Prologue
It’s still hard for me to believe this is happening to me. Every morning, I wake up and can’t figure out where I am, who these people around me are, and when I remember the events of the last three days, I’m in shock. Yes, I wasn’t allowed to leave India. Yes, I lost my return tickets to Germany, which I had bought back in July. Yes, my visa was overdue by two days, and they didn’t let me board the plane. I was alone in Delhi airport and later outside on the street, without cash, without a SIM card or internet, at night, in winter, without warm clothes. They kicked me out of the airport, and I couldn’t check into any hotel because of my expired visa. No, there wasn’t a single person who tried to help me, except for my mom. Yes, I’m still in India because I can’t get an exit permit due to India’s convoluted and chaotic laws, which contradict themselves.
But now I find this situation quite amusing, and I’m ready to turn it into a humorous tale.
Act 1. With a Hint of Incense and Menthol
Let’s start from the beginning.
I arrived here on December 8th. Back in July, Kiwi.com kindly offered me two options for tickets to India. The first was a two-week trip, just enough to cover a yoga retreat (the main, though, as it turned out, far from the final station of my journey). The second option was a full month, until January 8th. I figured, if I’m flying so far, why not stay longer and take some time to explore India? After all, this had been a childhood dream of mine. This was my birthday gift to myself—a chance to exhale and recharge after nearly three years of living in Germany as an immigrant.
The last two months in Germany had been rough: I couldn’t seem to recover from illnesses, was constantly stressed, and overwhelmed with work and problems.
Before the trip, I got myself an e-visa for one month (there were options for a month, six months, or a year). I arrived, and everything was great. After the retreat, my yoga trainer and I were joined by a friend of mine from Spain, and the three of us headed to Tiruvannamalai in Tamil Nadu, down south. There, we had an incredible experience of pilgrimage around the sacred mountain of Arunachala—but that’s a story for another time.
It was there, in the heart of rural India, far from any trace of European civilization, among monkeys that attack tourists to snatch bottles of Indian Coca-Cola, where vegetables are delivered on trays balanced on heads, where people ride five on a scooter, and where temples and sacred sites are tucked amid spice-filled bazaars with pineapples and mandalas—there, after settling into a hotel, I realized my visa didn’t expire on January 8th as I had thought, but on the 6th.
Yes, I had miscalculated the days (to be honest, I didn’t calculate anything at all and hadn’t even glanced at the stamp in my passport).
Once I realized this oversight, I immediately started Googling what to do and called the hotline of the local foreigner authority (FRRO). They reassured me, saying it was no big deal—I just needed to upload my documents and submit an online application for an exit permit. I still had four days before my return flight.
I calmly did this. The next day, I received an automated email asking me to “upload the necessary documents on the website.” It offered no further explanations and simply repeated the same list of documents I had already uploaded the day before.
One of these was the dreaded, and now deeply despised, residence proof.
On the first day, I had asked the hotel to provide me with such proof, and they gave me some paper with a stamp and signature. I thought that was it. How was I supposed to know it needed to be a special document in a specific format?
This scenario with the automated email repeating the same request for residence proof happened several more times, and my online application kept showing the same unresolved status.
However, I was too engrossed in exploring the Indian countryside, meditating, and chanting mantras to dwell on it. I figured it would all sort itself out. Everyone around me told me to relax, assuring me that the worst-case scenario would be paying a fine at the airport before departure.
In countries like Bali and Thailand, there’s usually a dedicated little desk at the airport where tourists with slightly overdue visas pay a fine and peacefully board their flight home.
The day before my flight, I sent an email attaching all the documents they’d repeatedly asked me to upload to the website, explaining my situation, and pleading for an urgent exit permit because my flight was the very next day. I sent it to every support email I could find on their website.
On the day of my departure, I was still hoping for that long-awaited permit. Instead, I received another automated email. In response to my direct plea, support informed me that I needed to upload some mysterious Form C, without explaining what it was or where to find it. By then, it was a bit too late—I had already checked out of my hotel, driven four hours by taxi to Chennai, and was now waiting for my connecting flight in Delhi, from where I was supposed to return to what, by that point, seemed like my dear, sweet, and oh-so-desirable Germany.
I printed out a screenshot confirming that I had submitted my exit permit application four days earlier. I also had the hotel’s dubious residence proof and a printout of my visa. But at the airport, no one bothered to take a close look. Very quickly, they informed me that I would not be flying anywhere.
