Pilgrimage of a Maybe-Writer

I went to Jaipur to write, but mostly I just listened - to strangers, to storms, and, eventually, to myself.

The news of the retreat came with a ping that pierced through the hum of my hairdryer. I was getting ready for work. Harneel was fiddling with his shoelaces. I looked up, eyes wide – oh my god, they read it. I’ve been invited.

For weeks the writing retreat bubbled in my mind. What had started as an application sent on a whim began to take shape despite distance and the world and large, but the biggest conflict was happening inside me.

You may take offence, but I had no deep love for India. Despite stories I cherished that were shared in my grandparents’ room over tea and milk, my relationship with the land of my ancestors was uneasy. Distant and somewhat tainted, burdened by the depth of un-belonging.

Surely, there were other places more suitable for my maiden retreat – Lamu, Greece, Cape Town or the Scottish Highlands. But a voice in my head niggled that it was meant to be. Jaipur. India. A return of some dormant part of my being. Voices transcended time and beckoned me away from my slice-of-sunshine home in Nairobi.

I braved the nervous chatter of the flight, a day after a fatal crash of the carrier airline. Every tumble and rattle through the skies elicited gasps and prayers. Even then, a thought echoed – what the hell am I doing? In another version of this story, I spun back on my heels before boarding, returning to the snores of my dogs and the birdsong outside my window. But in this one, I continued.

Delhi greeted me like a slap and a whisper all at once. The sheer noise of its existence crashing into the silence of a home where my grandparents once spoke. It was a bittersweet return, still rife with uncertainty of what lay ahead.

Then came Jaipur.

I made my way to Padmaa, a boutique hotel in an ancient haveli that was going to be my home for the next 2 weeks. Mercifully, the city snuck me in as it was just rising. I tried to ease into the bustle and the somewhat far-away concept of calling myself a “writer”.

I’m not sure what portal I stepped through, but I was greeted by a world without small talk. Within minutes of saying hello to strangers, I found myself spilling more than I’d meant to.

That retreat magic, they call it. Or maybe it was the monsoon air and nervous energy.

I told them I wasn’t sure I was a writer. That I was from Kenya. That yes, I’m Indian. Ethnically. No, I don’t really know where home is.

I mentioned bush bashing back home. That I miss my father terribly. That one brother drinks too much and the other keeps me steady. That my mother deserves a better life. That I think I might be infertile.

I joked that it’s easier to write about my husband’s family – there’s less grief to wade through to get to the humour.

I asked for a gin and tonic. And maybe some kebabs.

They said no alcohol. No meat.

Yikes. Maybe I should go back… But once more, I stayed.

For two weeks, I wrote and learned and laughed. I listened. Writing became an act of listening, to the voices around me and to the voices within. We fell into a rhythm – morning check-ins, masterclasses, shared silences, quiet epiphanies. I could predict who I’d see downstairs at breakfast. I knew who would sneak in late with coffee during a session. Our late night chats reminded me of my cousins, our eyes heavy with sleep, hearts clinging to the comfort of company just a little longer.

I didn’t finish the manuscript I came with. But I did dissect it. I released what no longer served it (or me) and found my way back to what mattered. I learned to value the story for its purpose. And maybe, for the first time, to value myself that way too.

India, for my grandparents, was a land of blessings. When something sacred had to be asked or thanked for, there were pilgrimages. I think I was on one too. The sweltering heat. The relentless rain. The boundless knowledge. It all felt like preparation for something I couldn’t yet name. It was just a rumble on the horizon, making its way to me gradually.

Even in the hardest moments, like the grief that threatened to swallow me whole, I was surrounded by people who held space with such grace, such ease, that I could hear past the pain.

Maybe this was a beginning. Or a return. What direction does purpose go?

Now I’m back home, equatorial winter seeping into my fingers as I type this. Muddy paws and a neatly trimmed beard cocoon me in love, and I am forever changed, forever grateful to 28 strangers, thousands of miles away, who spoke to me and helped me remember what I’m meant for.