They said India would overwhelm me. They were right. But what they didn’t tell me was how much I’d love it.
The moment I landed in Delhi, I felt like I had stepped into a world painted with chaos, colors, and charm. From centuries-old tombs to tuk-tuks flying past cows in the road, every moment felt like a scene from a movie — just one where I was both the hero and the audience. And thus began my week-long journey through the Golden Triangle: Delhi, Agra, and Jaipur.
Day 1–2: Delhi — Where Empires Still Whisper
The air smelled like spice and ambition. My first stop was Humayun’s Tomb, a prelude to the grandeur of the Taj. Locals jogged past Mughal architecture like it was just another Tuesday. Then came Old Delhi, where I tasted life in its rawest form.
At Karim’s, hidden behind Jama Masjid, I devoured kebabs that could silence kings. The auto-rickshaw I took next was held together with more faith than metal, but the driver, Raj, became my city guide, food scout, and makeshift philosopher. He said, “Dilli is like a big thali — every bite different, but all part of the same meal.” I believed him.
Day 3–4: Agra — Of Love, Marble & Memory
As the sun rose behind the Taj Mahal, everything went silent. Even the pigeons paused in midair. I had seen it in pictures all my life, but nothing compares to watching that flawless dome turn from silver to peach with the morning sky.
Later, a marble inlay craftsman told me how his family had worked on the Taj for generations. “You see that flower? My great-grandfather did the same one,” he smiled, pointing to a blue lapis lazuli petal. These weren’t just stones — they were family.
In the evening, I met a storyteller at Agra Fort who recounted Mughal betrayals and romances as if he’d lived them. Under the moonlight, Agra felt like a love letter that never stopped being read.
Day 5–6: Jaipur — Palaces, Peacocks & Pink Walls
When I reached Jaipur, it was like someone turned the saturation all the way up. Amber Fort stood tall on a hill, with elephants pacing below like gentle giants guarding secrets.
At the City Palace, I tried on a Rajasthani turban, fumbled with it, and laughed with a 10-year-old local boy who wrapped his in two seconds flat. He called me “Chacha” (uncle) by the end of it.
That night, I stayed at a royal haveli turned boutique hotel. Over folk music and fire-lit dinners, a fellow traveler told me she had quit her job back home after her last India trip. “I came for the forts, stayed for the freedom,” she winked.
Day 7: Farewell, With Mehndi on My Hands & Spice in My Heart
I got mehndi done by a street artist outside Hawa Mahal. As he drew, he said, “Design will fade, but story stays.” I looked at my hand. It held the whole trip — elephants, mangoes, palaces, stars.
By the time I left, I wasn’t just carrying souvenirs. I carried stories. From chai breaks with strangers to sunsets on palace rooftops, this trip stitched itself into my soul.
