When Doctor Sanjay Gupta (not that Sanjay Gupta, but apparently a distant relative) paid us a house call in the morning, he suggested we immediately check into the hospital. Which is how I found myself in the intensive care unit, hooked up to an IV drip (for severe dehydration), all sorts of wires and machines (x-rays, EKG, etc.) and surrounded by about twenty nurses who gawked at this crazy foreigner who couldn’t handle India.

The night-shift nurse, in particular, took quite a liking to me and I felt like I was getting a bit more attention than everyone else in the ward. He literally spent the entire night next to my bed, shaking me every once in awhile to ask in broken English if I was sleeping and if I needed anything. For the record, yes, I was sleeping; and no, I’m fine. Just as fine as I was when you checked twenty minutes ago. When Greg came to visit in the morning, this nurse mysteriously disappeared, but promptly returned after visiting hours were over to ask if he could take my picture (hospital gown and all) and to give me his phone number, telling me to contact him if I was ever in Delhi. Despite centuries of colonial rule and contact with the West, foreigners are still a bit of a novelty in some places.

After one day in the ICU, I was feeling much stronger so they moved me to a regular private room where, thankfully, Greg could stay too. But it would be two more days of bad hospital food, comical miscommunication, and a futile search for soap before we could leave. Three days in an Indian hospital.

Ajmer

When we finally broke out of there we had an auto-rickshaw drop us off in the center of Ajmer and then commenced the long and arduous search for a place to sleep. There weren’t many options available, so we finally settled on a cheapie called Hotel Lovely—which was decidedly not. And while we were in no mood to be picky, we were a bit concerned about the basic cleanliness of the place, especially after the following exchange:

Us

“We’ll take the room, but we’d like the sheets changed please.”

Manager

“What’s wrong with the sheets?”

Us

“Oh….well…They’re dirty and have a few holes in them; we’d just feel better with a fresh set if that’s okay.”

Manager

“Fine, but we’ve had the same sheets on the bed for two weeks now and nobody else has complained!”

Ahhhh, India. Okay, so maybe things didn’t happen exactly like this, but it’s a pretty good approximation of our experience with Indian hotels. Our standards have fallen drastically in the fifteen months we’ve spent in Asia.

Not keen on spending a lot of time in the hotel room and badly in need of some decent food, we walked to the bus stand to catch a ride back to Pushkar for dinner. The thirty-minute ride took us back over the glowing hills and into the colorful town, while on the way there we met a family and played games with their two little girls, who had us in stitches with their giggles and toothless grins.

We would meet the family on the ride back when, by coincidence, we ended up on the same bus again. This time the little one had a newly shaved head (a religious practice for Hindus) and the older one was making light work of an ice cream cone. We chatted to the parents in English about our travels until the older girl—about six years old—popped up from her seat, pointed to my forehead where there should have been a bindi and exclaimed in sparkling English “You are not Hindi?!!”

I was so surprised to hear this clever little girl speaking in another language that I nearly fell out of my seat, but I didn’t have time before she jumped down and shimmied her way into the empty spot beside Greg. For the rest of the way, she and Greg chatted happily in English, discussing important topics like cartoons and ice cream flavors and generally ignoring me. This girl was obviously a bit smitten with my husband as she batted her eyelashes and flashed her toothless smile as if to say “That girl you’re with; you don’t need her. Look how cute I am.” But I’m used to this by now; Greg has already charmed the Mickey-Mouse-socks off of kids on two continents.

The next day was no different, either. At one point as we wandered the town of Ajmer, I left Greg with our backpacks for about twenty minutes to visit the local Sufi shrine. When I returned, I found him surrounded by a gaggle of boys, laughing and joking about boy things like cricket and Spiderman. While Greg went to explore the shrine for himself, I made friends with these kids and a few other curious, young onlookers who listened to everything I had to say and then tried to teach me some Hindi words, laughing at my clumsy tongue.

After the weekend we had in the hospital—and the disappointment we felt about not seeing more of Rajasthan—it was so nice to spend time with these kids. Ajmer didn’t have the spectacular sites of Jodhpur or Jaisalmer, but the people we met there were so kind and helpful that we were feeling much better about the world. The kids in particular were bright and inquisitive, and in the end just like kids anywhere else in the world: they don’t see difference as a bad thing, but merely an opportunity to learn, to ask questions, to explore, without letting a little thing like lacking a common language get in the way.

Agra

After two days in Ajmer, we resumed our travels by catching an early train to Agra, home to a big old white building that some guy built for this girl a while ago. I don’t remember what it’s name was, but we heard it might be worth checking out.

Actually, there’s not much one can explain about the Taj Mahal and it doesn’t need much explanation. It is simply magnificent. The world’s greatest building.

Delhi

And then finally, finally, finally we were in Delhi. The last stop—it’s almost unbelievable—on this adventure (and sometimes misadventure) that we’ve been on for fifteen months. Finally. All that was left now was to spend our last days exploring Delhi’s sprawling districts.

We wandered the tree-lined streets of GK-II, ate in an Italian restaurant, and then retreated into the relative quiet of our clean and comfortable guesthouse. Then the next day we lazed around Lodi Gardens, which is a little like Central Park, if Central Park had 15th-century Afghan tombs and bright green parrots everywhere. We grabbed an auto-rickshaw bound for teeming Old Delhi to catch sunset at India’s largest mosque and then ate some of the best chicken we’ve ever had in one of Chadni Chowk’s back-alley restaurants. Then it was time to head back. It took several hours, three different drivers, and a couple of threats (for good measure) to get us all the way from Old Delhi to GK-II.