At that point, I was still with my Spanish friend, Patricia, who had a flight back to Spain at the same time. We’d stayed together up to that moment. They asked me to wait, then told me definitively that I wouldn’t be flying. From that point on, everything became a blur.
They told me to leave the airport because I wasn’t allowed to fly. I remember Patricia’s worried face. I tried not to cry and acted like everything was fine, wishing her a safe journey. She handed me the last bit of cash we had between us—50 euros.
And just like that, I was alone.
Tears streamed down my face as I wandered around, looking for some kind of help desk. I approached one, trying to explain through my tears that I didn’t know anyone, didn’t have a SIM card or internet, and desperately needed assistance. (Fun fact: there’s no free public Wi-Fi in Indian airports.) They stared at me, shaking their heads from side to side in that distinctly Indian way that I still don’t fully understand—it could mean anything or nothing at all.
They told me to wait, saying someone would come to help me. I tried charging my phone, but my charger was too powerful for the outlet—just like in most of the hotels I’d stayed at. Same problem here. I managed to text my mom, letting her know I wasn’t allowed to leave but reassuring her not to worry and that I’d figure something out.
Time passed, but the mysterious someone never appeared. I grew angry, tried to look intimidating, and even threatened the airport staff (half-jokingly). But I wasn’t alone—next to me at the counter was an Indian man who also had flight problems. He was much louder and angrier than I was, fully stealing the show. They focused entirely on him, and I was ignored. Nothing happened.
It was then that I realized no one was going to help me. I’d have to figure this out on my own. I wanted to leave the airport, but they wouldn’t let me, insisting I wait for the airline staff to escort me out. So, dear readers, your tragicomic heroine couldn’t even leave the airport of her own accord—a surreal touch, given that they had just told me to leave.
Eventually, I managed to book a hotel nearby. My yoga trainer, Anya, had advised me to only use Uber for safety reasons, so I did. I was constantly trying to stay cautious and logical, crafting a plan, but also panicking at the realization that once I left the airport, I’d have no connection to the outside world.
I thought about exchanging euros for rupees but saw the abysmal exchange rate and realized I’d lose a third of my precious cash. I didn’t have a physical bank card—just my Monobank app on my phone. And without a valid visa, buying a SIM card wasn’t an option.
I booked the hotel online, called an Uber, and arrived around 10 p.m. The hotel staff told me they couldn’t check me in because of my expired visa.
I tried another hotel. Same response.
I looked at the hotel clerk, tears streaming down my face. “Do you have a sister? A wife? A daughter? I’m alone. I have nowhere to go.”
He shook his head in that infuriatingly ambiguous Indian way, side to side, and muttered something incomprehensible. Bless his heart, though, I thought grimly. Finally, he pointed vaguely down the road and said, “Go to the police.”
Dragging my suitcase full of souvenirs (aromatherapy sticks, scarves, beads—the whole nine yards), I trudged into the night. The filth of India mingled with my tears, streaking my cheeks as I shivered in the biting cold. It was about 14 degrees Celsius, and I didn’t have a jacket—I’d left it in Germany, smugly congratulating myself on traveling light. My wisdom now seemed laughable.
The street was dark and desolate, save for the occasional glances from groups of Indian men, their eyes following me like vultures sizing up a carcass. I was the only woman on that street. Poor me, I thought. Unhappy, miserable, cold, and scared out of my mind. God help me. Om Namah Shivaya.
But I couldn’t afford to indulge in self-pity for too long. My legs felt like jelly, but I kept moving forward, dragging my bag behind me, unwilling to abandon it. My souvenirs, for better or worse, were coming along for this ride.
And then, a miracle—a glimmer of hope. Across the street, I saw a police car, lit up like a beacon in a storm. But between me and salvation lay one final obstacle: the road.
Picture it: rickshaws, stray dogs, tuk-tuks, motorbikes, cows, buses, trucks, and more tuk-tuks, all careening in every direction under a bridge. Horns blared incessantly, drivers shouted, and the air reeked of diesel. It was chaos incarnate. Somehow, I crossed the street, like a character in an action movie dodging cars in slow motion.
When I finally reached the police car, I collapsed into a fit of uncontrollable sobbing, unable to form coherent sentences. The officers stared at me, their heads doing the same maddening side-to-side wobble. I had no idea if they understood me, cared about me, or would even help me.
But this time, I was resolved: I wasn’t leaving.
