India is an experience furnace—an isolating and intensifying experience. It was not until my last weeks of the fieldwork, with hushed wonder, that I could realize how completely the voyage had restructured my own research. The idea of this epiphany, rather expectedly, came in Arambol, when I was standing on the brink of the cliffs pondering over the request of the sky turning into the Arabian Sea. Another, not weaker, happened later that evening on a train toward Rishikesh: I refused a drink, and an old woman gave me her last parantha in foil and in the love of a stranger. All these instances distorted, reconfigured, and eventually readjusted my work.
I used to think solo travel was just about independence. Book your tickets, make your plan, avoid sketchy places. Done. But India has this way of sneaking into your spirit. It’s chaotic and kind, frustrating and freeing — sometimes in the same moment.
First stop: Varkala, Kerala
I landed in Trivandrum with no grand plan. Just a backpack and a heart full of questions I wasn’t ready to answer. I took a prepaid cab to Varkala, because I’d read somewhere that the cliffs there are good for “thinking.” Whoever wrote that? Bless them.
Varkala is soft mornings and salty air. I stayed in a tiny homestay run by this lovely lady named Ammachi. Every morning, she made me filter coffee and idiyappam, and we’d sit quietly on the porch watching birds flirt with coconut trees. No pressure to talk. Just presence. I didn’t realize how much I missed that kind of quiet.
The best part of Varkala wasn’t the beach though. It was the walk from the North Cliff to Black Beach — those in-between places where you cross barefooted tourists, cows blocking the path, chai stalls playing 90s Bollywood. That messy little in-between space? It felt like life.
Udaipur – My accidental love story
I wasn’t even planning to go to Udaipur. But a fellow traveler I met at a café in Hampi said, “You’ll love the light there.” And she was right. Udaipur is silver mornings and golden evenings. It’s boats and bells and that smell of old stone in the City Palace that reminded me of childhood visits to forts with my dad.
I stayed at a hostel overlooking Lake Pichola. At night, I’d sit on the terrace with a book I never read, just soaking in the quiet shimmer of the lake. One evening, I joined a cooking class on impulse. Made aloo baingan with this sassy local chef who insisted I add more chili and “stop cooking like an Australian.”
The beauty of solo travel in India is that you don’t feel solo for long. People talk to you. Share trains, share food, share stories. Sometimes even share silence — which is rare, and kind of holy.
Jaisalmer – Where time slows down
Now Jaisalmer… whew. That place broke me open in the best way. It’s surreal, like a postcard someone forgot to update for decades. I stayed inside the fort — yes, people actually live there. It’s a living fort. That sandstone glow during sunset? Unreal. I remember sitting on the ramparts, legs dangling, just watching the city turn honey-gold. No music. No phone. Just the wind and some distant folk tune carried from a rooftop.
I joined a desert safari, slept under stars so bright they hurt my eyes. My camel was called Rocket. He moved like he hated everyone. Still, we got along.
One guide told me about the historical importance of Jaisalmer Fort, how it stood resilient through sieges, sandstorms, and time itself. I remember thinking — maybe that’s what I’m doing too. Weathering storms. Holding my own.
There was a moment, on that cold desert night, where I cried. Not sad tears. Just… release. The kind that sneaks out when you stop pretending you’re okay. No one saw. Except maybe Rocket. He didn’t judge.
Rishikesh – Home, somehow
I ended the trip in Rishikesh. Not on purpose. I just didn’t want to go home yet. The Ganga there feels alive, like a moving prayer. I stayed in a quiet ashram — no Wi-Fi, no mirrors, no nonsense. Every morning, I’d wake up to temple bells and the smell of incense. I started journaling again. Nothing deep. Just… “I feel less scared today.”
One day I crossed Laxman Jhula just as it started to rain. I just stood there, in the middle of that swaying bridge, soaked and laughing like an idiot. People stared. I didn’t care.
Rishikesh reminded me that healing isn’t always big. Sometimes it’s a cup of lemon tea after a bad day. A kind stranger helping you find your sandals after Ganga Aarti. A dog that follows you for a block and makes you feel seen.
Is solo travel in India safe?
Okay, real talk. Is it safe?
Yes. And also — be smart. I avoided arriving in new towns at night. I booked trusted homestays or hostels. I dressed modestly, kept my alcohol intake minimal, and trusted my gut. It’s like dancing — stay aware, stay present, and don’t be afraid to step away if something feels off.
That said… I’ve never felt more held. I met uncles who treated me like their own niece, chaiwallahs who warned me about overpriced tuk-tuks, aunties who packed me food for long bus rides. People care here. Even when the country overwhelms you, there’s kindness in the cracks.
Final thoughts?
Traveling solo in India is not about ticking off places. It’s not even about “finding yourself” — whatever that means. For me, it was about feeling things again. Awe. Stillness. Trust. Hunger. Sadness. Joy.
If you’re thinking about it — do it. Pack light, expect chaos, carry wet wipes, and leave space for the unexpected.
India won’t always make sense. But it will mean something.
