Beyond the Taj Mahal: My Unconventional India Trip
How Missing a Train Led to a Deeper Understanding of India
My trip to India wasn’t what I expected. Despite reading countless articles and watching numerous videos, I wasn’t fully prepared. I flew from Kuala Lumpur to Jaipur, having researched how to get to Agra to visit the Taj Mahal. The best options were to fly into either Jaipur or Delhi. I planned to take a train from Jaipur to Agra and then fly back to Malaysia from New Delhi.
When I arrived in Jaipur, my Uber driver assumed I was Indian and spoke to me in Hindi. I replied in English, surprising him. A similar situation happened at the hotel reception, where the staff also thought I was a local. These experiences gave me a sense of belonging, something I rarely felt as a foreigner. For once, I wasn’t immediately marked as a tourist, and this made me feel more at ease while exploring the city. I was grateful for my brown skin, short stature, and beard, which allowed me to blend in effortlessly. This privilege of anonymity gave me a unique perspective on the local culture.
In Jaipur, I stayed at an uncomfortable and cold hotel. I hadn’t realized Jaipur would be so chilly, and I had only packed a sweatshirt, which meant sleeping in my clothes. The shower wasn’t hot either, adding to my discomfort. The cold seeped into my bones, making me restless and more aware of my surroundings. Yet, the hotel’s proximity to the train station was a silver lining, allowing me to move on quickly.
Concerned about getting sick during my weekend trip, I took medicine before flying to slow down my gut movements, hoping to avoid the need for frequent bathroom breaks. The food stalls along the main road made me queasy just looking at them — sauces in dirty containers with little sign of hygiene. I felt a constant tension between wanting to experience local cuisine and fearing the consequences it might have on my health.
On my first morning, I bought a lassi, a traditional yogurt-like drink. It had a strange taste, which I later realized was alcohol — yes, even early in the morning, they were selling it with alcohol. It was served in a clay cup, and despite the surprise, it was delicious. This small adventure with the lassi added a layer of complexity to my perception of Jaipur — a city where surprises awaited at every corner, challenging my expectations and assumptions.
As I walked to the pink fortress-walled city — Jaipur’s downtown — I spotted monkeys walking on the electrical cables and even saw a cow wandering among the traffic. The city’s lack of structure and cleanliness struck me, but there was also something undeniably magical, something spiritual about Jaipur that drew me in. It was as if the city had a soul of its own, hidden beneath the chaos, waiting to be discovered by those willing to look beyond the surface.
After checking out of my hotel, I walked to the train station, where a huge Indian flag waved proudly at the entrance. The train schedules and routes were handwritten on the wall in markers. I approached the booth to buy a one-way ticket to Agra, only to be told that the train wouldn’t be running until the next day. There was no other way to get to Agra faster, and I hadn’t anticipated this. I had already left my hotel and had no place to stay that night. I just wanted to leave Jaipur — the noise and chaos were overwhelming, and I felt a deep need for tranquility. The sensory overload of the city — the honking cars, the crowded streets, the ever-present dust — was beginning to wear on me, and I longed for a quieter, more orderly environment.
In a panic, I quickly searched for flights to Delhi and found one leaving within an hour. It wasn’t expensive, less than fifty dollars. I left the train station, took an Uber to the airport, and hurried through immigration and customs. Before I knew it, I was boarding the Air India flight I had just booked, with the ticket bought less than an hour before takeoff.
Landing in New Delhi felt like entering a new chapter of my journey. As we approached the airport, I gazed out the window and noticed the small houses that resembled slums. Coming from Chile, India — specifically New Delhi — felt incredibly distant, like it was on the other side of the planet, yet here I was, fulfilling my dream. It was really happening, and the realization of being in such a culturally rich and historically significant place filled me with a sense of awe and wonder.
