My Journey to India - What I Have Learned

Writing about my journey to India is not easy. Where to start? Where to finish—if at all? It’s only been four weeks, but the experience could easily fill an entire book. And if I had more time in my current life, maybe that’s exactly what I would do: write a book about what India feels like today.

Maybe the first thing to mention is that there are several versions of India within India. One name for so many different regions, people, and belief systems—and yet, people in this vast country manage to maintain both local and national identities. Many do so peacefully. Not just peacefully, in fact—people from different backgrounds mix, support, and help each other.

When I met my former student, who became my friend about two and a half years ago, I somehow felt at our very first encounter that I would one day attend her wedding. Her invitation arrived a year later, and in February her 'big days' took place—'days' because, as many of you might know, weddings in India often last three to seven days, depending on religion, rituals, and the modern-day obligations of the families. I took the honourable invitation to be a guest at her ceremonies and wedding rituals as an opportunity to finally get to know India.

My very first boyfriend studied Indology and South Asian Politics—I believe that’s what it was called at the time. So during my A-Levels and after graduating from school, I learned a lot about India passively, simply by listening to him passionately share what fascinated him about his studies. He would travel during the summer or winter breaks and stay for two months or longer. As a young person, I was very eager to visit India myself and experience everything firsthand—but I had no opportunity. Even back then, everything was costly. For him to be able to travel so much, he worked constantly alongside his studies—often taking on more than what we’d call ‘mini jobs’ in Germany (about ten hours a week).

During this trip that I was finally able to make, I met everyone and everything: I met very good people, and I met very dangerous people. I met truly genuine people, and I met people who were lying through their teeth. I met people from all kinds of religions—those who were sincerely faithful, and those who wanted to appear very faithful.

Overall, I encountered extremely helpful people, dedicated to supporting me in solving whatever problem I had—even those who couldn’t speak English or only knew a handful of words. I met very poor and unhappy people; I met very poor and happy people; and I also met people who had consciously chosen to live a humble life. Most of the people I dealt with came from the middle class, though what defines middle class—and the standard of living—can vary greatly from region to region.

As a woman travelling by myself, I experienced it all: people who offered help when I needed it, many who took advantage of me, men who sexually harassed me, women who admired me with kind curiosity, and others who looked down on me. I met a few free women—and many others who live according to their family’s traditions: some content, some not, some without a voiced opinion, simply doing what they had learned was appropriate.

And yet, despite all the challenges I faced as a solo female traveller, every bit of it was worth it—for the growth, for the learning, and for a deeper understanding of the many faces of this country and our planet.

Before starting this journey, I had planned to bring my learnings back into the classroom. For more than three and a half years, I’ve been teaching the subject “Personal and Social Competencies” at a private university—where, especially in the beginning, intercultural communication plays a major role. I wanted to travel and discover what it might be that I could teach my students about the Republic of India, which—alongside our focus on the People’s Republic of China and the Federative Republic of Brazil—is a very relevant destination country for their future lives as well.

I believe that telling this story—about the good people I’ve met, the things I’ve learned with or through them, and the places I’ve visited—will help me share these four weeks with you in a meaningful way, without getting lost in too many details.

When I arrived in Pahalgam, I asked Gurjitsing—a Sikh who had driven me to and partly through Kashmir, now part of the province Jammu and Kashmir—to take the day off after dropping me in the central zone. It had snowed the night before, making the scenery beautiful, although the view of the mountains was quite limited. The small area was crowded with too many cab drivers and too many tourists—everyone trying to capture their own unique version of the place.

I usually don’t enjoy places that are overly popular with visitors, so I decided to continue on foot, walking to the other side of the river, hoping this route would eventually lead me back to my Airbnb.

After a few minutes, an elderly man began walking beside me—and amusingly, we both had our hands folded behind our backs in the same manner. As he passed me, he started a conversation, and we chatted for a few minutes.

