Big and Baby Taj

When you think of India, you think of the Taj Mahal, which the Indian's will tell you is one of the seven wonders of the world (it isn't). But the city of Agra where is stands is somewhat overlooked.

My plan to bypass Agra (until later), for Lucknow was put on hold for the day as I was unable to make it through the maze of India's northern public transport network until the following day. I took this as a gift to see Agra, and realised that Agra boasts a little more than just the Taj.

We headed to the Red Fort, the rouged cousin of Jaipur's Amber Fort. Another triumph in architecture from India's glory days that we would have appreciated more if there were proper signs! From here, I got my first glimpse of the Taj. The creamy, marble domes (yellowing from pollution) had an ethereal presence on the sparse horizon and everyone's gaze was transfixed.

I wanted to get closer to this tombed monument,

which my own grandfather had caught site of on a 4 day train journey from Karachi (now in Pakistan) to Kanpur, near Lucknow - my next stop.

Allured by its 'cute' name, we headed to the Baby Taj. Despite being, well, just a baby, this monument on the edge of the holy Yamuna River was a sight in its own right. And the best part was having to put on white, cotton booties to protect the stonework from our destructive feet.

Next, we headed to the 'backside' of the Taj Mahal, as the 'frontside' isn't open on Fridays. Through the beautifully laid out gardens, the close-up view of the Taj was breathtaking. It towers over a wasteland, frequented only by water buffalo and a few local people. It was incredibly peaceful and every bit as magical as I had anticipated.

We then headed to the other side and found the highest rooftop cafe (naturally, with the slowest service) to watch the sun go down on this spectacle. All around, the rooftops of Agra were alive with people - and a sprinkling of monkeys. Children and families launched handmade kites into the air, where they dashed and dived in front of the Taj and the hustle and hassle of the street was out of reach. Pure, unforgettable bliss!

Roasting in Rajasthan

Rajasthan, the desert land of India, is not a place you want to be during a heatwave. But to Udaipur I travelled - a whitewashed, fairytale city that brought a welcome change of pace, and a throat infection.

And boy, it was hot! As I wandered through the winding, disorientating streets, every breath I took was hot and dry. I had never experienced heat like it and my befreckled body felt the

strain. The lake, which engulfs the majestic lake palace, was also a victim of the heat - with much

of its bed exposed, moss-green and spongy.

Despite the heat, the people of Udaipur were exceptionally friendly, but clearly bemused by the persistence of tourists visiting the slowly roasting city. Our response was simply "this is the real India" as, after all, extreme weather is just as much a part of the country as its temples and its trains.

Lingering days went by, spent gulping iced drinks and watching children and water buffalo bathe in the depleting lake - the entire scene made enchanting by a hot, dusty glow. Attempts at sight-seeing gave way to a day by the pool, and even watching the Rajasthani folk dancing one evening left us wet with sweat. But we did make an effort to see some of the sun-bleached sights, taking a 'pimped out' rickshaw with huge speakers pumping out a 90s 'Now' album with hits I shamefully knew all the words to.

Jaipur was a similar story, with dust storms sweeping through the 'pink city' by night. Jaipur is the largest city and capital of Rajasthan, but it still manages to retain a good measure of antique charm. The highlight was the spectacular Amber Fort - beholding an ancient, ochre world of Rajasthani Maharajas. It was a lesson in extravagance and our knowledgeable guide painted a picture of the kings who once adorned the group of palaces - some with as many as 12 wives.

After that, there was nothing left to do but head to the solace of a nice hotel pool. The heat was a force to be reckoned with, and I surrendered!

Land of Contrasts: Wealth and poverty

As I have talked about before, and am reminded of every day, India is a land of great extremes - with opulence at on end of the scale and abject poverty at the other.

My grandfather put it best:

"India is said to the a land of fantasy and dreams, a land of colour and variety. Whilst this is no doubt true, it seemed to me it was also a land of great realism, with millions of human beings involved in the most basic forms of survival. Many of the fantasies and dreams are link to the need to cope with the rawness of daily life."

The lines of separation in India's caste system are still perceivable, as are a good measure of its intrinsic social restrictions. The splendour of palaces and temples is at times difficult to enjoy when, just outside, you witness unfathomable poverty and despair.

