Travelling through India shows that the country is animated by a singular force of life.
Six years ago, my husband and I traded in our dull but decent jobs for the drama and poverty of becoming full-time writers. With the unassailable optimism — and arrogance — of our mid-twenties, we gave up our regular pay cheques for a slender book contract and a minuscule advance. It was to be an account of our (hopefully) transformational journey across India, to be undertaken on a tight budget: Rs 500 a day for bed and board, for both of us.
I fancied myself a liberal; he was an energy and security geek. I grasped at the poetic in matters of revolution; he liked to ask annoying questions about what would replace the present system the morning after the revolution. Though over the years we had allowed the other’s perspective to smoothen the serrated teeth of our own positions, we were the sort of travel partners who could kill each other in shady hotel rooms. We managed to travel over 16,000 km in local buses, dreaming of the routes not taken and food we could not afford, and yet, desist from murder.