Chapter 1 - "Bumps, Blunders, and a Bed at Last"

As Anthony Bourdain once wisely said, “Travel isn’t always pretty. It isn’t always comfortable. But that’s okay. The journey changes you.” Well, after being rudely yanked from sleep for the 200th time by yet another bone-rattling lurch of our trusty Toyota on the way to Manas National Park, Assam, I finally got what he meant—on a deeply personal, mildly traumatic level. Peering out into the pitch-black nothingness, I questioned my life choices. Was I on a thrilling adventure? Or had I unknowingly signed up for a long-haul roller coaster ride disguised as a road trip? Either way, sleep was clearly not on the itinerary.

 

Our trip to Manas was a milestone for me—it was my first-ever visit to a national park in India. Which is ironic, considering I spent the first 25 years of my life in this country without even realizing such places existed! Apparently, I had to move to the U.S., get dazzled by Yellowstone and Grand Teton, and THEN come back to India to finally appreciate its wild side.

 

Growing up, my idea of a forest was straight out of a Discovery Channel special—dense, tropical, and buzzing with life. Think tigers lurking in the shadows, rhinos stomping through the underbrush, alligators sunbathing like lazy tourists, snakes slithering ominously, and of course, an enthusiastic cast of colorful birds, exotic flowers, and nightmare-inducing insects.

 

Before Manas, my Indian wildlife adventures had taken me to the breathtaking Dooars and the Sundarbans—the world's largest river delta. While the lush greenery was mesmerizing, the stark contrast of natural beauty and surrounding poverty stayed with me. I had a strong urge to wander deeper into the forests and engage with the local communities, but my travel companions and guides quickly shut that down. Their reasoning? Something about it being "too unsafe." I’m still not sure if they meant the wilderness, the locals, or just my general ability to make questionable life choices.

In Dooars, we had what I like to call a “heart-pounding but from a safe distance” kind of wildlife encounter with a herd of elephants. From the comfort of our trusty Jeep, we watched in awe as the gentle giants gracefully crossed the road like they owned the place (which, technically, they did). The matriarch, bringing up the rear, stopped briefly, gave us a single, knowing glance—the kind only an elephant or a disapproving grandma can pull off—and then disappeared into the forest.

 

The Sundarbans, on the other hand, was less Jurassic Park and more luxury houseboat edition. We stayed on a large steamer anchored in the Ganges, decked out with all the modern comforts—running water, chef-prepared meals, and absolutely zero concern for the wildlife around us (at least from my fellow travelers). While they sipped chai and casually ignored nature, I was slowly losing my mind over the lack of action. Sure, there were monkeys swinging around, but I wasn’t here for the B-team—I wanted the main event: the Royal Bengal Tiger.

 

Then came my golden opportunity. The boat’s chef and a guide spotted a tiger swimming across the river like it was training for the Olympics. Ignoring my mother’s exasperated pleas to “behave like a proper woman” (whatever that meant in a situation involving a swimming apex predator), I leapt into a tiny dinghy with the two brave men. Did I think this through? No. But was it worth it? Absolutely. We managed to catch a brief, glorious glimpse of the tiger’s massive head cutting through the water before it vanished into the jungle, leaving behind only ripples in the river and a lifelong bragging right for me.

 

With these two blink-and-you-miss-it wildlife encounters still fresh in my mind, I decided to up the ante with a trip to Manas and Kaziranga. Naturally, I assembled the ultimate adventure squad:

• My ever-critical husband, who treats every trip like a personal audit.
• My indifferent teenage son, who would rather be anywhere else (preferably with WiFi).
• My carefree brother-in-law, who goes with the flow—sometimes to questionable destinations.
• His social media influencer wife, whose main goal was to make the jungle aesthetic enough for Instagram.
• And their lively 6-year-old daughter, whose energy levels put caffeine to shame.

 

With this chaotic ensemble, I wasn’t sure if we were heading for a wildlife safari or a reality show, but either way, I was ready!

The three of us flew in from the U.S., ready to kick off our grand adventure. The plan? Meet my brother-in-law’s family at Guwahati Airport, where we’d also rendezvous with our guides for the next seven days of jungle exploration in Manas and Kaziranga.

