India has a manner of pulling you in with its history, energy, and beauty. My holiday along the Golden Triangle and further up into the Himalayas of Shimla and Manali was like a dream I did not want to leave.
Delhi was loud, colorful, and full of life. The roads buzzed with auto-rickshaws, the smell of street food hung in the air, and imposing monuments loomed above, speaking of history. I was fatigued after my long flight, but I knew my adventure had only begun.
I visited the beautiful Taj Mahal in Agra. No photograph can ever present to you an image of how stunning it looks when the sun rises. White marble glowed when the very first light of dawn touched it. I just stood and stared. I had already visited Agra Fort, this beautiful Mughal gem too, but ended my night at Mehtab Bagh, seeing a sun set on the Taj Mahal. That was sheer magic.
Jaipur, the Pink City, was a riot of color and history. Amber Fort was a fairy-tale castle, its grand courtyards and delicate carvings a sight to behold. Jal Mahal, floating in the middle of a lake, appeared almost too lovely to exist. Hawa Mahal, with its hundreds of small windows, and Jantar Mantar, an ancient observatory, provided the city with an open-air museum quality. There was a tale on every street.
During my time in Delhi, I uncovered its complex past. I strolled through the Qutub Minar standing tall over the landscape, the peaceful Humayun’s Tomb, and signature points such as India Gate and Rashtrapati Bhavan. But the real soul of the city? Chandni Chowk. Racing down its narrow, crowded streets by rickshaw, dodging traders, and catching a glimpse of the stunning Jama Masjid was an experience you could not avoid. Delhi was not a city—it was a hum to be immersed in.
Leaving the towns behind, I headed to Manali. The mountain breeze, snow-clad mountains, and towering pine trees were a relief. Solang Valley was an adventure paradise. I skied and snowboarded, engaged in snowball fights, and laughed like a child. Hadimba Devi Temple, situated among giant trees, was straight out of a fairy tale. And after an exhilarating day, soaking in the warm waters of Vashisht Hot Springs was heavenly bliss.
The ride to Shimla was as scenic, driving through apple orchards and rolling rivers in the Kullu Valley. Shimla itself possessed a vintage air that captured my heart. Kufri was a white wo
nderland, Christ Church was towering in its neo-Gothic elegance, and The Ridge had view-tiful panoramas. But the most memorable moment was at Jakhoo Temple, where I stood at the top of Shimla, looking at the endless Himalayas. For a single moment, time was frozen.
As my journey reached its close, I looked back on every moment—the golden sunrise over the Taj Mahal, the frolicking of Solang Valley, the colorful streets of Jaipur, and the peaceful hills of Shimla. This journey was not so much about seeing things; it was about living them. And in the depths of my heart, I knew this was by no means my final journey to India. Some places don’t just call you home again—they never let you go.