His name was Rama. At the next tiny crossing, he recommended I turn left, saying I might get a better view from there. Then he decided that he had no other plans for the afternoon and would accompany me.

When we came across a group of children playing football in a square enclosed by fences and walls, Rama asked them how they had gotten in. They showed us a ladder. Dressed in his traditional Omani robe (a Muslim gown for men), he climbed up and crossed to the other side. We walked on toward a golf course that was inactive at that time of year.

There was a hole in the fence—used by locals to access the course—and from there, we were treated to the most marvellous view of the snowy mountains and surrounding woods, a view the touristy part of town couldn’t offer.

I felt deeply honoured to have had such a local introduction to Pahalgam. Rama and I exchanged a few words about life, and I felt I had met a spiritual brother—someone who was simply there to help me feel more at home, without any hidden intentions.

We spoke about religions, and how, in the end, everything is one. One thing I heard from many people in India, from various religious backgrounds, is that it makes no sense to fight over religion—because there is only one God, whom different religions simply call by different names.

Later on my journey, I would also hear from a Buddhist practitioner in Ladakh and from other people I met: “Religion is a choice.”

What Rama would teach my students is this: that we can all live together in peace, and stand united as one humankind.

Before continuing our trip from Pahalgam to Srinagar, the polite person who was my driver and I were invited by Rama to join him for a morning hike in the mountains. Due to the snow, we couldn’t walk too far into the forest, but we did pass a few summer residences belonging to the relatively large minority of Romas.

I knew that what we often call “gypsies” once formed a large and respectable culture across Eurasia, and that many of their descendants still live in Spain, often still bearing a strong visual resemblance to Indian heritage. But I had no idea that those who remained in their homeland had preserved many aspects of their traditional lifestyles and small-scale farming practices. It was quite fascinating for the three of us to share this interconfessional hike together.

A few days later, I would arrive in Leh. Visiting the Hemis Monastery had been my greatest wish on this journey. Along the way, I learned a few things from the people I met.

I discovered that some people from India are trying to migrate to Europe as economic refugees, hoping to find jobs that allow them to support their families back home. Unfortunately, this strategy often turns out to be unsuccessful, as many are eventually sent back—something we've seen happen in other parts of the EU as well. Many are trying to get visas or work permits to take on jobs in agriculture or other sectors that are often too poorly paid for Europeans to consider.

I also learned from someone why there is such a strong military presence in northern India—truly too much. For people like me who aren’t used to seeing armed forces regularly, it feels unsettling and even frightening. It reminded me of my first years in Brazil, when it was still common to see heavy military police presence in the city of São Paulo. Back then, it didn’t make me feel safer—on the contrary.

The conflicts in the Kashmir and Ladakh regions are numerous, involving different neighbouring countries and various internal interests. Most people in Kashmir are Muslim. Still, in every area, you find at least three religions coexisting—often peacefully.

In Ladakh, there’s a nearly equal number of Muslims and Buddhists, with the Buddhist population forming a majority in certain areas. In Leh, I learned more about the original people of the region: their language, clothing style, belief system, and traditions are the same as those of Tibetans. Interestingly, many locals are unaware of this cultural connection. It also explains why many Tibetans come to Ladakh as refugees.

When I was finally able to visit Hemis Monastery, I was lucky to find a beautiful family offering a homestay. At the monastery, they were hesitant to let me stay overnight, as temperatures at night would drop to -22 degrees Celsius without any heating, and no one wanted to be responsible if I got sick.

That’s how I met the couple Tundup Tangdus and Tsering Yangdol, who were taking care of their little granddaughter, Chanag. They were incredibly friendly and reminded me of my grandparents—maybe even of my great-grandparents. Of course, our regions are far apart, yet in our traditions, there are still surprising similarities when it comes to heating, cooking, and farming. We even wear similar woollen socks with comparable patterns to this day.