Enter Aniruddha and Chonchal—our two Assamese guides, both in their late twenties and full of cheerful energy. Aniruddha was all business, but Chonchal had an infectious smile that instantly put me at ease. (Note to self: If we get lost in the jungle, follow the guy with the good vibes.)

 

After some quick introductions, they laid out the plan for the day: a four-hour drive from Guwahati to Manas, with a much-needed lunch stop along the way. Manas, a UNESCO World Heritage Site, gets its name from the Manas River, which doubles as the India-Bhutan border (fancy, right?). The park is a VIP lounge for wildlife, home to the one-horned rhinoceros, leopards, tigers, elephants, and an impressive guest list of exotic birds, including hornbills. Armed with this knowledge and an ever-growing excitement, we buckled up and braced ourselves for whatever wild (literally) adventures lay ahead!

 

Chonchal, ever the bearer of both good and mildly alarming news, informed us that while our journey would start smoothly on well-maintained highways, things would take a dramatic turn for the worse as we got closer to Manas. In fact, some stretches would lack actual roads altogether. (Ah, the classic “road trip without roads” experience!). To avoid arriving at an ungodly hour (and possibly in need of a chiropractor), we needed to hit the road ASAP. So, we loaded up into our chariots (SUV)—and set off.

 

The highways in Guwahati? Surprisingly impressive. Wide, smooth, and bustling, they serve as a major trade corridor between China and the rest of India. It almost felt like we were cruising down an expressway… until we weren’t.

Within minutes of setting off, we crossed the mighty Brahmaputra River, the ninth-largest river in the world and, quite possibly, the most dramatic traveler—born in Tibet, it flows through China and India before finally settling down in Bangladesh (talk about a long commute!). The scenery was stunning—crisp air, clear skies, and a noticeable lack of pollution, which, in India, felt like winning the lottery.

 

After crossing the river, I decided to chat with our driver, Chonchal—part-time guide, full-time mystery man. I quickly learned that he was newly married but spent most of the month away from home, guiding tourists across Northeast India. He lived near Kaziranga, our next destination, and though he wasn’t the chattiest person, he had an honest, easygoing vibe—the kind of guy you'd trust to lead you through a jungle (which, thankfully, he was about to do).

 

He shared that he genuinely enjoyed his work and earned enough to support his mother, two younger siblings, and his wife. But despite his love for the job, it was clear—he missed home. Which, honestly, was understandable. If I had to spend weeks babysitting wide-eyed tourists like us, I’d miss home too.

 

One of the biggest reasons I travel is to connect with people and cultures—to see firsthand how, at the end of the day, we’re all more alike than different. No matter where we’re from, we all hustle to survive, chase a decent life, and perfect the art of pretending we’re fine in professional settings.

 

Meanwhile, my teenage son could not care less. He was fast asleep, dead to the world, completely missing my profound moment of human connection. As a middle-class kid from a developed country, he had yet to grasp the magic of engaging with different cultures—or why staying awake might help with that. Understanding others is key to making the world a better place, but for now, he remained blissfully unaware—curled up in the front next to the driver, dreaming of WiFi and snacks.

 

Chonchal switched to listening to Bollywood music from the ’70s and early ’80s—a subtle sign that he wasn’t quite ready to continue chatting with his client. Bollywood, often called India’s version of Hollywood, is one of the largest film industries in the world. While Indian cinema spans multiple languages, Bollywood primarily produces Hindi films, known for their vibrant musical numbers and elaborate choreography. In 2022, it accounted for 33% of India’s box office revenue, reflecting its massive influence on the country’s entertainment landscape.

 

After about an hour and a half of driving, we pulled over for lunch at a humble little roadside eatery serving the basics of Assamese/Bengali cuisine—rice, roti (Indian bread), daal (lentils), vegetable fries, fish curry/mutton kasha (goat stew), and mishti (sweets). It was simple, but boy, was it satisfying. A perfect start to our vacation, where we could all pretend, we didn’t mind the lack of gourmet options.