Beggars, many of which suffer from crippling deformities, are an every day reality in the cities - testing the consciences of passers by. Tourists are discouraged from giving money to them, but ignoring a tiny, barely clothed child's plea for money to eat is one of the most difficult and

saddening things I have ever experienced. The guilt clutches at your heart strings and there appears to be solution.

The slums of India are everywhere. After a battle

with my conscience, I visited the Dharavi slum in Mumbai, said to be Asia's biggest. The sprawling acres of the slums are patched together from scraps of metal, warped plastic, old bricks and bamboo, with narrow lanes winding between them. Seeing the slums, you would be forgiven for thinking this was a temporary fix, but they are a very permanent reality for their inhabitants.

A guide took us through the outer edge of Dharavi, which softened and moulded by initial reaction to seeing the thousands of tin rooftops from above. People were hard at work, being incredibly resourceful with the humble things they had and we were greeted warmly. The slum dwellers had little in terms of possessions, but were rich in so many other ways and could certainly teach the rest of the world a thing or two about recycling!

As the slums continue to thrive, the middle and upper classes are growing in line with India's global industry and consumerism. India's rich and poor continue to operate in separate world's, kept divided by marriage traditions, land ownership, education and, I think, fear. The poor live outside, enduring the sun and basic survival, while the rich are circulating in their air-conditioned lives and eating in new, flashy restaurants and buying into Western culture. I have struggled to consolidate the two and I have met the most heart-warming and honest people from both ends of the spectrum.

Bombay dreams

Before arriving in Mumbai, I had anticipated not enjoying this rapidly growing city after the natural beauty and pace of life in southern Indian. Happily, I was wrong.

I joined the travellers' trail in Colaba and quickly fell in love with the tree-lined streets and epic buildings and made firm friends with my fellow residents of the very basic - but buzzing -Salvation Army Hostel.

My grandfather walked his first Indian footstep

s in this part of Mumbai, or Bombay as it was then known, and described it as a city of tremendous zest and vitality - in all its chaos.

"My first impressions were that a good part of the whole population were on the street together, at the same time; it was seething with swaying bodies and incessant noise from the people and the traffic."

The first thing I visited was The Gateway of India, Mumbai's celebrated waterfront landmark. This was the first and last thing my grandfather saw of India:

"The last view I saw as we sailed away from the dock area was our first when we arrived: the Gateway. I remember looking back for a long time as it faded into the distance of time, and space. Time I would never have again, yet the space I hoped I might well encounter again someday."

In its shadow, or arguably the other way round, is the Taj Mahal Palace Hotel - one of the sites of

Mumbai's terrorist attacks in 2008. Shamefully, myself and a friend, went to one of its grand restaurants and shared nothing more than a bottle of mineral water - but India's finest and most expensive bottle of mineral water, don't forget! I failed to place this magnificent hotel in the context of the India I had known up until this point.

Over the next few days, just about surviving the sweat-inducing humidity, a group of us visited the sights of the city and caught a Bollywood film

at Regal Cinema. Chowpatty beach was a highlight, where flocks of people succumbed to its magnetic pull to enjoy the hazy light of sundown. The beach is a hive of activity at this time, with food sellers, chai-wallahs, games and fairground rides and hundreds of people playing in the surf. The high rise buildings were perfectly sillouhetted in one direction (with the throngs of people creating a subsidiary skyline), and, in the other, you could see the southern-most curl of Mumbai's reclaimed coastline.

We joined the social scene at the infamous Leopold's Cafe (which still bore the bullet holes from that fateful day in 2008) and became 'Bollywood extras' for an Indian soap opera, named 'Geet'. This involved two of us dressing up as air hostesses (my badge name was 'Nancy Drew' - classic) and dabbling in a bit of acting on an airport set - how we laughed!

I quickly became comfortable in the ebb and flow of Mumbai life and understood why the many ex-pats had settled there.

Of course, for all the glamour, there is the grittier side of Mumbai and some of the people I spoke to, many who lived on the street, reduced me to tears. Mumbai is a city of great dreams, found in its developing industry and increasing wealth but also on the streets and in the slums.

I tried to embrace all of it: meeting the men who, in God's name, throw bread rolls into the sea at night for the fish; having my photo taking holding bare-bottomed children; befriending mangy dogs; and dancing in the street with a wedding party.