Watching them, I could sense how our cultures once travelled, taught, and influenced each other over long distances and time.

At Hemis Monastery, I had the chance to participate in the Morning Puja (ritual) of that season—the end of the traditional year. Again, in this Puja, as in visits to mosques, temples, and other places of ritual across India, I noticed striking similarities between these practices and modern Christian rituals (considering Jesus “modern”). These parallels reveal the importance of interconfessional teachings—of a true spirituality underlying all major religious movements—that aim to inspire us to live with love and reverence for life on this planet.

To take part in this winter ritual, alongside monks who had devoted their lives to service, filled me with deep gratitude. In silence, looking inward more than outward, I allowed my perception to fully merge with the moment.

Throughout my entire journey, I have been guided. I was guided even before it started—gaining deep trust that I would always be safe, no matter the situation, because I was walking with faith and the assurance of being taken care of.

Returning to Jammu, my friend and her fiancé picked me up, truly grateful to use me as an excuse to see each other before the big rituals—allowing them to take a breath in between all the hustle of the preparations.

My friend has a beautiful family: a wonderful grandma who taught me not to drink for 30 minutes after eating, a mother who gave me a green suit as a present for the ritual of henna drawings and blessing, a father who let me know that if I faced any trouble during my journey in Leh, I could always call them and come back. A sister and brother-in-law who treated me like their friend, a rebellious brother on his way to leading his own life in truth, and cousins in love with meditation and the idea of true love itself.

Although the preparations, receptions, rituals, and parties were quite exhausting for both families, they held together and shared deeper moments. One of my favourites was like a prayer of safety for the bride on the first evening—at least, that’s what it felt like to me. I was praying for my friend’s happiness and inner strength to face everything to come during these hours.

When we were received by the family of her fiancé, I felt so honoured to arrive together with her sister, brother, cousins, and other relatives. The ritual between her future husband and her brother felt truly strong and sincere to me.

During all this time, everyone in the family was helping everyone. It was beautiful to observe this “family first” attitude—something we surely don’t find in many German families anymore, and which in Croatia is slowly fading away from generation to generation.

My friend was a model bride, also because of her looks. I was amazed to see the full potential of her outer beauty. But not only her—all the women in the family looked amazing in their outfits, no matter their age or body shape. Some of the gentlemen had quite lovely outfits, too—but you know, it’s like everywhere: the gents mostly prefer comfort.

On the night of the henna ritual, the women were singing wishes for the bride, and that ritual among women felt truly strong and ancient. I will not forget this one, and I will never forget the look on her mother’s and father’s faces when she left for the groom’s house the next day.

My best wishes to the newlyweds.

After the wedding, I headed to Goa and was truly surprised to arrive in a very Christian part of India. The southern part of the town is well taken care of. Women dress traditionally, but differently. Some wear rather old-fashioned Western clothes. I went to the local church, and afterwards, everyone in the neighbourhood seemed to know me and started talking to me.

Since I wasn’t familiar with Goa, I soon left for northern Goa, heading to a room I had booked on Airbnb—expecting something like a jungle oasis near the beach. But the opposite was the case. The path to the beach was a mess, full of trash, and my supposed jungle paradise turned out to be more of a haven for young Westerners seeking out the party tradition in Goa.

That doesn’t have to be a bad thing—but I felt that while Goa does carry a special energy, showcasing traces of old spirituality, most of these visitors weren’t really interested in discovering their own.

I was very happy to leave northern Goa and explore the rest of India by bus and train. Having a driver is something everyone recommends—but in truth, it’s not necessary. You can get around with other forms of transportation, although it is, of course, slower and less convenient. Still, it was interesting to see this part of India, and I was glad to save at least some money, since hiring a driver in Goa is quite expensive.

My goal was to reach Tashi Lhunpo in Bylakuppe, Karnataka, hoping to still be there at the same time as His Holiness the Dalai Lama.