While I waited for some kind of resolution (or, let’s be honest, any sign that someone was going to do something), I remembered the mint capsule incense-flavored cigarettes I’d bought as souvenirs for my friends. I hadn’t smoked in a month, hadn’t eaten meat, hadn’t had a drop of alcohol. I was on a yoga retreat, after all—a spiritual quest for enlightenment.
But that night, under the relentless noise of cars and motorcycles roaring overhead, with stray dogs sniffing around my feet and the cold seeping into my bones, I cracked. Sitting on my bag of souvenirs, shaking from the chill and exhaustion, I lit one of those minty, incense-flavored cigarettes.
It wasn’t enlightenment, but it was close enough.
Eventually, a police officer approached me. After what felt like an eternity of broken conversations and general confusion, he escorted me to a tuk-tuk and instructed the driver to take me to a hotel. Of course, it had to be a tuk-tuk.
Before I left, he told me to head to the Ukrainian embassy in the morning.
On the way to the hotel, they asked me if I’d eaten. I couldn’t help but laugh at the absurdity. “Oh, of course,” I said. “Between getting kicked out of the airport and being refused a hotel room, I naturally found time to enjoy a nice meal at a local Indian restaurant. What else would I be doing?”
Of course, I'm joking, and I haven't eaten anything all day. We stopped at a small roadside eatery and picked up some food to go. It was palak paneer, a dish I knew to be mild by Indian standards. But not this time. This time, it was so fiery that even hunger couldn’t force me to eat it.
The hotel, called Shanti Shanti, was a dark and cold refuge with no windows. After a quick shower, I put back on all my clothes—the same clothes I’d worn all day—because they were the closest thing I had to warmth.
Lying on the bed, I couldn’t help but feel a strange mixture of gratitude and exhaustion. Grateful to the kind police officers, to Shiva, and to the fact that the temperature was only 14 degrees above freezing and not below.
And so ended the second most terrifying night of my life.
Act Two: The Snake That Eats Itself
From time to time, I think about how much I enjoy writing, and how I would like to write a book. I’m not ready to think of myself as a professional, to compete with others or prove anything to anyone, but writing for myself and for you, dear readers, so I don’t forget all the vivid details of the events and stories I’ve found myself in throughout my life. Not that I particularly enjoy getting into such situations, but if I’m already here, the best way not to lose my mind is to approach everything with humor and transform the experience into stories to make people laugh. I love making people laugh and telling stories about the messes I’ve once found myself in. And it’s very easy for me to describe all of this; I throw in some turns of phrase and forms that, I think, make the stories even funnier. Although I want to add that everything I describe truly happens to me, and there’s not a single detail that I’ve made up.
I woke up in a cold hotel, still not warmed up. The thing is, in Delhi, it’s so hot in summer that the only way to survive the summer is to build houses out of tiles. This helps keep the cool in. But in winter, the locals don’t take off their jackets or scarves even at home. And despite this, winter is their favorite season.
I struggled to get out from under the blanket, ordered an Uber, and went to the Ukrainian embassy. I was there 15 minutes before they opened. To be honest, I thought I was saved and that this quest would end here. The officer told me they had to help me and that they would contact all the necessary authorities to get me out as quickly as possible. I waited calmly, some people arrived, and finally, they let me inside. The embassy workers’ faces didn’t show much empathy. When I asked which district would be safest for me to live in, they smiled and said it wasn’t their problem or responsibility. They didn’t know any districts 😁 and that no one would be looking for an apartment for me because they had more important matters. When I argued that no hotel would take me in because my visa was expired, they said they would give me a letter that would help me. And after an hour of waiting, I finally got the Wi-Fi password to ask the chat GBT what I should do and where I should go. While I waited, I froze, but when I asked if I could have a blanket and some tea because I was afraid I might fall ill with a fever, they replied that I wasn’t actually in a hotel. But still, one employee, a young man named Dima from Chernivtsi, brought me tea and gave me a blanket. He also wanted to help me with accommodation, which he whispered to me outside the embassy so no one would hear, as it was prohibited to assist people like me.
After a couple of hours of being there and waiting, they brought me two documents. One was a letter from the embassy asking to have me accommodated in a hotel until I received permission to leave (this was supposed to help me find a place to stay), and the other asked for permission to allow me to leave (this was supposed to help me leave, as you’ve probably guessed). And with that, my interaction with the embassy ended.
