Once we were both better, Jack wanted to hire a motorbike. It was his dream to get an ‘Enfield’ and see the Indian countryside, wind in our hair, ‘just like the guy did in Shantaram’. Jack found the perfect bike after asking one guy in the markets who led us to another guy who then led us down an alleyway, fingers beckoning, and into the garage of another guy with a big round belly and gold teeth. His name was Wilson. He pointed to a silver bike. It was shiny and fairly new. Jack beamed. ‘This is the one,’ he breathed, like he was a teenager purchasing his first car. It was so big I wondered if I could get my leg over it. I asked Wilson how safe it was.

Of course, everyone in India tells you everything is good, good, safe, safe, especially when money is involved. Fear curled around my heart as I eased onto the backseat and grabbed Jack’s waist.

He loosened my claw–like fingers (calm down, babe, I know how to drive this thing), took the handlebars and accelerated, breathing in the fresh air, his woman behind him, long hair gliding luxuriously in the tropical wind. The reality was that the air was not fresh. ‘AIR QUALITY HAZARDOUS’, the weather report said each day, and proof was in the smog that lingered, like fluffy grey cats wrapping their tails around city skylines – even rubbing obnoxiously along the horizon of the most remote country town. The sheer number of people in India – Mumbai itself holding more in one city than the entire population of Australia – tells you that there is no simple solution to cleaning up this place.

As we rode up the winding mountains, I forgot about the air quality, now clutching Jack’s flesh harder with each sharp turn. Indian families in rickshaws stared at us. Drivers cut past us with loud honks. I didn’t want to die this way.

We finally found our way to long open country roads – less traffic, more scenic views. We flew past wide grassy fields and rolled beneath the limbs of jungle-esque trees. A monkey sat on a fence and stared at us as we waved. We pulled into a limestone driveway with a huge sign saying SPICE FARM, and swaggered off the bike, our butts relieved as a girl handed us a lemongrass tea and ushered us for a tour around the farm. We snapped happy pics and sniffed all the spices of India in their freshest form. At the end of the tour they served us a delicious organic meal with fresh chapati bread, dal, salads and watermelon. This whole experience cost us no more than ten dollars.

Afterwards, we found waterfalls nearby and took a hike and a swim. We giggled in the lukewarm pools. It was nice, surrendering to all this.

Back on the bike and hugging Jack close, I realised this was actually one of the few times in my life that I had completely surrendered to anyone or anything with so much trust. I started to love the idea of surrender. I loved the freedom that came with it. But as the sun started going down, our butts hurting and our eyes savagely windburned, we were relieved to park our Enfield bike back in Wilson’s old garage. 

I touched the silver steel one last time, and thanked gold-toothed Wilson. ‘Come back anytime,’ he said, beaming.

That night, we sat at a bright restaurant down the road with painted mandalas exploding across walls. Delicious vegetarian food filled our senses and bellies with magic. I smiled. Not only was I still alive, but I was more alive. We talked about all the things we had seen that day, ending with a magical sunset that lit up against a rice paddy field.

We better explore this whole country while we have the chance, we said. On a whim, we booked a flight the next day to the north. Everything was now moving faster, sharper, brighter. I sat back into the leather plane seat, clipped my belt, and smiled to myself. I had a brief memory of my first childhood experience of flying – my ears throbbing, the thundering engines that stole us into the clouds. And here I was again, after doing it hundreds of times, no fear.

I held Jack’s hand, my co-pilot in life, and smiled at him as we flew into the smoggy skies.

We were flying to Rishikesh, the spiritual town of the Ganges River, nestled in the foothills of the Himalayas. We threw off our backpacks at the hostel and got a free shuttle to town. We accepted the first chai tea that was offered to us. It bubbled on a tiny stove and the vendor poured the creamy brown liquid into a clay cup. It smelled rich with ginger and spice. We’d forgotten about stomach bugs and slurped loudly, hungry for new tastes.

It cost 20 cents.

The music of traditional pan flutes floated nearby. It was the sunset fire ceremony on the River Ganges. Someone handed us a candle and a flower and pointed for us to take off our shoes and head to the steps of the river. The sun was setting behind the mountains, casting orange lights on the river. A string of Hindu priests held beacons of fire high along the river bed, throwing flowers and chanting. Jack smiled at me, no longer suspicious of everything religious. He was the first to throw his flower in the river. Suddenly we were signing up for everything Rishikesh had to offer – temples, ashtanga yoga, white water rafting, bungee jumping.