The first thing I did when I arrived was to take the metro downtown. It was surprisingly easy, and I found myself navigating the system with confidence. However, signs almost everywhere forbidding spitting at the cost of a fine unsettled me, a reminder of the stark differences in public behavior and hygiene norms. I reached a Starbucks since I needed a WiFi connection. Wrong. This is not the first time this happens to me; in many other countries, I’ve experienced the same issue: the free WiFi requires a local phone number to log in. I drank my chai quickly and left to find another internet spot, without success. It was a small inconvenience, but one that highlighted the challenges of being a foreigner in a land where even something as simple as accessing the internet required local knowledge.
The first stop on my itinerary was Akshardham, a grand Hindu temple on the outskirts of Delhi that has the particularity of not allowing phones or cameras. It looks like a palace, and visiting it felt like stepping back in time. The intricate carvings done by more than 11,000 men and serene atmosphere made it worth the visit, offering a moment of peace in the midst of my hectic trip. The temple’s beauty was overwhelming, a stark contrast to the bustling city outside its gates.
But what really weighed heavily on my visit was walking among labyrinth-shaped slums. As I was exploring the neighborhood where I was staying, the entrance to a narrow passage caught my attention. The road there was unpaved, and people went in and out. I ventured in, finding myself in a complex of tightly packed, mud-made houses, with some serving as different places of work: from selling papers and envelopes to making bread in ovens in the ground, to corner stores selling snacks. The protagonist was a young man, in his twenties, but his skeletal physique and poor clothes made him look older. He carried a thermos with hot water on his back, a teapot in one hand, and a large collection of tiny cups where he would serve chai. There, in the midst of all this, I drank one of the best chai I have ever had. This moment, sipping hot chai amidst the stark reality of the slums, was a humbling experience. It was a reminder of the resilience and resourcefulness of people living in such harsh conditions. The contrast between the slums and the grand Akshardham temple couldn’t have been more striking, yet both were integral parts of Delhi’s complex identity.
As I continued my journey, trying to find the exit, it took me several minutes to find the main street this slum led to. On my way, I saw three girls in school uniforms, walking in the dirty, muddy streets. I had read once that fifteen million girls in India are out of school. Poverty is the main reason why families don’t send their children to school. Many girls are also married at a young age. The image I had in front of me was a stark reminder of the socioeconomic disparities that define life in India. Seeing these three students made me feel a mix of hope and sorrow — hope that these girls had the opportunity to receive an education, and sorrow for the millions who didn’t. This encounter stayed with me, a reflection on the complexities of progress and tradition in a country as vast and diverse as India.
I saw an art convention being advertised, and I decided to go. Attending the global art fair convention felt like stepping into an entirely different world, starkly contrasting with the streets of Delhi. After I registered, I wandered through the various stands and exhibitions, feeling as though I had entered a parallel universe. It was hard to believe that just hours earlier, I had been amidst the slums, and now I was surrounded by people in formal attire, sipping white wine and admiring art. The contrast was surreal and left me with a sense of disconnection, as if the two worlds I had experienced were light-years apart.
Inside the convention, there was a café offering croissants and specialty coffee — so European, so American, so detached from the reality I had seen while walking the city. The contrast was striking, highlighting the opulence and internationalism of the event. Even the Wi-Fi was the fastest I had encountered during my entire time in Asia, evidence of the high standards of this convention. The whole experience was a jarring reminder of the disparities in wealth and privilege that exist not just in India, but globally.
The India of the slums and that of the art convention couldn’t be more different. They seemed like they came from worlds apart, when in reality, they were only a few minutes’ drive from each other. This stark juxtaposition left me pondering the complexities of social inequality and the ways in which privilege and poverty coexist in such close proximity. It was a sobering realization that while some people were sipping lattes and discussing art, others were struggling to make ends meet just a few streets away.
Outside, I returned to the normal world. It was around seven in the evening and my flight back to Malaysia left at ten. While I waited for an Uber to the airport, I called my family in Chile — some nine and a half hours of difference. I was leaving India without having visited the Taj Mahal, but I had seen and experienced something far more profound. My journey had exposed me to the raw, unfiltered realities of life in India, from the beauty of its temples to the harshness of its slums. This trip wasn’t about ticking off tourist attractions — it was about confronting the complexities of a country that defies easy categorization.
