Some time ago I was re-telling a memory from my early days of travel. Somebody recorded that story, and played it back for me last week. It stirred my heart all over again . . .

You also have such a story. Nothing momentous. Nothing that was on your itinerary – it just happened along the way. At a bus stop, or sidewalk cafe, or street corner.

Maybe you feel a bit silly in re-telling it, because a seemingly insignificant experience touched your heart in a big way. It’s difficult to explain. But you know when you feel it. It’s as if you touched grace, or saw the truth … something shifts inside. You’ve been transformed.

The experience I spoke about on the recording happened in 2004 . . .

In my early 20s, I did “India on the cheap.” The hotels where I slept had woven-rope mattresses and a squat toilet at the end of the hall. It would not have earned any stars on Trip Advisor. Traveling from city to city involved booking an overnight train (always 3rd class), where I’d sleep on a wood bench seat and save the 25 cents I’d have spent for a hotel overnight. 

My favorite treat was a mango lassi (yogurt drink), which I enjoyed infrequently because I wanted to save money to prolong my trip for as long as possible. (A mango lassi was 1 rupee – about 15 cents!)

And I loved every single minute of that life-defining adventure. Truly, a transformational experience. 

At the time, I wondered: “Will I ever come back? If so, will I stay at a nice hotel with a comfortable bed? Will I travel in an air-conditioned bus? Will I eat street food?”

Probably yes (to the first three questions). But if I travel like that, in style . . . would I still love India?

Would I still feel a connection to this country and her people if I ever came here as a “tourist?”

And here I was, 25 years later – all grown up – staying in air-conditioned luxury at a 5-star hotel with a view of a sparkling blue swimming pool and manicured gardens. But I wanted out – I wanted to escape from this gate-guarded compound – into the real India.

And so I did.

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I walked down the long driveway, past the mustachioed, uniformed security guard who bowed his head and politely wished me, “Good morning.” Beyond the fancy iron gate, it was a different world. It was the chaotic India I remember. Buses and lorries rumbled past, spewing diesel fumes. Taxi drivers and motorized rickshaws leaned incessantly on their horns – as if it made a difference. Motorcycles sped past, precariously loaded with bundles and boxes. Uniformed schoolgirls in pigtails held hands pedaling their bicycles side-by-side. Pedestrians waded through the non-stop cacophony of noise, along with an occasional cow.

Yes! This was the India of my youth … colorful, confusing, chaotic, and real.

I’m a white woman, standing alone on a street corner – very conspicuous. A skinny bicycle rickshaw driver on the opposite street corner spies his target. He points his rig straight for me. He wears the typical cotton kurta, a long-sleeved tunic over a length of fabric wrapped between his legs like a diaper. Once white, it’s threadbare and stained with sweat.

I wave him off, but he stops at the curb in front of me. I consider turning back toward the hotel to discourage him, but something keeps me rooted to that spot.

“What is your name?” he asks.

“My name is Marilyn,” I say with some apprehension. “I am from America.”

“My name is Ashook.”

He is not a handsome man. Actually, he’s rather grotesque-looking. He has an obvious skin disease, as his forehead and neck have blotches of white skin. His beard is scraggly and he’s got horrid teeth. But his smile is genuine and his eyes are kind. Once again, I insist that I don’t need a ride. Unlike most rickshaw pullers, he’s not aggressive.

Despite his poor English and my non-existent Hindi, we manage to have a short conversation. I learn that he is 43 years old and has two children.

“I have an honor to speak to you,” he says haltingly. 

“May I take your photograph?” I ask. As soon as the words spill out of my mouth, I hope he’s not offended.

He stands proud and upright, beaming for the camera. It occurs to me that he’s probably never been photographed, at least by a tourist. I show him the photo on my digital screen, wishing I could give him a Polaroid print.

I shake his hand and say good-bye, turning to wave at him before retreating back to the manicured perfection of my 5-star hotel.

That’s it. That’s my story. There is no dramatic highlight. No hijacking or purse-snatching. Just a sweet moment of connection between two unlikely people leading vastly different lives on different sides of our planet. A realization that I can still find the magic as long as I travel with an open heart.

I’ve never forgotten that interaction. And whenever I see his photo, I smile a little inside.

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How about you? Do you have an “infinite moment” that brings back a flood of feelings from one of your travels? Would love if you’d share it below in the comments.