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 a warm sunny morning in Agra as I sat alone on Hotel Shajahan’s front porch, digging into a hearty breakfast of scrambled eggs and pancakes. My travelling companion Allan was still fast asleep back in the room, so I took advantage of the solitude to sit in the sun and watch the street sellers go about their daily chores.