Holidays 2025 - Travel to India- Part 1

A Day of Contrasts: From Lost Privileges to Silent Conversations

The day began with a bittersweet realization—how much we had grown accustomed to the little luxuries of travel. Once proud PPS and Gold members of Singapore Airlines, my wife and I now found ourselves holding Elite Silver cards. It felt like stepping off a red carpet into the crowd. No more breezing into lounges, no priority check-in, no early boarding. Suddenly, we were queuing like everyone else. I couldn’t help but feel like a performer of yesterday, stripped of the spotlight, quietly fading into the wings. Travel humbles you sometimes—and today was one of those days.

But holidays have a way of surprising you.

Later in Bangalore, we had several hours to spend. We wandered into Ishara; a restaurant tucked inside Phoenix Mall. At first glance, it seemed like any other chic eatery, but then we noticed something extraordinary—the staff communicated entirely in sign language. My wife asked for the washroom, and the server nodded, sending another who gestured that it was outside. Curious, I called another staff member, and as he signed, it suddenly clicked—Ishara means “gesture.” I looked down at the menu, which had simple instructions for ordering in sign language.

What happened next was magical. My daughter and son jumped right in, learning signs and placing orders with enthusiasm. The staff, patient and smiling, confirmed each order multiple times to ensure perfection. The food arrived quickly, and every dish was a sensory delight—true to the restaurant’s name, it appealed to more than just taste; it touched the heart.

In that moment, the morning’s disappointment melted away. Travel isn’t just about privileges—it’s about experiences that move you, teach you, and make you smile. Today reminded me that the best journeys are the ones that speak to your soul… sometimes, in silence.

Travel teaches patience—and today was a masterclass. We had a booking on Air India Express, a 2:50 PM flight that was rescheduled to 7:30 PM, quietly swallowing a big chunk of our day. Honestly, I didn’t mind much; our daughter Sheetal had just landed in Bangalore and was with us, and that made the wait worthwhile. But as evening wore on, the delays began to feel endless. By 8 PM, there was still no sign of boarding, and no one seemed to know why. Flight from Bangalore to Jaipur was 2hours and 40 minutes.

An hour into the flight, the pilot finally shared the reasons:

• The aircraft arrived late—why, we’ll never know.

• Duplicate seat numbers and boarding passes caused confusion.

• Cabin baggage overflow—despite the one-bag, under-7kg rule. Why is enforcement so hard? Why allow people carry too many bags into cabins?

• And then, a curious detail: it takes 3.5 km to reach the departure point at Bengaluru airport, which took 20 minutes. I’m still trying to picture that.

Delays test travelers, and Indian crowds grow restless quickly. The airline staff knows this well—their challenge isn’t just about efficiency, but about managing the “bheed,” the crowd that can turn unpredictable in a heartbeat. It’s a reminder that travel isn’t always glamorous; sometimes, it’s about embracing the chaos with grace.

Jaipur Chronicles: Chaos, Forts, and Survival Sports

Jaipur—where history dazzles and traffic terrifies. Let’s start with the roads.

Driving in Jaipur? Forget lanes—they’re just decorative. Here, the road is a free-for-all stage where everyone performs their own stunt. Pedestrians cross without warning, cars weave like they’re auditioning for Fast & Furious: Rajasthan Drift, and traffic lights? Especially on interior roads—they’re mythical creatures, spoken of but never seen.

At one point, I tried crossing a road with a neat white line divider. I bravely conquered the first half, dodging traffic from the left, and assumed—naively—that the second half would be clear. Wrong. Out of nowhere, a heavy vehicle came barreling down the right side like a bull in a China shop. My heart skipped a beat, and I realized something profound: in Jaipur, crossing the road isn’t a skill—it’s a survival sport. The 2026 method? Be agile, be swift, and above all, be lucky.

And lanes? Oh, those are just suggestions. No one drives in them. Ever.

Amer or Amber fort

Ah, Amer Fort—where history meets the great Indian art of mismanagement. The grand entrance? A long, winding stone staircase that could easily double as an obstacle course. Hundreds of steps, no partition for up or down, and a human traffic jam that would make Mumbai’s local trains proud. At one point during our uphill “expedition,” I had a chilling thought: if one person slips, it’s a stampede. No railings, nothing to hold on to—just me, my family, and the possibility of becoming a tragic headline. Thankfully, gravity behaved, and we survived. I even asked my wife if we should turn back and try later when it’s “manageable.” Spoiler: it never is.

Finally, at the top, salvation came in the form of a ticket counter. ₹102 for Indians, ₹200+ for foreigners. Honestly, why stop there? Make it ₹500—people will still come. Maybe then the man at the ticket window would find some joy in his job. He was the poster child for “I hate Mondays,” except it wasn’t Monday. Abusive, unfriendly, and clearly allergic to customer service.

I last saw Amer Fort 39 years ago. Back then, in the Diwan-e-Khas, our guide lit a match to recreate the magic from Mughal-e-Azam. Today? Entry prohibited since 2006. Progress, I guess.

Our guide this time, Shahid—a gem in the ruins. Official fee ₹400, I happily gave ₹500. He worked hard to make the fort’s faded glory shine. The 12 rooms of Raja Man Singh’s 12 queens? Empty shells. Shahid compensated by doubling as photographer, capturing Insta-worthy shots like a pro. On the way out, he showed us a photo of the current king and narrated a soap-opera-worthy family saga: adoption, marriage to a driver’s son, separation. I joked, “So the present king is a driver’s son!” Another guide overheard and hissed, “Don’t say that! She’s Deputy CM of Rajasthan—you’ll lose your job.” Ah, politics—the fort’s newest occupant. To Shahid’s credit, he stayed neutral, answering only what we asked.

And then came the jaw-dropper: the temple of Shila Devi. Shila means slab, but the offerings? Whiskey and mutton. Yes, you read that right—whiskey for a Hindu deity! Holy Cow, indeed. The priests even distribute this as Prasad. Two categories: “Prasad” (your usual sweets) and “Pukka Prasad” (whiskey). Naturally, the priests ask visitors what they prefer and—brace yourself—sometimes hand out “pukka Prasad” to kids. If that doesn’t raise eyebrows, nothing will.

Amer Fort: where history whispers, chaos shouts, and tradition pours you a stiff drink.