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.
It was early evening and the thick smoky air buzzed with the sound of chattering voices and the steamy hum of rickshaw engines as they crackled to and fro on various missions. We´d just arrived in Agra, a city many westerners fail to recognize by name, despite the fact that it houses one of the world´s most iconic and romanticised buildings. “Hotel Sha Jahan?” the taxi driver asked with a furrowed brow. “No sir… finished! Gone!”