We rolled into Pushkar, a holy town in Rajasthan, best known for its lake, temples, a camel festival, and legendary hippie vibes.
Our hotel was not so much hippie vibe, more straight out of The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel — just with a few more rough edges and dodgy power sockets.
Pushkar in the monsoon is not the colourful chaos you see in postcards; it’s mud, cows, it's daily life getting on despite of it all.
We arrived by chance on the one night of the year when thousands of Rajasthani women climb Savitri Hill before dawn, praying for the health and happiness of their husbands, daughters and families.
My wife decided to skip the pilgrimage, so in a rare role reversal, I dragged myself out of bed at 4 a.m and joined the ladies.
The hill was alive — drums, bells, singing, and laughter. Grandmothers on their hands and knees, mothers balancing babies, daughters guiding the way — all glowing in bright saris, drenched in sweat, joy, and devotion.
I joined the throng, humbled and inspired, and step by step, we climbed that desperately hot and humid hill. Some crawled, some clutched their babies tightly, others took my hand for assistance, some politely declined, showing inner strength and determination beyond age. I have never seen such strength and unity in one place. It was pure grace in motion.
After sunrise, the hill echoed with laughter as we descended, rewarded by hot chai and Kanda Poha — a humble Indian breakfast of flattened rice, turmeric, mustard seeds, curry leaves, chilli, onion, coriander, and peanuts — simple, golden, and comforting.
The air shimmered with women sharing breakfast and bargaining for bangles, their laughter mingling with the chime of new bangles and the calls of the bangle vendors lining the busy street. It was a good day to be a bangle wallah in Pushkar.
Across India, jewellery isn’t just worn — it’s lived. It tells stories of love, protection, and belonging.
Especially in Rajasthan, where red bangles are sacred — symbols of devotion, strength, and family — traditions as radiant as the morning light.
Back at the hotel, I found my wife pale and shaken. While I’d been chasing enlightenment, she’d been fending off a troop of furious black-faced monkeys who tried to storm our room (turns out they wanted our bananas).
She slammed the door shut just in time. The monkeys retaliated, hurling themselves at windows, screeching, and then storming the upstairs dining area, tossing chairs and pillows in protest. By the time the hotel staff shooed them away, chaos reigned.
Over breakfast, the manager offered the classic Indian reassurance — a gentle head wobble and a, “what can be done.” Not the comfort Rav was hoping for, but somehow perfect in its own way.
As we packed to leave, my wife found something in her pocket — a single red bangle.
A secret gift. A quiet blessing from a stranger — likely one of the elderly women from the mornings hill climb. Who quietly, anonymously, slipped that special gift it into her pocket. A blessing of love, strength, and happiness. The opposite of a pickpocket, a “pocket angel.”
That auspicious red bangle now travels with us, a small reminder that kindness finds you even in the madness — and that every journey, no matter how wild, carries its own protection.