The peace of Rishikesh was no match for the storm inside my head. Africa had opened a can of worms I wasn’t ready to eat from. Suddenly, I had money in my pocket and respect from men I once worshipped—rough, experienced professionals who liked me for what I brought to the table. I could sit in a room, speak their language, understand all the acronymic jargon. I was part of something bigger again.

Back in Rishikesh, stripped of mission and purpose, I floundered. I turned to alcohol. I hadn’t drunk in a long time. Rishikesh is a dry state—it had been easy to stay clean. But freedom weighed heavy, and the bottle was a fast escape hatch.

I returned to Rishikesh via the Jim Corbett National Park — the northernmost tiger reserve in India. Named after the British adventurer-turned-conservationist Jim Corbett, who once hunted big cats before dedicating his life to protecting them. The descent from the Himalayas into the jungle was mesmerising. I felt like I’d ridden straight into a Kipling novel — wild monkeys swung from the trees, and rustling rivers spilled into deep pools of crystal-clear water.

We lay on the marble floor of the ashram yoga hall, surrounded by candles, incense, singing bowls, strange stringed instruments. And something shifted. I dropped into a trance. Floating in that liminal space between wake and dream, a vision came: a towering, snow-capped mountain glowing electric blue. It stared back at me, silent and certain. Calling. I jolted awake. The image wouldn’t leave me. Maybe it was Nepal calling me.

Then  my old friend Lev messaged. He’d landed a commission from a British paper to cover the Maha Kumbh Mela — the once-in-a-lifetime planetary alignment that would draw millions to Prayagraj, at the confluence of the Ganga, Yamuna, and mythical Saraswati. A gathering only possible once every 144 years. According to astrologers and sages, this alignment would awaken something ancient. It was estimated that over 140 million people would pass through the city in a month — all for the chance to bathe at the Triveni Sangam and receive its rare blessing.

I surrendered to the myths and whispers about the river’s healing power. I sat by her edge for hours, letting the turquoise flow pass me by like time itself. I went to the gym. I ran in the jungle. I spent time with my odd cast of Indian friends. Everyone I met was drawn to this place for reasons they couldn’t quite name. A friend coined it “getting Rishikeshed.” You come for a few days. You stay for months.

I knew I wouldn’t make it to Southeast Asia for the winter as planned. But I made peace with that. I told myself I’d rest here a few weeks, then move on. Keep the body moving. Keep the mind occupied.

But at night, the doubts always returned.

“So she enticed and won our battle-hardened spirits over.” – The Odyssey, Homer

Nestled between large, luscious green mountains, where the Ganges flows down from the Himalayas to meet the plains, lies Rishikesh. Currently known as the yoga capital of the world, it was made famous to the West in the 1960s by The Beatles, who sought refuge and inspiration within the confines of one of the Ganga’s-facing ashrams. Historically, Rishikesh holds immense spiritual significance in Hindu culture, steeped in myth and tradition. It is a place of pilgrimage and theological practice, drawing sadhus (saints) and pilgrims alike from all over India. It is a haven of peace and tranquillity for any weary traveller seeking to escape the mad hustle and bustle of modern India’s mega cities.

As stimulating as Amritsar was, it remained a bustling, polluted, and noisy city. My nervous system was exhausted—I had been riding for nearly five months. The anguish of repeatedly altering my plans weighed on me. By my original itinerary, I should have been in Mexico . However, geopolitical events in Russia had forced me to divert my route. Given my background, I preferred to avoid lingering there too long. Instead, I took the southern Silk Road, abandoning the dream of riding into Mongolia and the lower Siberian flats.

Adding to my internal turmoil, an old flame I had met on the road wanted to reconnect. We had planned to meet in Kolkata, which meant I would have to cancel the last available crossing of Tibet and, consequently, my overland route into Southeast Asia. This left me with three options: ship the bike from Chennai to Kuala Lumpur, air freight it from Kathmandu to Thailand, or wait for the spring snowmelt and continue my overland journey, all costly and time consuming options.