 

We took our sweet time, casually chatting about anything and everything, while my son sat in his own world of existential crisis—because there was no burger in sight. Still, he managed to choke down the meat and roti combo with minimal whining, which felt like a small victory for us all.

 

After the meal, we lingered around the eatery, soaking in the local vibes. And because I’m always on the lookout for a new friend (pun intended), I found a stray dog to pet. Naturally, we bonded over the shared experience of not being able to communicate, yet still managing to form a perfect friendship.

 

Stray dogs are common in India, and unfortunately, they’re often among the most abused animals. Despite this, they’re usually very friendly, and their breed is one of the oldest, dating back over 4,500 years. These medium-sized, lean, athletic dogs have short coats in shades of brown, black, and white, with pointed ears and long, curvy tails. They’re known for their loyalty, intelligence, adaptability, and being among the hardiest dogs I know. Growing up, my brother and I would rescue them, care for their injuries, and feed them, despite our parents' objections. My love for dogs began at a young age, and I quickly realized that they are truly the best companions. The dog I was petting reminded me of my best pal Pluto, at home, a rambunctious Weimaraner and I found myself missing him a lot.

 

After lunch, my ever-impulsive brother-in-law suddenly had an idea—why not take a detour to Goalpara? A tiny town near Guwahati that, according to his Assamese colleagues, was a must-visit for its authentic local charm. Sounded great! Except for one tiny detail—the detour would tack on at least four extra hours to our trip. So, we did what any democratic family would do—we voted! My teenage son abstained (because, well, teenager), my sister-in-law gave a firm "no," but the rest of us were all in. And just like that, our fate was sealed.

 

Fast forward 3.5 hours—our backs sore, our patience tested—we finally found ourselves atop the mighty Naranarayan Setu, a massive bridge over the Brahmaputra River. We pulled over at the other end to soak in a breathtaking sunset, while our guide casually mentioned that an island temple nearby was also a prime sunset-spotting location. Great info… just about an hour too late.

 

With renewed enthusiasm (and slightly shaken spines), we powered through towards Goalpara—where we were immediately greeted by a delightful combination of lush greenery, bone-rattling bumps, and what can only be described as a philosophical debate on whether the muddy path ahead was, in fact, a road. After about 10-15 minutes of bouncing along the "roads" (which, at this point, felt more like an off-road adventure), we pulled up to a humble roadside eatery for some much-needed snacks and tea. By now, the sun had clocked out, and the village seemed to be following suit—thanks to electricity being both scarce and as expensive as a luxury item.

 

Our destination? The legendary Sri Surya Pahar (or Sri Surjya Pahar, depending on who you ask), an archaeological gem nestled in the Goalpara district. Imagine seven peaks spread across a whopping 1400 acres—basically, nature’s way of flexing. This place, about 13 km west of Goalpara town, is a history buff’s dream and an Instagrammer’s paradise (if you can find a signal). Thanks to the Archaeological Survey of India (ASI), Sri Surya Pahar is a protected site of national importance. And for good reason—it’s packed with terracotta wonders, jaw-dropping rock-cut sculptures, and artistic masterpieces featuring deities from Hinduism, Buddhism, and Jainism—basically a spiritual crossover episode you didn’t know you needed. Finding such religious diversity carved into stone? Now that's history with a plot twist!

 

Since the next 13 km involved an uphill battle against non-existent roads, we made the rational (and democratic!) decision to not go. For once, sanity won over adventure. My husband, however, was visibly unimpressed. A man who values destinations over journeys, he expressed his frustration entirely through aggressive head-nodding, which, if translated, probably meant: "So we drove all the way here… just for the sunset?!"

For me, the journey matters more than the destination (though I’ll admit, I did have a tiny itch to visit the site). But let’s be real—three more hours of bumpy roads? My sane brain took the wheel, and I let it win. So, we all piled back into the cars and started our journey towards the guest house in Manas, leaving behind the unvisited archaeological site. Chonchal, our guide, looked genuinely bewildered, as if mentally filing us under "Tourists Who Make No Sense"—which, to be fair, was accurate.