It was a long journey, but not as long as the next one will be. We are going home.

Just when we thought we’ve seen it all in the airport department, we’re hit with two of the world’s worst on the same flight. Leaving Kathmandu, we passed the ordinary X-ray security procedure—separated by gender of course; “his and hers” metal detectors, if you will—only to find they were manually screening every pocket of every bag for every passenger. Needless to say, this took a long time, but was no biggie for us since our flight was almost two hours delayed anyway. The worst, though, was lining up on the tarmac when our bags were thoroughly checked again before boarding. All this for a measly 30-minute flight.

Varanasi Airport turned out to be even worse. As the passengers from our large A320 jet lined up with their standard H1N1 forms, we were met with the full brunt of the Indian bureaucracy. Too cramped to properly queue, we had no less than five checkpoints to clear (along for a weak excuse for a baggage conveyor and customs inspection) in a space not much larger than my parents’ living room. The new terminal under construction next door is sorely needed, but it looks like they’re using red tape instead of concrete.

Varanasi बनारस

Once we did finally get to Varanasi, there was no denying we had arrived in India. With bicycles cruising all around, cows roaming the streets, and the alternating smells of curry and sewage in the air, we had made it to the country where two ancient religions were born and to the city where its people come to die. Early the next morning, as we were paddled down the holy Ganges river, we saw hundred crowd its banks to pray, bathe, dump garbage, do laundry, and cremate their relatives. If this water was indeed purifying, it could only be in the spiritual sense—your couldn’t pay me to swim there, let alone drink a glass of the stuff.

It was particularly chilling to see bones and larger bits of human remains bobbing in our wake, silhouetted against the sunrise. Before coming here, I imagined something more akin to scattering ashes at sea than the waterlogged human barbecue that left us feeling a little sick. Thank Brahma for that sunrise, then, because only something that beautiful could keep our minds and stomachs at ease. The warm glow slowly bathed the long line of ghats as people crowded their massive front steps for a dip and boatloads of spectators floated by under power of men whose size clearly belies their strength. Drifting along, we found each ghat clearly distinct in its color and style, but all had people who impressed us with the intensity of their devotion. From skinny young children to skinny old men, everyone prayed and bathed with a deep spiritual intensity that made you both remember and forget what lied beneath the surface.

Khajuraho खजुराहो

Escaping the crowds, touts, and chaos of Varanasi was a welcome change in Khajuraho. It’s a small village in population and in size, which allowed us to wander freely amidst its eleventh-century Hindu temples. Here, it’s clear where the Khmers got their inspiration for Angkor. But while they went all out in terms of size, the Indians put into their carved decorations a level of detail that goes way beyond anything else we’ve seen. Although it was a bit odd to see the kamasutra laid out in such explicit relief all over these holy buildings. Somehow, we couldn’t picture the same on a Catholic church.

After an excellent all-you-can-eat thali—Indian cuisine is giving Chinese a run for its money—we befriended a couple schoolboys who showed us around town for a bit in exchange for a little language practice. As far as we’ve traveled, we’re still surprised at the level of English people can pick up just by chit-chatting with tourists, so we were glad to hold up our end of the deal.

Orchha ओरछा

We didn’t want to pony up for a taxi, so we took a public bus North to Orchha and almost missed our stop trying to get our bags out and off, the thing was so crowded with passengers and cargo. We had enough time to take in a couple Mahals and get a bird’s-eye view of a huge temple with a serious avian infestation. It had your standard pigeons, of course, plus an owl of two, but also dozens of bright green parrots and a handful of real, live vultures. The key-keeper was happy to show us around for a few rupees, and to throw rocks to get those big birds to fly. Though he had good posture, he kind of reminded me of the Hunchback of Notre Dame, opening locks and beckoning us ever higher (“C’mon! This way!”) in his own little cathedral.

Jaipur जयपुर and Pushkar पुष्कर

Jaipur may be known as the pink city, but to us it seemed a little more like burnt sienna. Getting there gave us our first glimpse of India’s rail network, and we found it pretty nice in our cushy 3-tier air-conditioned carriage. But given the speed of these trains—more tortoise than hare—and the distance they cover, we couldn’t imagine spending twenty hours or more back on the second-class hard seats. Gratefully, we arrived less than two hours behind schedule, which is pretty good from what we’ve heard.

Unfortunately, our arrival coincided with a minor weather system to our South, which dampened our visit for a couple days, but not before we were about to get out and see a couple palaces, at least. Katie also came to the marvelous realization that anise seeds, coupled with rock sugar, have a taste exactly like her favorite Good ‘N Plenty. And ever since, she’s been unusually excited after meals when they bring out trays of the green stuff and a small spoon which may or may not have ever been washed.

Further into Rajasthan, we paid visit to Pushkar, home to a beautiful and formerly wet lake. Recent years of drought have left the lakebed completely dry, save for the ghats’ holy (hose-fed) ponds. That hasn’t deterred visitors, though, who come to Pushkar seeking a little enlightenment in its temples and lax marijuana laws. For a nominal fee, a brahmin was happy to lead us through the ritual prayers that were supped to give us good luck and fortune in the future.

Given what happened in the next few hours, we want our money back.