While I was trying to figure out where to live, reading about the districts of Delhi and searching for a hotel, a very pleasant Ukrainian girl entered the embassy. She was dressed in a green Indian outfit and a white fur coat. Against the backdrop of my research, I overheard this girl telling Dima from Chernivtsi about how she met her Indian boyfriend on Tinder, and now they were planning to get married. I laughed for the first time in those 24 hours when I heard about Tinder. We immediately liked each other, and I briefly told her my story. She hugged me. I really needed that, to feel alive and believe that this whole story would eventually come to an end. She immediately offered to help with her boyfriend, as he was local and could help me with a hotel. First, I needed to call hotels and check if I could stay anywhere with that letter from the embassy.
Her boyfriend was waiting outside, as they wouldn’t let him into the embassy. He immediately asked me to tell him what happened.
Without listening to the end of my sad story, he called his lawyer. From that moment on, I finally felt like I wasn’t alone.
To shorten my already stretched (like an Instagram post) yet still brief (like a novella) story, I’ll say that we spent the entire day with these people. They took me to the local FRRO office, which looked like a passport office in Ukraine. With an impossibly long queue of people with sad, empty eyes who seemed to have spent years in that line. There, the local young Indian businessman, who owns his own IT company, tried to talk to the representatives of the organization. We left soon because, according to him, it made no sense. There was no one there who seemed to be trying to help us. They just said that if I had submitted a request to leave the country in Chennai, Tamil Nadu, I should fly to Chennai 😁 which is about a 3-hour flight from Delhi, by the way. And that the local authorities couldn’t do anything to help me leave. Only if I canceled my request there and came back here to file a new one, which would be impossible to do because no hotel would accept me, and thus, I wouldn’t be able to get the mysterious, cursed form C that would confirm my stay in Delhi. It was like a snake eating its own tail.
I don’t know how many hours my new friend Goran spent on the phone with his lawyer, his friends, and hotel employees, trying to help me. It turned out to be impossible to book me into a hotel with this letter from the embassy because all hotels risk a fine for accepting someone without a visa. He even offered to pay double the price. The letter from the embassy to FRRO resulted in the usual response: “Send the mystical Form C,” which we, along with my new friends, managed to guess and Google online. It turned out that this is a standard form that my hotel should have given me on the first day. When I asked for this form, I didn’t get any response, but when Goran personally called, they immediately sent the completed Form C, which we had found on the internet. Unfortunately, this also didn’t help me get the desired permission to leave. In the evening, I received a response stating that Form C must be automatically generated by the hotel, not downloaded from the internet and then filled out by hotel staff.
It was all so absurd that neither I nor my new friends could believe it. But the lawyer could. Moreover, he had already filed a lawsuit. And here’s the climax: it turns out that if I stay in India for more than 7 days after my visa expires, I’m breaking the law and I could be arrested. No one would care why I haven’t left, even if, in my case, I haven’t left due to inadequate communication with the government agencies that should have given me permission to leave several days ago or properly explained what’s wrong with my documents.
In other words, the court, which is supposed to take place soon, is protecting me from arrest.
I’ve never been involved in any legal processes, and I could never have imagined that my first court experience would happen in India, under these circumstances.
My new friends fully took on the expenses, paid for the lawyer, and also arranged for me to stay at the home of one of the employees of Goran’s company. Many times, tears welled up in my eyes, and I felt incredibly lucky, but also very lonely and vulnerable. Especially when Goran said, “Don’t worry about anything. You’re not alone. We won’t leave Delhi until you’re safe.”
We arrived there, about 1.5-2 hours from Delhi, late at night. I, along with my tired, wonderful missionaries, philanthropists, altruists, my saviors and saints, were brought to the only safe place in this chaotic and not very friendly country where I was awaited and warmly accepted. I felt good. Like I could finally breathe. We drank very sweet milk tea, or rather, milk with tea, and ate cashews with coconut cookies. The mother of the family, Mukesh, or as she asked me to call her, Mama Gi, the father, Narinder, Daddy Gi, and another Goran, the son, a colleague of my new friend.
Mammy G doesn’t speak English, but her hands and eyes are as kind and gentle as those of Ukrainian women. Something about it reminded me of the vibe of a village when you visit your grandparents during the holidays and bring along a friend from university. They set the table, a flowery tablecloth, but in the Indian style. And there’s that funny awkwardness in the air, a little silence, but somehow it’s cheerful.
Soon, my friends left, and I went to my room, which was just as cold as the previous hotel, and everything was tiled the same way.
This time, I was so tired that I didn’t have the strength to take a shower, so I lay down to sleep right in my clothes, which had absorbed the dust, smog, and the ambiguity, complexity, confusion, and controversy of India.
And that’s how my next day went.