Getting from A to B, Indian style

Travelling around India is a battle of wills, a test of patience, a shared seat or bed, enormous acts of kindness and throws up just about every scenario you never thought possible.

The cornerstone of local transport is the autorickshaw - a mechanised version of the traditional rickshaw. It is customary before each journey to undergo the haggle, where the cheeky driver gives you a starting price of double or even triple what you should pay. You must then give a

price less than half of what you are willing to pay and after a weary exchange of rolling and pleading eyes, a fair 'tourist' price is reached. Everyone relaxes. The rickshaw then jerks into motion and you are thrown into the stutter of traffic, surrendering your trust to the driver as he dodges and weaves his way with expertise - and often complete recklessness. Nevertheless, it's the best way to make short journeys.

Intermingled in the congestion are wooden wagons, drawn by bullocks, horses and camels, unmarked taxi drivers, bicycle rickshaw wallahs (for an even more perilous journey than the auto), cows, goats, the occasional elephant and general motorists - persistently using their horns to demand right of way, even when the traffic is stationary.

And of course there are the local buses, heaved around the towns and cities by drivers chewing and spitting red betel juice, or paan. Their aging engines roar and shudder as they drive around at alarming speeds, crowded with people that double their capacity.

On India's roads, accidents and mishaps are common and arguments ensue over blame for bumps and hold ups. Overtaking is the norm and at first I found myself closing my eyes and holding my breath for large parts of the journey - but it does get easier!

The long distance bus journeys, both Government and privately run, do not get any easier however. Flying down roads of rubble in the dead of night and roadside stops at 3am for sugary chai and to use the toilet (field or bush) is not for the fainthearted - or sane. I still have yet to recover from a particularly bad 'sleeper' bus that resulted in me throwing up out of the bus window countless times in the early hours of the morning; I'm not the first and I certainly won't be the last.

For long distance journeys, the India train network is the desireable way to travel. As my grandfather wrote: "Travelling on India's railways is one of life's great experiences." Never a truer word spoken.

The trains are always brimming with the over-population of India and seats get booked up weeks in advance. So, to avoid being number 187 on the waiting list (yes, the waiting lists are often this extensive - pure Indian optimism), you have to plan ahead or hope the train has a tourist quota or Tatkal (a late release of seats) available.

The long distance trains (my longest journey was 32 hours!) are sleeper trains, fitted out with hundreds of berths (beds). Naturally, and I have to say thankfully, there is a class system. The regular 'sleeper' carriages have overworked fans, more than the occasional cockroach and often people sleeping in the luggage racks (travellers included). Then there are three air-conditioned options: 1AC, 2AC and 3AC. I have had the pleasure (and in part, displeasure), of trying out each of the different classes, but my preference is 3AC (three-tiered berths of lower, middle and upper) and 2AC (just lower and upper berths) as air-conditioning is a necessity when travelling through the Indian summer.

The single best thing about the trains are the people you meet, even those you end up sharing your seat with. Often travelling by myself, I have shared many a family's food and life stories, and have been quizzed about my own. And there there is the endless stream of chai-wallahs (sweet tea sellers), snack merchants, the occasional holy man and people selling the usual Indian paraphernalia.

At night time, the bunks are set up and in the AC carriages starched sheets - that faintly smell of bleach - and pillows and blankets are provided for a fairly decent night's sleep. The talking stops and you are serenaded by the occasional mobile phone, burp, fart and guttural snoring.

Morning arrives and you are greeted by the pungent yet passable toilets, a salty nut cutlet and chai for breakfast and yet more people pile on.

Indian transport is a delight, a fright and a whole new wealth of experience.

A taste of home and lime pickle

Beyond my grandfather's inspiration, my other motivation to visit India was gifted to me by Cardiff University's Youth of India Society (YUVA). I met some wonderful people through this, who were wonderfully passionate about their Mother land, not least of which was my good friend Shree, who I stayed with for the week in his home of Coimbatore, Tamil Nadu.

Another bemusing and eventful journey under my belt, I arrived at Shree's luxurious family home and enjoyed a few days of his mother, Meera's, homecooking (founding my affection for spicy and zesty lime pickle) and Raju family life.

This was my first true encounter of an Indian home and I quickly understood the importance placed on family. Shree (or Sandip, as they affectionately call him) and his brilliantly tenacious sister, Sneha, whisked me out to dinner most days and tried to show me as much as possible of their cosmopolitan home in the few days we had together.

