman sitting on the cement ground brushing her teeth with a wooden stick. Bells of the holy site in the distance, barely louder than the grunts and groans of people layered on the floor.

At the river’s edge, a stillness in the air weaved its way through my clothing, grazed my skin, and seamlessly passed into my humbled mind. Not a single word was spoken as a misty pale blue light emerged slowly into the sky, barely a sunrise due to the apparent pollution, but nonetheless a beginning of dawn. Softly, we climbed into a large wooden canoe and skimmed across ripples in the water into the center of the river. Every day, thousands of people visit the Ganges for a chance of divine intervention, a moment to maintain one’s own spiritual practice. In this moment, at the center of the river, our guide imparted a pearl of significant wisdom; there are so many religions and so many people caught up in convincing one another that they are the most accurate, when in fact, all religions are the same. Whether Judaism, Christianity, or Buddhism, it does not matter, for what we pray about, what we hope for, is always the same: love, health, safety, freedom, and a purpose. 

After finding our way back to the dock, morning had officially begun, and we hurriedly purchased small cups of chai to sip while watching people surround the water, this was after all a truly active holy site. We departed the crowds, carrying on with our sightseeing, until sunset hours when we returned to the river to witness the nightly prayer ceremony. The momentary bliss after morning had broken was replaced with a serious spiritual undertone. We again set out on a canoe so that later in the evening we could respectfully watch the prayer ceremony from the water. First, we were given candles with flowers to set on the water in honor of someone who we’d lost. Then we boarded the boat, the sky a textured purple with specs of black in the air, which I again presumed was due to the pollution. As we glided along the river, our guide informed us that the black specs surrounding us were in fact ashes of bodies that were being cremated near the river at that very moment. 

Again, my mind attempting to process that new piece of information, I found it hard to speak, moving only enough to capture a few photos. As we watched the prayer ceremony from the water [link to an article about the prayer ceremony], I wondered about freedom, ritual, and individuals in the crowd. Who had lost someone, who was happy, and who was hopeful amongst the crowd. While there was no way to distinguish one another’s purpose, we were all absolutely captivated, drawn by an innate sense to gather together. 

Departing the canoe close to midnight, we had just a few minutes in the dense crowd until we would ultimately ride back to our hotel.  At this point in the trip, we were accustomed to young kids flocking to us and asking us cheerily for snacks or just to say hi, so we often kept extra treats in our bags. Overwhelmed by the experiences of the day, and fresh out of snacks at the late hour, I kept my eyes up, pacing to get home and digest everything I’d witnessed. Suddenly from the crowd, a young skinny body of a girl, standing barely 2 feet tall and no older than 5 years old walked up to me. In one of her arms, she held a baby wrapped in a blanket, presumably her brother, whose dark brown eyes looked up wide at me. There was no adult with these children, they were alone. I want to pause and give you a chance to imagine what I saw: two children, one of whom a baby, completely alone at midnight in a crowd, hungry. With the arm not holding the baby, the girl motioned for me to give her a snack. Helpless and devastated, and before I could question one of my friends if they had anything in their bags, the little girl and her brother disappeared into the crowd. 

While I think of that devastating moment I’m most struck by the fleeting nature of it. The intensity of the girl’s eyes and her needs that so quickly followed dismissal, as her vision floated away from our connection. In that moment it hit me: even when we are fortunate to connect with one another, we’ll only ever get a small sliver of the story, and infinitely small picture of the reality of the outside world. 

India. The pure happiness that the people expressed despite their apparent poverty, colorfully dressed women contrasted with the dirt in which they sat, the ashes over the Ganges surrounded with hymns of prayer. The beauty in knowing that these small slivers unfold infinitely, even without our witness, enmeshing into the fabric of a wider culture, of which we’ll only ever take a thread. 

To commemorate our experience thus far, Myra and I made a mission to find a physical reminder, matching rings. I ended up with a sapphire gem, an oval sliver.