 

We crossed the Naranarayan Setu again—a bridge and a tongue-twister all in one. As if on cue, the car’s speakers started playing sad, romantic Bollywood music, instantly turning our road trip into a melancholic movie montage. We all got weirdly emotional and, in a moment of pure dramatics, vowed to return to visit the site in our next life. (Because clearly, this one wasn’t working out.)

 

Then, just as we were basking in our poetic sorrow, BAM—total darkness. The sunset disappeared, leaving us with nothing but our car headlights cutting through the pitch-black night. Suddenly, the ride took on a slightly creepy horror-movie vibe. In that moment, I was beyond relieved that I had chosen to ride with Chonchal and his comforting smile rather than the ever-serious Aniruddha. Because when you’re on a long, eerie drive through the middle of nowhere, you definitely want the guy who looks like he won’t leave you for dead.

 

Bored and exhausted, I did the only logical thing—I fell asleep, officially joining my teenage son in the "ignore reality and nap" club.

 

I must have drifted into some kind of horror movie dream because when the first big bump jerked me awake, my immediate reaction was pure relief—Oh good, I’m still in the car and not being chased by something with claws.

Still groggy, I turned to Chonchal and asked, "How far are we?" and "What time is it?"—despite the fact that my perfectly functional smartwatch could have answered at least one of those.

"It's 8:30," he said, "and we have about two more hours to go."

That’s when my brain went into full interrogation mode:

• Are we driving inside the forest now?
• Can we encounter any wild animals? (And if so, how friendly are we talking?)
• Is it actually safe to drive here at night? (Because this is starting to feel like a survival documentary.)
• Can we stop for a bathroom break? (Because fear and bumpy roads are a dangerous combo.)
• Where is the other car? (Since, concerningly, I no longer see its headlights...)

 

Chonchal, ever the patient man, just smiled and answered one question at a time—which only mildly reassured me. He casually mentioned that he had lost sight of the other car about 40–50 minutes ago—they had probably stopped for a bathroom break somewhere.

Me: Oh no! Can we call them?
Chonchal: No, there’s no signal.
Me: Oh no! How will we know if they’re safe?
Chonchal: The same way they’ll know if we’re safe.

At that moment, my dear, sweet Chonchal lost some of his charm.

 

Before I could spiral further, my practical husband (who had been pretending to sleep while I interrogated poor Chonchal) finally spoke up—"We can’t do anything about it. Chonchal doesn’t know any more than we do."

Wow. Heartless. And to think I married this man. My mother was right all along—never trust a man over six feet tall.

 

 

I attempted meditation—closing my eyes, taking slow breaths, and pretending I wasn’t on an endless, bumpy rollercoaster to nowhere. My journey became a cycle of dozing off, getting violently awakened by a pothole, dozing off again, and repeat. Time lost all meaning. I have no idea how long that “two-hour” drive actually took, but at some point—somehow—we finally rolled into the guest house, just outside the National Park.

 

Upon arrival, we were asked to show ID and collect our room keys—a process that felt suspiciously formal for a place where I had just seen a gecko the size of my forearm.

 

A young man, bless his soul, offered to carry our bags and lead us to our hut. But I hesitated—I needed to wait for my missing in-laws (because I wasn’t about to explain to my mother-in-law why we abandoned them in the jungle).

 

Chonchal, now my official emotional support human, reassured me: He would let me know the moment they arrived... if they ever did. (Okay, he didn’t say if they ever did, but in my sleep-deprived state, it sure felt implied.)

 

Too tired to argue, I finally dragged myself to our cozy little hut—small, but equipped with an attached bathroom and blessed, glorious hot water. The young man informed us that the kitchen had closed at 9, but if we wanted, they had bread and tea. My husband, ever the pragmatist, ordered some while the rest of us, fueled by exhaustion, declared ourselves "not hungry" and collapsed. Just as I stepped into the shower, my in-laws finally arrived—alive and unharmed.

 

And just like that, the day of chaos, craters, and questionable life choices came to a peaceful end. We finally got to sleep in a real bed—even if only for a few hours.