Early on in our trip, in the British-influenced hill town of Shimla, a portly gentleman approached us in a market. His name was Sasson, and matching his oddly Israeli-inflected name, he spoke to us in Hebrew. Sasson promised to show us ‘the real India,’ which, he said, would not be found in the overtly touristy hub where we stood that day. What was ‘the real India’ we asked? Oh, he laughed. We’d have to see it to understand.
Though we didn’t take him up on the offer (which
I’ll admit, I’ve put this off for weeks. Tal and I have now been in India nearly a month, but after every weird, wild adventure, after every almost-calamity, I’ve consciously decided not to sit down at one of the many internet cafes and write it down. I’ve been voraciously keeping a journal, but, well, that’s just for me. I was waiting until I was brimming with stories to actually sit down and type one. That said, I’m currently sitting in a cafe in Dharamkot, a tiny village u