Sneha took me shopping for some beautiful Indian clothes and both her and the shop assistants were amused by my 'strange' colour choices and difficulty trying on the large Salwar trousers.

I was also honoured to be part of Shree's grandparents' 50th wedding anniversary celebrations. Setting off early in my new bright orange dress, I rode on the back of Shree's scooter - out of the city - along streets laced with coconut, banana and betel nut trees. We were heading to the hills and to the Esha Ashram, a serene Shiva temple where the family gave thanks for the long and happy marriage. The most memorable part of the experience for me was, dressed in just a deep red robe, bathing with Sneha, Meera and Shree's grandmother in a special pool containing Shiva's silver orb. Sneha and I helped Shree's grandmother to swim over to it and we all took it in turns to place our hands on it and feel its vibrations.

To finish off my visit, Sneha took me to a Mehindi street artist to have my hands decorated with

henna. The rich reddy brown artwork was vivid on my (persistently) pale skin. In south India, traditionally the bride and groom have Mehindi for their wedding day. In the north, all the female wedding guest join in and 2 days before the ceremony gather for a Mehindi party. Shree's family laughed at my impatience as I sat and fidgeted in my seat, waiting for it to dry.

Indian family life is built upon the foundations of love, respect, faith and good food and I was lucky to be a part of that. Thank you to the Raju family!

Chilling out in hot Hampi

After the fast pace of the city, Hampi's laid back Indian style and effortlessly beautiful landscape made for a nice breather.

Slightly hampered by the infamous 'Delhi belly' (I'll spare you the details), I allowed myself to get in since with the slow rhythm of life in the historic settlement. Hampi has an ethereal glow and you feel like you're in the midst of an epic Indiana Jones film set. Colossal rocks and crumbling ruins scatter its dusty, ochre landscape and I struggled to take in the magnitude of what lay before me.

Bewitching Hampi was chosen by Telugu prince Harihararaya in 1336 as the site for his new capital, which grew over the next couple of centuries into one of the largest Hindu empires in Indian history, with over 500,000 inhabitants and busy bazaars dabbling in international commerce, brimming with precious stones and merchants. This all came to an abrupt end in 1565 when the leaders of the Muslim-ruled kingdoms in South India razed it to the ground - a blow from which Hampi never recovered. Now only a few families live in the main bazaar area, surrounded by the remnants of a lost empire.

As an exception to the relaxed tempo of Hampi, everyone who arrives in the main bazaar area has to register at the local police station, which is tucked away in a decaying ruin at the far end of the bazaar. I think the main purpose of this visit is to scare all the tourists into staying in after dark - I guess this makes their lives a whole lot easier!

On my first morning, I walked along the river, speckled with giant rocks and stones, and then through a banana plantation for lunch. As I emerged back along the main track, an Indian family beckoned me over and, before I knew it, a massive plateful of food was thrust my way. Feeling far to polite to say no to the eager pairs of eyes wanting to share their picnic banquet with me, I tucked into my second lunch of the day!

Feeling the squeeze, I headed to the figurehead of Hampi bizaar: the Virupaksha Temple. At er negotiating my way past the old women selling small bananas and the men asleep in the pockets of shade in the entrance, I left my shoes and felt the fire of the midday heat on the soles of my feet. The resident elephant, Lakshmi (named after the Hindu god of wealth and prosperity), was inside waiting for my Rs. 10 note (but naturally she accepts Rs. 1 coins from Indians) so I could receive her special blessing.

This was one of many ornately carved stone temples in the Hampi ruins and none of them failed to impress me!

The rest of that day and the next involved broken sunglasses, a knuckle fight with the fan in my room and stepping in a cowpat at 2am in my pyjamas, so I welcomed the arrival of Saturday with open arms.

An early start was called for to watch Lakshmi, India's most pampered elephant, have her twice-daily bath in the river. Well two helpers scrubbed and scrubbed her for 2 hours (so I'm told, I didn't last longer than 30 minutes!).