Act 3. Shanti Shanti and Other Indian Hotels
Events are unfolding so quickly that there’s hardly any time to write them down—especially when you’re not a professional writer. In fact, not a writer at all, but an artist. I’m terrified of forgetting the funny or tragic nuances of my karmic, enlightening stay in India. So here I am, writing Act 3, hoping someone will gather the patience to read it through to the end and earn a little karmic bonus. A bonus, plus the priceless wisdom of why it’s crucial to read the rules of the country you’re visiting before breaking them.
I woke up at 8:30 to Mammy Ji and Daddy Ji walking into my room, switching on the light, and announcing it was time for tea. A little startled, I immediately thought how lucky I was that it was cold—otherwise, I’d have been sleeping naked, as I usually do, and no one had barged into my room unannounced like that in ages. But this is India, and these are Indians. They have a slightly different concept of personal boundaries—or rather, none at all. Back in Gokarna, when I was traveling with my companions, we briefly had a young man from Mumbai join us. Every morning, without fail, he’d come into our room three or four times to check if we were awake. At first, we were annoyed, but apparently, this is just part of the culture here.
I gently asked my newfound Indian parents for permission to sleep a little longer, but there was no falling back asleep after that. My phone lit up with a message in the “Exit for Aglaya” chat—the title alone makes my heart skip a beat every time I open WhatsApp. The message from our lawyer, sent at 5 AM, said I needed to print, sign, and notarize an affidavit by 9:30. And as always in such situations, heart attack. Frantically, I googled what an affidavit was, forwarding random forms I found online to the chat. Soon, however, I discovered that the lawyer had already sent the document, and I, still half-asleep, had missed it.
I dashed downstairs, panic in my eyes, fully prepared to scour the city for an Indian notary and a copy shop. But here’s an important detail that says a lot about the local culture: Gaurav 2 (my new friend, and yes, colleague of Gaurav 1) calmly told me he’d take care of everything and that I shouldn’t worry so much. By the way, spoiler alert: later that evening, Gaurav 2’s entire family would greet me with reassuring words: “Don’t worry, they won’t arrest you! There are so many illegals and lawbreakers here that they just won’t find you!”. Well, I might say that it was not so calming, but still a very extravagant form of first acquaintance.
Back to the affidavit. I’ve always felt unsettled when someone tells me they’ll solve my problems—it’s just not how I’m wired. My default setting is to immediately search for a solution myself, only asking for help as a last resort, probably on my deathbed. But that night, standing under a Delhi bridge with a bag of souvenirs, peering through smog and tuk-tuks at a police car, I realized for the first time that I can’t always solve everything on my own. Sometimes, you have to ask for help. That’s my lesson for the future.
We drove to the notary, the morning shrouded in fog. I asked Gaurav 2 if it was really fog, because the night before, while stuck in traffic trying to leave Delhi, I’d seen the city from a height for the first time. It looked veiled in mist. “How beautiful,” I said, and my friends laughed. “It’s pollution, darling,” they replied. Indeed, I’d never seen air so dirty—it was briefly terrifying to breathe.
The notary in Sonipat looks a bit like a scrap metal collection point in Kyiv. Large metal containers, resembling rusty garages, are draped with carpets and adorned with icons of Ganesha, Shiva, and Shakti. Wires and cables stretch out to makeshift desks cobbled together from planks and buckets, where ancient laptops sit. Employees perched on plastic stools in half-lotus positions stamp documents. In the morning haze, it reminded me of that scene in Alice in Wonderland where she encounters the caterpillar smoking a hookah atop a giant mushroom.
After signing the papers, we returned home, where breakfast and my Indian parents awaited. A minor misunderstanding with a mysterious green sauce (made from green chili, as it turned out, much to my tongue’s despair) later, I decided to brave a shower. This was no small decision, given the house temperature of 14–15 degrees Celsius—a familiar figure from earlier events. I concluded that this temperature is the fine line between falling ill and just shivering miserably. Perhaps at 13 or 12 degrees, I’d already be bedridden, but at 14–15, my body was suffering yet somehow enduring.
The main mission: wash my hair. When Gaurav 2 handed me not only an Ayurvedic shampoo with raksha oil but also conditioner, I decided not to push my luck and stuck to just the shampoo. Quickly shedding my layers, I turned on the water, which trickled weakly. As I rinsed one side of my body, the other froze. No matter—I pressed on. It took a while to wet my hair enough to start lathering. The water temperature fluctuated wildly between scalding and icy, with no middle ground. Resigned to the boiling heat, I was just grateful when the ordeal ended.
