The day passed, walking my final steps in good ole’ Kolkata. I tried to absorb things that I know I wouldn’t see anytime soon: cows in the middle of road, man running around with jugs of water in dhotis, naked children bathing in the open water pumps. I remember them now, but I can’t feel their splashing water. All day I didn’t cry. I held it together. Saying goodbye to Hannah and Gracie, I was still holding strong. Then, turning to Mum Mum, she stood up and fell into my arms in a crying hysteria. She buried her face in my chest and I smelled the coconut oil in her hair. I lost it. I bawled. I love her.

Nepal was the perfect getaway: 17 hour bus rides, mid-day canoe trips tanning in the sun, paragliding with butterflies and thermals over the mountains with a lovely Frenchman, motor biking around narrow roads up the Himalayan foothills, day hikes through small towns with endless shopping, driving up Sarong Hill to arrive atop just in time to watch the sunset over the Annapurna Mountain Range, white water rafting in a river valley with drunk Nepalis, and watching five-hour long lightning storms on our balcony overlooking Nepal’s second largest lake. Aside from a vicious dog attack and uncomfortable hospital visits, we had a glorious time hanging out in Pokhara and with the Nepali people: good conversations of love on night buses and allowing us to sleep in their homes when we have no hotel. Us four little backpackers had our souls rejuvenated.

As I write this, I am sitting in a Rajasthani train station waiting for my final ride in India before I return home. Of course, the train is late which might make me miss my plane home. My eyes are red and puffy from saying goodbye to Brittany, Charlotte and Scott. My roommate, my twin, my buddy. They walked me to the main road to get a rickshaw. As I bargained for a ride, I turned and met my own tears and the painful thought that we would never be here, together, in this time of our lives again. Vowing to say “see you later,” I crawled into the back of the rickshaw and drove off. The driver saw me crying and attempted to tell me jokes to soothe my sadness. His kindness made my tears worse. As he dropped me off at the train station, he asked if I enjoyed my time in India. I looked him straight in the eye and told him: “I love India.”

And then I cried more.

Sitting in the train station, I know locals are staring at the little white girl with puffy red eyes but I can’t bring myself to appear composed. After the sadness died down, the numbness settled, and the stares diminished, my mind began its marathon. Running through the memories and lessons of four months in South Asia, I was overwhelmed. But of course that didn’t stop me from paddling back into my past travels, my childhood then leaping forward into my hopes and fears for my future. Basically, I was a mess.

Staring at the ground, I felt someone staring at me. I looked to my left and saw an old woman with short white hair wearing a red ekot sari. Our eyes met. Her skin was leathery from working in the sun all her life. Her eyes were curious. My eyes focused. She smiled with her lips. I returned the gesture. She smiled with her brown, rotting teeth. It was such simple moment, but seeing her decaying joyful smile, I giggled and smiled back with my teeth. She laughed and pinched her own cheeks, remarking on my cuteness. I raised my hands to her in worship.

I know; I’ll be back to India. It’s India; she drags you in, loving you with her decomposing grin. So, in my last hours on this visit to India, kicking the cockroaches away from my backpack, I gave my heart away.