I then walked through the dramatic landscape to the Vitalla temple, which boasted a stone chariot with wheels that once were capable of turning. With two Australian friends, I rented bikes (probably not the brightest idea in 42 degree heat) and headed to the Royal Centre of Hampi to explore more of the crumbling landscape including the Lotus Mahal and the old Elephant stables. We also came across the unreal Underground Virupaksha Temple, built in the name of Lord Shiva (the god of destruction, and patron of the arts), which was filled with knee-deep water, and lots of bats!

All too quickly it was goodbye to beautiful Hampi, but I was on my way to see a good friend from University in Coimbatore, Tamil Nadu for a few days of luxury!

Incense, oils and foreigners

What first struck me about Mysore as we charged in by bus, was the amount of trees that lined its bustling streets. The towering walls of the Maharaja's palace and other regal looking buildings gave it a fairytale glow and I knew instantly I was going to like it here.

I found myself a dirtcheap - and regrettably dirty - hotel and set off to see the main attraction. The opulent palace was built for the Wodeyar Maharajas (kings of Mysore) and I understood the true size of it as I arrived at the wrong entrance and had to trace the outside wall to the very opposite side. Phew!

Becoming increasingly tightfisted with my Rupees, I was somewhat put out by having to pay TEN times as much as Indian people to get in, and then having to pay to put my camera in a locker and again to put my shoes on a wonky metal rack. A few deep breaths later and it was off to explore the impressive dwelling, with its intricate paintings, colourful glass ceilings and ornate carvings. I was instinctively aware of the many pairs of eyes on me as I tried to blend in with the crowd - I don't think they were fond of my leggings and the sunglasses perched on my head. Note to self: in future, try not to look like such a tragic tourist at big public attractions.

I was hit by a pang of loneliness when I wanted to share my amusement at the sign "joy rides" with a big arrow pointing towards 3 tired and gaunt camels tied to a fence. And the quickly forming queue of people wanting to have their photo with me.

That evening I had my first 'Thali' meal - a large round tray filled with small round pots full of many different dishes, served with chapati and rice. Due to table shortage, I ate with a family from Mysore who insisted I ate absolutely everything on my over-sized plate and then ordered me some refills. Who are these people that come back from India 2 stone lighter?!

I awoke early and foggy-eyed the next day to catch a bus to the summit of Chamundi Hill. At the top stands the majestic Sri Chamundeswari Temple, which was already being jostled by queues of early morning worshippers. I joined the queue and was kept entertained by monkeys playing in the trees overhead. Inside the temple, the morning puja (or pooja, depending on who you speak to) was being performed. In Hinduism, the act of puja is giving a gift or offering to a deity and many of the people in front of me were also symbolically bathing themselves in water and a flame from an oil lamp. The smell inside the temple was enough to keep me inside for some time, with incense burning and wafts of sweet Jasmine flower from the ladies' hair (a very common adornment for Indian women and children, sold everywhere in delicate garlands).

To shatter the scented serenity of the temple, I was once again asked to be in many photos. I joked with them that I charged 5 Rupees per photo, but I was beginning to think this wasn't such a bad idea.

I spent the afternoon drifting through the vibrant markets, where the exotic becomes the everyday. Mysore pumped out a different smell with every step I took. Amid the usual smells of spices drifting from restaurants, hot dust, sizzling street food, and some rather more disagreeable sniffs (fuel, urine, cow), there was also intense wafts of incense and oils such as Sandalwood and Waterlily. Mysore really is a feast for the senses.

I then went along to an incense factory, where small women sat on the floor rolling sticks to be sold around the world. Each woman methodically crafted 7,000 sticks of incense a day, working from 8am until 8pm, not once looking up from their small wooden table. I tried to ask about how much there were paid for their backbreaking work, but the guide had selective understanding of English, it seemed.

After a satisfying Masala dosa (a pancake made from rice and black lentils stuffed with spiced potatoes), it was time to head to the central bus station to catch an overnight bus to Hampi, further north in Karnataka.

Walking through that bus station surely took days off my life, with the buses spewing out thick exhaust fumes and queuing bumper to bumper, with raging honks and yells. I was more than relieved to meet two German girls also making their way to Hampi, and we became firm friends - a death defying bus experience will do that to you! To say I didn't sleep a wink would be untrue, but I was more than lucid for the white knuckle parts of the journey - rudely awoken when my whole body and bags were flung onto the hard metal side of the bus at speed.

As we arrived into Hampi the following morning, I vowed that I would never take a Government bus overnight again.

