Just received a txt from my sister who is in India at the moment- I miss it so much.

You read the thrill of it all in 'Shantaram', the heartaches in 'God of Small Things', the wit in 'White Tiger'... all of which are essential backpacking reading materials. Any pale skinned foreigner on a sleeper class train, whether to Ahmedebad on the Gujurat Express or all the way south to Kochin, would be engrossed in one of these Booker Prize winning novels. Afterall, it is about India. But all of this wonderful literature doesn't half prepare you for the gratuitous businessman, greed-ridden half cousin, the nurturing mother, the smiling babas, the bad-mouth rickshaw drivers, the dirt covered slum dwellers and the middle-class children in their pretty frocks that live in the vast country of India.

It's a delisciously potent cocktail of chaos and order, a living, breathing monster with the biggest of hearts. No matter how much of the wallahs and vendors are about business, they never fails to be human- to totally excite, disappoint, amuse, frustrate and ultimately welcome you with open arms in every sense. The stench, you get used to; the filth, you'll wash off but the heart beats in time with the pace of your walk, the wonder in your eyes and the chai-wallahs rhythmic chant. The people make the country and the country holds all its secrets and intrigues, and these make up its history.