There was no heater in the room. When I inquired, they cheerfully pointed out that my bed had two blankets, so I should simply wrap myself into it and don’t move. Later, I learned that the entire Malik family firmly (as well as lots of other Indians) believes heaters and blowers have a negative impact on health, which is why they collectively and exclusively practice the “double-wrap method” of self-warming.
Meanwhile, we awaited the court hearing. Before my case, the Delhi court had a hearing for a terrorist. Unfortunately, the terrorist case dragged on, and my hearing was postponed until Monday.
Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine that on Friday, January 10, 2025, in the Delhi High Court—with a 74-page protocol detailing the transurfing intricacies of my travels—my case would first be scheduled and then postponed due to some terrorist.
In the process of unraveling this criminal saga, I uncovered some curious facts. If you recall, I’ve mentioned the cursed Form C multiple times. After extensive negotiations with the hotel and terse exchanges with the FRRO, we discovered that the hotel where my friends and I stayed in southern India was illegally registered. From the moment we checked in, they’d bombarded us with questions: Why are you here? What’s the purpose of your visit? Where are you going next? All with minimal friendliness.
Long story short, their inability to issue proper residency proof stemmed from the fact that they couldn’t officially generate the infamous Form C, as only registered hotels can do so. This detail made it into the protocol, and we hope justice will be served.
However, the fact that the Delhi hotel I stayed in on my first night turned out to be quite… unconventional didn’t make it into the report. You see, it wasn’t a regular hotel but rather one of those places where rooms are rented by the hour. Guess why? “Shanti-Shanti,” the hotel’s name, has since become our inside joke. It’s funny now, from a safe distance. In reality, such places are often hotspots for prostitution. They didn’t charge me, likely not out of pity but because such establishments don’t typically welcome unaccompanied female tourists without visas.
Don’t worry, dear readers. If you’re reading this, it means you’re not only supporting my literary soul in its quest for analysis and reflection but also gaining invaluable experience on what not to do. And if you ever find yourself alone near Delhi’s Aerocity, avoid any hotel named “Shanti-Shanti,” unless you’re up for some unexpected shanti-shanti, as my lawyer quipped.
During the day, I spent a lot of time talking with the Malik family (that’s the surname of the family hosting your criminal heroine). I endlessly ate coconut cookies with cashews and asked the father whether he practiced yoga or knew much about Ayurvedic medicine. It turned out he enjoyed jogging in the park near their house—the same park I wasn’t allowed to walk in. In fact, I wasn’t supposed to go outside at all because of the stray dogs that bite all non-locals.
After the Malik family collectively demonstrated some breathing exercises (including Kapalabhati), I suddenly heard someone either singing or shouting outside.
“That’s the vegetable vendor,” they explained. “He brings fresh produce straight to your door every day.”
Soon after, my dear philanthropist-missionary friends called and invited me to stay with them until the court proceedings concluded, and I was very happy to meet them again. This news was met with sadness and disappointment by my Indian family.
“Why would you go there? It’s a big city, and you can only buy vegetables in supermarkets,” Mukesh said with dismay.
Later, when I was asked if I wanted dinner and tried to decline (since my stomach was already full of cashews and cookies), I was firmly told that yes, I did want dinner. After dinner, they asked me if I wanted a cup of warm milk before bed. Again, I tried to refuse, but was met with a sharp and uncompromising “Why?”
I realized I had no choice but to drink the milk.
After the warm milk and in anticipation of my trip to the big city, where vegetables could only be found in supermarkets, I drifted off to sleep.
And thus ended my third day.
Act 4. “This is Aglaya, we found her on the street”
I spent the weekend awaiting the trial.
To keep me from brooding over my thoughts, my new friends whisked me around the city of Chandigarh—or to be more precise, the Tri-City area of India. It’s made up of several medium-sized towns so closely packed together that it reminded me of North Rhine-Westphalia in Germany. Chandigarh, however, stands out with its unique planning, courtesy of Swiss-French architect Le Corbusier. What does “planned” mean, you ask? It means that every district has its own school, hospital, market, and a logical structure. Unlike other parts of India, where everything—markets, homes, temples, hotels, shops, kiosks, schools, and hospitals—is layered on top of each other in a chaotic but charming jumble. There, people build what they want, where they want, with little regard for discipline.
