For months, if not years, my blog has been a home for stories about food, nutrition, and the quiet science of nourishing ourselves. But today, I’m stepping away from the familiar—from advices on meal plans and how to eat healthy food—to share something more personal, something that’s been simmering in my heart for a long time.
Next week, I’m traveling to India. Not as a tourist ticking off landmarks, but as someone seeking three things: a reunion, a glimpse of something wild before it’s gone, and a chance to mend what’s been broken.
Why This Trip? Why Now?
The Tigers of Bandipur
I’ve always believed that some experiences are not just for memory, but for witness. The Bengal tiger, with its burning eyes and striped fire, is slipping away. Poaching, habitat loss, the relentless march of human need—it’s all chipping at their existence. Bandipur National Park is one of the last strongholds, a place where the jungle still breathes deep and the tigers move like shadows.
I want to see them. Not on a screen, not in a documentary, but there, in their environment, in the hush of the forest. I want to stand in their world, even for a moment, before it’s too late (hopefully not but they are on the brink of extinction). There’s a grief in that, a kind of urgency. It’s the same feeling that makes you call a friend you’ve been meaning to see for years, or finally visit a place you’ve only dreamed of. Some things can’t wait.
The Weight in My Legs
For the past years, my legs have been a daily negotiation. The pain isn’t sharp or sudden; it’s a deep, stubborn ache, like the echo of an old injury. Doctors have names for it—arthritis, overuse, the slow wear of time—but names don’t make it easier to bear the pain.
In Travancore, I’ll spend ten days at an Ayurvedic retreat, that includes yoga and meditation. I’ve read about the oils, the massages, the herbs that promise to pull the pain out like roots from dry earth. I don’t expect miracles, but I’m ready to try. There’s a humility in that, in admitting that modern medicine hasn’t been enough, that maybe the answers lie in traditions older than any of us.
The Silence After Loss
My father passed away a few weeks ago. The grief hasn’t been what I expected. A friend of mine told me that losing a parent is like losing a piece of ourselves. Yoga and meditation won’t bring him back, but maybe they’ll help me sit with the quiet, to stop flinching away from it.
I’ve never been good at stillness. I am always doing something, working, going to Pilates and yoga classes, and writing. But in Travancore, I’ll try. I’ll sit on a mat, close my eyes, and let the breath do the work. Maybe that’s where the healing starts.
What’s Next
I’ll be gone for about two weeks. When I return, I’ll write again—about the tigers, the treatments, but above all about the taste of Kerala’s food. Until then, I’m packing light: a few clothes, a couple of books, my smart phone, and the hope that this journey will change me in ways I can’t imagine now.
Have you ever traveled for healing, or to see something you’d long wished to see? I’d love to hear your stories in the comments.
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