“Would you go if you were me?” I asked the flight attendant at the Delhi airport, holding a one-way ticket to Kashmir.
India was the first stop of my three-month soul-searching trip through Asia — a journey born from burnout, from the ache of a life that looked perfect on paper but felt hollow inside. I had been working in London, traveling across Europe for a press agency, living what others might call a dream life. Yet, I felt like a stranger in my own story.
When I landed in Delhi, I wanted quiet — reflection — somewhere I could hear myself think again. So when a travel agent with an easy smile sold me on the idea of a “dream vacation” to Kashmir — “the summer retreat of the British,” he said, “peaceful, serene, with houseboats floating on Dal Lake and the Himalayas in the distance” — I said yes.
Only later, sitting in my hotel room, did I turn on the TV and realize what I had done.
I had bought a ticket to a warzone.
Kashmir — land of astonishing beauty and heartbreaking history — was in the heart of the conflict between India and Pakistan. The year was 1999, the year of the Kargil War.
How could I have been so naïve? I was twenty-six, idealistic, and wide open to the world. I marched back to the travel agent the next morning, ready to demand a refund. But he just leaned back in his chair, fingers laced behind his head, and said with a grin, “If I refund you, I have to charge a $100 cancellation fee — same price as your ticket. You might as well go.”
And so, I went.
At the airport, doubt crept in again. The mirror in the plane bathroom had been removed “for security reasons.” My water bottle and book were both scanned. I looked around — the only solo white woman onboard. “Would you go if you were me?” I asked the flight attendant again. She looked at me steadily, head tilted in that distinct Indian way.
“Only you can make that decision,” she said.
I wanted someone to tell me it would be okay. But instead, I chose courage.
When I landed, I was met by a driver who spoke little English and ushered me into a taxi, then onto a small boat, and then another. As the gondola glided through the still waters, I thought, What am I doing? But then, as the light shimmered across Dal Lake and the carved wooden houseboats appeared like relics from another era, my fear softened. It’s so beautiful, I thought. Maybe this is what adventure really looks like — the space between fear and wonder.
The houseboat was called Khar Palace. I was alone, except for a cook who appeared each evening with mutton and rice and a shy smile. One night, he offered me hashish in exchange for a cigarette. I said “sometimes,” not wanting to seem too eager. He disappeared and returned hours later, clearly stoned, carrying my cigarette and a small joint. The scene that followed — him laying out a mattress wordlessly in the middle of the room — was so absurd I had to laugh. I slipped away to my cabin, locked the door, and whispered to myself, “Relax. You’re safe. This is the adventure you asked for.”
That night I slept deeply, waking only to the call to prayer echoing across the lake as dawn painted the mountains pink.
In the days that followed, time slowed. Merchants paddled up to my deck with fruit and trinkets. I bought a small gemstone ring — a talisman I still keep. I visited a carpet maker, his hands moving rhythmically over threads of silk and wool. But mostly, I sat on the deck, writing.
I wrote about fear and freedom. About what it means to be alone. About purpose — the kind of purpose that can only be discovered when the familiar falls away.
Even with the faint hum of danger in the air, I felt something I hadn’t in years: alive.
There was fear, yes — but there was also awe. The feeling of standing on the edge of the unknown and realizing you’re exactly where you’re meant to be.
That trip became a turning point — the moment I understood that courage isn’t the absence of fear, but the choice to keep going anyway.
