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and I felt the hum of faith and humanity that makes that place truly golden. That evening, I sat with his family, sharing rum and stories with his mother about karma and chance— about how the road, if you trust it, always gives you what you need.
From there, I rode to Dharamshala, home of the Dalai Lama, and thought of Tiziano Terzani— of his love for India, that impossible, maddening, magnificent country.
“ You don’ t know exactly why you love it,” he wrote.“ It’ s dirty, poor, merciless— and yet, once you meet it, you can’ t do without it.”
I searched for that feeling in the mountains of Himachal Pradesh, in
Manali, among groups of Western riders posing with their Royal Enfields for Instagram. Ladakh was closed by landslides, so I turned south instead, still chasing the India of Terzani’ s words.
In Agra, I found beauty without soul— the Taj Mahal gleaming like a jewel surrounded by hawkers and hotels. But further east, in Varanasi, I found the India I had been looking for. The sacred Ganges glowed with fire and filth and devotion. Among cremation pyres and chanting pilgrims, holy men and curious foreigners, I saw the full cycle of life and death unfold. In that chaos— in the smoke, the prayers, the tears— I felt India’ s heartbeat, raw and eternal. Now I knew I could move on. Kathmandu awaited. Inshallah.
The road into Nepal was no farewell gift— it was another test. Twelve hours for 280 kilometres, choking dust and endless trucks grinding through potholes big enough to swallow scooters. Every kilometre demanded focus, every overtake a gamble. When I finally reached Kathmandu, I was wrecked— body, mind, and soul. But I was also complete.
I had travelled 12,600 kilometres across deserts, mountains, and borders— through fear, fatigue, and wonder. My little KTM 390, once dismissed as a beginner’ s bike, had never faltered. It carried me lightly
TRAVERSE 93