In March 2004 I was 25 years old. With not a care in the world, no particular place to be and zero commitments to speak of, I packed up a rucksack and headed off to India. The future lay sparkling and I thought it would last forever.
My travels around India had been highly eventful from pretty much day one. I’d had miscellaneous objects shoved into my ears in Delhi, found broken glass in my bed in Agra and been dealt an absurd amount of bad luck in the soulless claustrophobia of Jaipur. There’d also been romance and camels in Jaisalmer, comical James Bond nonsense in Udaipur and fine dining and cocktails in glitzy Mumbai. Not to mention The Bus Journey From Hell in between.