I took a bus for three hours to the railway station in Goa and then travelled by train to Karwar. There, I had a clean room with a kind family. At the beach, I saw fishing boats still built in a very old style—actually sewn together, with a side float. Further down the shore, I watched fishermen pulling in incredibly long fishing nets.

In one spot, I noticed a Hindu sanctuary built around a tree. In other places it might belong to other religions, but for me, it’s always lovely to see nature integrated into places of prayer—because that’s how it should be.

In many parts of the world today, we seem to forget that when we say "God," we also mean nature, and the nature of all things—we mean creation.

From Karwar, I took the train to Mangaluru. I can tell you: there’s not really any reason why one should go there. The beaches are the dirtiest I’ve seen. Here, the trash isn’t just near the beach—it’s right on it. That made me so sad that I didn’t feel the slightest desire to go swimming.

The next day, I had a train to Kabaka Puttur. From there, I planned to take a bus to reach Bylakuppe. Since I didn’t have internet outside of WiFi (in India it’s not as easy as one might think to get a local SIM card in a provider’s store), I had to rely on screenshots of the information I found online and on Google Maps. That usually worked—but not in Kabaka Puttur.

I wasn’t able to book a bus ticket online without an Indian phone number, so I was hoping to just be early at the bus stop, hop on, and get a ticket. But that’s not how it works. Still, I got lucky. In that city, the buses stop at a place that’s completely unidentifiable to an outsider. I asked around a lot, and finally, a kind man with a rickshaw took me the last 300 metres—and didn’t ask for anything in return.

I went into a shop that sold tickets, but the clerk didn’t speak English. We went back and forth with what felt like: “Where is your ticket?” “I have none. That’s why I’m here—I want to buy one, either here or on the bus.”

We didn’t really manage to resolve it—until a very friendly mother with her daughter entered the store. The mother spoke beautiful English, but what struck me even more was the quiet presence of her daughter. Such a simple beauty—not in the conventional sense, but glowing gently from within. She was just 17 and very shy.

They explained that the bus was sold out. I opened my eyes wide in surprise, looked at the clerk, and told him that I really needed to be on that bus… which I finally was—but not in the way you might imagine.

The only “seat” I could take was the tiny flatbed above the driver. The crew looked at me and asked, “Can you sleep up there?” And I answered confidently, “Yes.”

I was very happy that my yoga practice had kept me flexible enough to climb up without help. OMG! I cheekily assume that most of you reading this wouldn’t have managed it. I was genuinely happy to make the trip this way.

They even let me get off directly in front of my “hotel” (which turned out to be an expensive, money-making institution on the backs of some poorly paid employees). It was probably the first time they’d seen a woman like me travelling with them, thanking them in the end, and telling them—with a smile—that it had been real fun.

The next morning, I woke up early and went to the monastery. Reaching the open gate, I felt so happy. All my efforts had been worth it. And I had come to know so many new faces of India.

I was now again in a region where people spoke a different language and wrote in a different script than much of the rest of the country. Upon entering, I encountered two beautiful trees—one a bit dry, maybe because it didn’t have enough space to keep growing, but still, both were majestic. I remembered the white Khata, a ceremonial scarf I had received in Leh, and decided that I would bring it the next day to leave it on the tree. It is a tradition to leave Khatas as an offering.

Following the emerging sounds, I found my way to the prayer hall. An older woman was sitting outside. I peeked inside but chose to sit with her outside, as I wasn’t sure whether sitting inside was permitted. An hour passed. She eventually left, and shortly after, the monks also departed. I stayed, and soon they returned to continue their prayer. This time, I was invited to come inside—which I gladly accepted.

I felt so happy to be able to take part in this moment so early in the day, with hardly any other travellers around. In holy places, taking pictures is not allowed, which I find just wonderful. It shouldn't be. People should come to learn or to join in prayer—not to post on social media how “religious” or “spiritual” they are. On the second day, with permission, I took a quick snapshot—but it doesn’t capture the true size or radiance of the prayer hall.