Making friends on the way to Mysore

I had prepared myself for a lengthy journey to Mysore in Karnataka, and it didn't disappoint.

I caught a train from Varkala up the coast to Calicut, some 7 hours away. I was in a 3AC carriage (more about the trains later) and its coolness was such a treat after the hot fan-circulated air I have learned to live with.

I sat with an old couple who were going to visit their daughter in Goa and they insisted I share some of their still warm home-cooked food. Then every hour, they produced package after package of fried Jack fruit, rice balls, salty banana chips and more, pouring handfuls for me before digging in themselves. Indian people love their food and they love sharing it even more!

The relaxing train journey came to an abrupt end and I found myself thrust into the brash and bustling city of Calicut. I sought cover in a taped-up taxi cab to take me to the bus station - a place best frequented by daylight. After much to-ing and fro-ing and cow dodging, I realised I would not be going anywhere that evening.

There was nothing left to do but check myself into a marble-floored hotel for the night for a bit of crisis-curing luxury. In the white sterility of that hotel, I realised just how grubby myself and my backpack possessions had become. So I got power-shower happy and indulged in television and hotel freebies.

Refreshed and cleansed, the next morning I found myself a breezy window seat on the bus to Mysore. And it was time to make my next friend of this epic journey: a girl in her twenties who, rather than go for mundane introductory chit chat, simply fell asleep for the best part of the journey nuzzling into my shoulder. Not a word was spoken between us for the entire 9 hours but I think we are now friends for life.

We flew (yes, there were definitely times when all four wheels were off the ground at the same time) through the mountains as we crossed through Karnataka state. The lush forests and deadly drops were breathtaking - as was the driver's pace and confidence. He took on hairpin bends at bonecrushing speed and the bus clanked, dodged and screeched its way to Mysore.

And by some miracle, we did arrive in the city of incense and fine silk.

A million miles in Varkala

After two chaotic and confusing bus journeys, I arrived in the paradise of Varkala on the south coast of Kerala.

Varkala feels a million miles away from the rest of Kerala, let alone the rest of India I have left to explore. Western girls walk around freely with legs and shoulders bared, Bob Marley pours out of restaurants with Tibetan, Italian and a whole host of other national cuisine, and it just looks entirely different from what I have experienced of India so far.

Of course, the main town has the typical food stalls, thriving roads and a thousand smells constantly changing with every sniff. But this was not the town, this was the cliff and beach haven frequented by many travellers, some who simply never leave.

Being about 10 shades whiter than every single person here, I quickly realised that days in Varkala were filled with dedicated sun worship. On the cliff nestles quirky hotels, great shops and of course the multi-cultural clusters of restaurants. The cliff face itself has pathways down to the main beach and along the coastline a few quieter beaches cling to the cliff edge.

On my first night, I joined an eclectic group of chirpy travellers in a sea-facing restaurant. This was my latest night in India so far, laughing and chatting as more and more people joined our group. We sat on cushions by candle light and I had my first Indian beer - this was a far cry from the 10pm curfew I had already gotten used to.

The next day, after a lingering breakfast overlooking the sea, I headed down the steep steps to the sandy beach below. I went for a swim and could feel the strong currents that earned Varkala the title of one of Kerala's most dangerous beaches. But this didn't seem to deter people and everyone, including me, was having so much fun in the flattening waves! The beach does have its own lifeguard with a solitary rescue ring, "symbolic", I guess.

I then walked the length of this beautiful coastline, a thirsty task but worth every water-swigging second. This was a completely new India and, while I didn't feel like I was experiencing the 'real India' I had come all this way for, it was paradise for a handful of days.

Varkala was a million miles away from the rest of India, but only a 14 hour train ride to my next stop...

To the Ashram for a hug from Amma

I set off with the French girls on a local ferry that we thought would take us to Kollam further south down the coast.

Only stopping for a traditional Keralan lunch in a remote village, it was another relaxed backwaters experience and I sat on the edge of the boat and absorbed the breeze and beautiful sights.

We chatted to a French guy, Paul, who offered us sweet fresh pomegranate - a great way to make friends! He had been travelling for years and years it seemed, and he had that slightly weathered look of someone who had embraced the world and all its extreme climates.