At my request, we managed to visit the Museum of Art, showcasing stone statues of familiar figures like Buddha, Shiva, Parvati, and, of course, Ganesha. There were also delicate graphic sketches of everyday Indian life, such as vegetable gathering and carpet weaving, alongside bronze coins, vibrant textiles, and metal sculptures. Joining us was my invaluable lawyer, friend, and Gaurav’s partner, Sir Vivek. Like all my new Indian friends, Vivek amazed me—not only with his legal expertise but also with his knowledge of Indian art history. At the age of 28 or 29 (we’re all roughly the same age), he’s already earned three degrees, learned to play the guitar, been a vocalist in some band in Mumbai, mastered coding and worked in IT, dabbled in medicine, and finally become an international lawyer.
We stood before a miniature painting on a crimson background depicting half the body of Shiva and half the body of Parvati, united as one divine entity. Vivek explained its meaning.
According to legend, Parvati, the embodiment of Shakti—female energy—was born to awaken love in Shiva, who had lost his first wife, Sati. Consumed by grief and sorrow, Shiva retreated into a life of solitude and asceticism, renouncing the world. But Parvati made it her mission to rekindle his love. She undertook severe tapasya (meditation and ascetic practices), enduring the harshest conditions to prove her devotion. Her efforts impressed the gods, and even Shiva began to notice her strength. Parvati cleared Shiva’s path to human emotions, and eventually, he realized she was his perfect counterpart. Together, they united in a sacred bond, symbolizing balance: Shiva is immovable consciousness, while Parvati is dynamic energy. Shiva without Parvati is potential without action; Parvati without Shiva is energy without direction.
In India—and particularly in Hinduism—a man without a woman is seen as incomplete, just as a woman without a man. Their connection is not built on competition but on complementarity.
By the way, I really admire how Hinduism portrays the different faces of the goddess Parvati. Kali, dark as the night, embodies rage and destruction. Kushmanda creates the universe. Lakshmi symbolizes prosperity and growth. Brahmacharini practices asceticism. And each of these forms depicts the goddesses as beautiful, sensual, and desirable. It seems to me that this image of a woman is much closer to her true nature—we can be so many different things.
Once in Berlin, I tried to help a woman lift her heavy suitcase onto a train’s luggage rack, but I didn’t even have time to offer. Despite the presence of several men sitting nearby, she attempted to hoist it herself and… didn’t quite manage. The suitcase nearly fell on another woman’s head, who barely dodged it in time. In this world, strong men seem to be going extinct, like a rare species, simply because we women push them away, refusing to give them the space to step up and feel our trust.
Perhaps I’m romanticizing what I see here, but I’m fascinated by how deeply rooted the idea of two complementary energies is in this culture. Comparing it to European culture, where many women strive for equality through careers and independence, it sometimes leads to competition between genders—which doesn’t always result in happiness or harmony.
I’m inspired by the idea that men and women can exist in their own roles. This doesn’t mean a woman can’t work, study, or build a career, or that a man can’t cry or show emotion. “She just needs to love me and be with me; she can do whatever she wants,” my new friends say about their partners. Here, it’s common for a man to take on financial and emotional responsibility not just for his wife and future family but also for his parents, aunts, sisters, and even his wife’s family. Similarly, women take on the responsibility of caring for their husbands.
“I plan to support her and help her with anything she wants to do. It gives me joy to make sure my wife, my employees, and my family are comfortable and happy. It’s important to consciously take on the responsibility of being together, no matter what happens. We discussed our vision for the relationship even before we met. Whatever challenges lie ahead, I’ll do everything for you and never leave you,” says Gourav, embracing his Marina.
I remember how, during several years of dating in Europe, I never hid my desire to build a family and have a serious relationship. Just as openly, I expressed my unwillingness to have open relationships or split everything 50/50. But for a long time, I couldn’t find people who shared these same desires (perhaps most of them live in India 😁). And I know this is a topic close to many of my friends’ hearts—friends who are tired of the phrase “just to have some fun,” which is so common in the West.
I liked my new friends more and more, so much so that I even started to think: if they never let me leave this place, my life here wouldn’t be so bad. First of all, they are all hardcore biker adventurers who love getting their motorcycles stuck in mud and then hauling them out with tractors. They also enjoy watching the sunrise by the lake together as a group—a family and a close-knit community. I also love these kinds of adventures and would happily join them in collective mud-sticking escapades on the city dam.
Secondly, I found it quite amusing that the app they created is designed to help locals solve their bureaucratic problems. For example, getting a marriage certificate, selling real estate, or notarizing documents. India has such a massive population that anything involving physically standing in lines takes up half your life and doesn’t always end in success. But what surprised me was that, at the same time, India is incredibly digitized. Gaurav even compared India to Ukraine and our apps like Diia or Monobank.