Afterwards, I left the temple feeling quite happy, but also hungry—since I had been outside when the bread was shared during the Puja. On my way back to the village, a monk—whose name shall remain a secret—came my way. We chatted, and he kindly helped me find breakfast.

In the afternoon, he invited me to get to know the library and attend another practice of a ritual dance being prepared for a large festivity taking place two days later to celebrate the New Year. It was a fascinating experience. The dancer is the one who prepares the interpretation of the ritual according to the visions received—or at least, that’s what I read online.

Repost only with permission.

The young monk introduced me to his students, and we spoke about teaching holistically while still placing emphasis on discipline. I was honoured to be allowed to spend time in the library, where I returned the next day and spent a few quiet hours before beginning my slow journey back to Germany (which took another three full days of travel).

Oh! The Dalai Lama? I missed him by a week. But there’s no need to worry. I encountered a wonderful atmosphere among the people living in the monastery—everyone greeting me kindly and smiling. I was so well received and managed to be recognized as more than a mere “tourist,” which meant a lot to me. I never went to India for tourism.

And studying in the monastery’s library—that was truly a beautiful experience.

My little new friends from the other side of the world.

How amazingly well people solve problems in India is also shown in the story of how I managed to catch my flight from Goa to Delhi—where I had a connection to Frankfurt with less than two hours in between.

I arrived at the airport in Goa, only to learn that I was at the wrong airport. I quickly got into a new cab to reach the correct one—which was an 80-minute drive away. That meant I’d arrive just 35 minutes before departure.

On the way, the driver needed to stop at a gas station and was about to wait in line, when I opened the window and called out to a female supervisor, “We have an emergency!” She immediately helped us, pulling a gas pump hose to the left side of the cab parked in the second row.

Back on the road, I asked the driver if he could go a little faster, since the roads were empty and I was about to miss my flight. But he explained that the car had been restricted to 80 km/h because of too many past accidents.

So I just sat there, watching the arrival time on Google Maps—completely frozen—and losing my breath. It simply wouldn’t change. In the end, I just told him: “Do for me what you are able to do.”

When I arrived at the airport, I ran straight to the counter. For more than five minutes, five employees tried to get me on the plane—but mostly, to get my luggage on. After what felt like forever, they finally explained that the systems were down and that I could still try to take my big luggage through security and see if it worked… which I did.

I skipped the line—explaining and excusing myself again (just like when I had arrived in Delhi four weeks earlier)—had my large luggage scanned, and of course, all the alarm signals went off during security control due to “dangerous goods” inside. I explained the whole situation, adding that this was supposed to be checked luggage—and they let me pass.

I reached the gate just as the very last call for boarding was being announced. And yes! It worked! It took another 15 minutes for them to figure out how to label the luggage, but I was on the flight.

I honestly believe that this kind of flexibility—in such a usually rigorous system, but based on what Brazilians call bom senso, a good sense—would not have been possible at any airport in Germany. The Indian airport staff had to trust that I wasn’t trying to blow up the whole place, and I had to trust that they would somehow make it work for me.

On the plane—and this is my last thing, you won’t believe it—I was seated next to a woman from Germany… who was just learning Croatian with her books. So my journey back became smooth after all, and the time to Delhi passed in a flash.

Puh. What will I teach my students?

The topics will lie somewhere between religious freedom and tolerance (religion is a choice), the deeper meaning of family and friendships, the Indian-style bom senso and how somehow, things always work out. Also: the challenges of governing such a large population, issues around trash, hygiene and infrastructure, the history of the bordering regions, and how to make things last (like trains and buses).

And of course, when we speak of intercultural communication, we’ll look at an excellent example of a horizontal, collective society.

Lastly, I should say: I know almost nothing about the many cultures within India. Let’s study them together—and teach each other!

Thank you, India!

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