Paul was getting off at the next stop: the Ashram. In my ignorance, I didn't really understand what an Ashram was, apart from it housed a Hindu temple. After a long discussion in French with Paul and the girls, of which my understanding came and went, and then a brief chat in English for my benefit, we decided that we too would stay at the Ashram for the night and not go to Kollam after all.

As we stepped into the Ashram walls, we were confronted by people everywhere dressed modestly in white. It was quite disorientating as these people, a staggering amount European, all walked and talked with a great sense of purpose and seemed enthralled in their life at the Ashram. We felt like complete outsiders - especially with our backpacks and brash multi-coloured attire.

After a few minutes where I can only assume we stood and gawked at this small walled world of white, we worked out where we had to go to sign in. Faced with a barrage of questions from the man behind the desk and then a thorough form, we were eventually given a room. Before leaving, we chatted to a French girl (the Ashram seemed particularly popular with the French), who spent six months of her year at the Ashram, and six months back at home. It became apparent this was not uncommon, and some people had lived there for years. I then realised that all around me there were people working - making magazines, sweeping floors and other jobs I didn't fully understand. Jobs aside, it was a far cry from the 'real world', I felt.

Our room, or rather dorms, were in one of the (out of place) skyscraping blocks of flats inside the Ashram. We were on the 11th floor and, while the views of the backwaters and the sea were spectacular, our rooms were bleak in comparison. I will spare the details but let's just say I had my worst night's sleep in a long while that night. We shared our floor with Indian girls who could be no more than 12 or 13. They were at the Ashram to study for 2 years - how they must miss home!

We spent the first hour outside in the main square in front of the pastel pink temple. It was fascinating to watch these people go by, and ponder what had brought them here. We were promised a tour as newcomers but, when no guide arrived, we let ourselves get caught up in the throng of people who were all heading in the same direction: the beach.

The sea of people in white knelt down on the sand and then sat cross-legged around a platformed woman, also in white. I soon gathered that this was Amma, who I had heard mentioned and seen on posters around the Ashram. Amma is a famous Hindu guru (there are thousands of gurus in India) who inhabits the Ashram when she is not on tour around the world. We perched uncomfortably on the rocks that the sea crashed into, and occasionally caught the spray as the sun started to go down.

A voice on a microphone then led everyone in the twice-daily meditation. I was shocked to see how many European girls my age knew all the words to the chants and seemed to embrace this ritual. After what seemed to us like hours, it was timed for the dashram. Newcomers, leavers and people who were 'feeling sad' were invited to join the lengthy, winding queue to receive dashram - at this stage I had no idea what I was queuing up for but I went along with it - when in Rome!

It turned out that Amma was giving out hugs to everyone. As we got near the front of the queue, our bags and water bottles were taken from us and we were asked which language we spoke by her supervisors.

It was my turn next and I didn't really know what to expect. My head was pushed onto her shoulder and she held it there - quite intensely - for a while. It seemed like I was there awkwardly for a long time until she eventually whispered "my love, my love, my love" into my ear and released her firm grip before placing a small brown parcel containing incense (which I later found out was made of burnt cow poo) and a small sweet. I wasn't, and am still not, sure what to make of it. As far as hugs go, it was pretty good but I don't think I felt anything beyond that! I have since chatted to another French man, who said his first hug opened up his heart and he felt intense energy - I guess if you're hoping it to have an effect on you that anticipation might be strong enough to do that for you.

After a great deal more hugging (I am told Amma has given dashram for 2 days straight before with just sips of water in between), everyone was flocking back to the centre of the Ashram, where we witnessed a large ceremony in celebration of Amma's return from overseas. The Ashram has about 2000 people in on average and the full extent of this was obvious here.

I awoke the next morning at 4.30am, feeling almost feverish in our fan-less room, to hear people attending morning prayers. Any guests staying more than a couple of days were invited to carry out chores during the day, in between meal times, prayer and meditation.

I went to the Ashram feeling I should think 'outside the box' and have an open mind to this way of life and living. What I came away with was a sense that these people were living inside a box, between the four walls of the Ashram, discouraged from interacting with the nearby village amongst many other rules. I wondered what jobs and perhaps families they had given up to live at the Ashram and what the very small children being brought up here were missing out on.

Amma and the Ashram was great food for thought, but we did let out a little cheer as we stepped outside the gates.