Which is why, dear readers, when my “missionaries” Gourav and Marina, as they say, “found me on the street,” they quickly got to the heart of the issue, asked the right questions, and started pulling me out of trouble. Well, not immediately, but they initiated a week-long process of pulling me out.
On the very first day, we joked that if Gourav’s lawyer, Sir Vivek, simply stood outside the FRRO building all day, he could catch desperate tourists like me and offer them help. Then we thought: why not open an official hotel for people without visas, waiting for their exit permits? In this hotel, my artwork and Indian landscapes would obviously hang on the walls, and Marina and I would conduct psychotherapy sessions, yoga, and art therapy 😁
But jokes aside, immediately after the successful closure of my case and our long-suffering victory, that very Monday evening, Sir Vivek actually got a new client: the exact same situation with a girl from Nigeria.
We decided to celebrate by inviting all our friends over for varenyky (Ukrainian dumplings) and cheese soup. I loved that, as we debated whose home to use for our Ukrainian dinner night, absolutely every single one of our friends offered their kitchens. I don’t know if this is customary in all Indian communities, but it was incredibly touching. In the end, we chose the home of GPS.
No, GPS isn’t Google Navigation, as you might think :) It’s the nickname of my friends’ mentor. He’s an older partner who says all the boys are like sons to him. At GPS’s house and that of his lovely wife Jyot, everything was so cozy—exactly how I imagined an Indian home should be. There were round embroidery patterns with Indian designs on the walls, and everything else: rugs, curtains, plants, sofas—I can’t even explain it, but everything was just where it belonged.
“This is all thanks to my wife,” GPS said tenderly.
And so, we had the entire kitchen at our disposal, including a jungle of Indian spices. And Australian wine, which I struggled not to drink but inevitably did. Because, I have to admit, dear friends, by that time my nervous system was already a bit frayed. Waves of sadness and despair would sometimes hit me like a tsunami right after moments of joy and happiness.
Everyone had to finish my soup because I rarely cook and can’t stand it when someone leaves food uneaten 😁. I hope they genuinely enjoyed it, but I’m afraid I’ll never know the truth (although I hope for the best).
We celebrated the victory of my case and Sir Vivek’s new job, and I felt completely at home. It’s strange—during all my years in Germany, I can hardly remember feeling this way. GPS told funny stories, my sweet philanthropists hugged and laughed, GPS’s young and charming daughter, Bani, occasionally snapped photos with the flash on her tiny, amusing camera, and the black Labrador alternated between barking and curling up peacefully at someone’s feet for a nap.
“Ever since Gourav met Marina, he’s started giving proper hugs,” GPS announced emotionally. “I’ve known this guy for so many years, and every time we greeted or said goodbye, it was always the same” (here he stood up and imitated stiff, robot-like, lumberjack-style hugs). “He says, ‘Thanks to Marina, I’ve learned how to hug.’” All the guys laughed and nodded in agreement.
Meanwhile, I sat there thinking about how I’d left my favorite yoga mat at a hotel in Gokarna and how a stray dog had stolen my beloved Spanish sandal while I was sitting at a beach café. I thought about how I got food poisoning from spicy food and how awful I felt. About the time on my birthday when I received an email from a certain Mr. Daniel, saying he wanted to buy my artwork. I sent the pieces from Ukraine to Spain at my own expense, only to realize it was a scam—I was left without the art or the money. I thought about how a monkey once attacked me and snatched my bottle of Indian cola. And yet, none of this compared to the final challenge and the entire visa ordeal.
And then I thought: maybe I’m not the most successful artist, nor a business shark. I don’t have a finely tuned commercial instinct or a brilliant career. But there’s one thing I would never trade for anything in the world. One thing I’d never give up for any amount of money or any measure of success, and that one thing is people. Somehow, I always manage to find—and be found by—the most wonderful people in the world.
As long as I have this ability, it doesn’t matter how far away I am or how much cash I have in my pocket. I don’t regret a single experience I’ve had here, nor any of the things I’ve lost along the way.
Thank you, Universe, and thank you, India.
Thank you to India’s absurd laws, dirty streets, stray dogs, tuk-tuks, bazaars, buses, mandalas, masala, antique shops. Thank you to the Ukrainian Embassy in India—for its people.
And thank you to Marina and Gaurav,
for finding me on the street.