The Great Delhi Escape

The days after getting married were wonderful, but as I’ve said more than once, Delhi just isn’t for me. India is full of incredible places—Amritsar, Ladakh, Bangalore, Kerala, Shimla, Chandigarh, Kasauli, Kashmir—but the capital just isn’t to my taste. The air pollution, the short tempers, the stray dogs you have to watch out for, the crowds, and the street food (which can be amazing or send you straight to hospital) all make it hard to enjoy. The streets feel small, yet the city is overwhelming. My parents felt the same, so we decided to get out and go on a road trip.

My dad had originally planned to go on his own. Then, at around 8pm, my wife and I made a last-minute decision to join him for the 5am start. Any car journey with my dad comes with a promise: “It’s only six hours.” It never is. Somehow, it always turns into 8–10 hours with stops along the way. The real challenge, though, was convincing my mum. The winning line? “Shimla is on the way back.” It isn’t. It really isn’t. I can’t stress enough how much it’s not on the way back.

The journey to Amritsar was… interesting. The man we rented the car from was, let’s just say, a “starts with C, ends with T” kind of person. He handed us a car he definitely knew wasn’t going to perform well on the road, assured us the toll pass was fully topped up (it wasn’t), and gave us some very creative maths on the cost of filling the tank—conveniently after taking a deposit in advance. So, naturally, we set off already questioning our life choices.

We set off at 5am, bleary-eyed but oddly optimistic. About an hour into the drive, we made our routine breakfast stop at the legendary Amrik Sukhdev. It was a chilly morning, the kind you wake up to a London spring morning and you know that in a few hours temperatures will rise but in the moment you question your life choices. After a proper, indulgent breakfast, of aloo prontha and mango lassi (Yes, I planned on taking a nap in the car after this) 'we' were revived and ready to face the road again. By the time we got back in the car, the sun had risen, the fog had lifted, and—miraculously—the drive was going smoothly.
Until, of course, it wasn’t. Somewhere en route to Amritsar, our tyre gave up on life. We pulled over on the motorway, and I told my mum and wife to stay in the car and guard the suitcases like loyal sentries while we went off in search of help, and that’s when I saw them—four absolutely beautiful puppies. Now, I’m not a dog person. But when puppies decide to follow you around, you don’t really have a choice. You’re obligated to melt into an “awwwww” moment. Naturally, knowing my wife is a dog person, I did what any responsible husband would do—I spammed her with puppy videos. We eventually found a mechanic, conveniently stationed opposite a long, perfectly organised line of cows—because, of course, that’s exactly where you’d expect roadside assistance to be. My dad told me to walk back to the car and get the suitcases out of the boot so we could reach the spare tyre. About thirty seconds into my walk, I heard a familiar puttering sound behind me. I turned around to see my dad whizzing past on the mechanic’s scooter, clinging on for dear life. It was a hilarious sight—mainly because his face said everything. His nose was alarmingly close to the mechanic’s armpit, and you could tell he was re-evaluating every decision that had led him to that exact moment. By the time I got back to the car, I could see my wife’s smile from a distance. On my way back, I’d—naturally—sent her even more puppy photos, so she was having a far better experience than the rest of us. Fixing the tyre, however, was not a one-stop affair. It took a few additional visits to tyre shops along the way to properly sort the old one out. Because as tempting as it was to just carry on, the idea of heading up into the mountains of Shimla without a spare tyre felt like a bold decision… and not in a good way.

Amritsar was beautiful, as always. We woke up at 2:30am, to head to Sri Harmandir Sahib Ji. There’s something surreal about the city at that hour: quiet, calm, almost as if it’s holding its breath. After bathing in the Sarovar, praying, and just taking a moment to exist, the sense of peace was unmatched. The kind of peace that makes you forget the chaos of the journey, the tyre puncture, the questionable car rental decisions—everything. Visiting the Golden Temple has a way of resetting you completely; it’s truly second to none. By around 5:30am, after witnessing the Palki Sahib (sacred canopy in Sikhi used to carry the Guru Granth Sahib Ji) we made our way back to the hotel, packed up, and without wasting much time set off again, this time towards Shimla.

Remember the whole “on the way back” argument? Yes, well, our road trip ended up looking less like a straight line and more like a carefully drawn triangle of questionable logic. It took us about six hours to get to Shimla, and that’s not including the essential stops for food, juice, and, in my case, coffee (non-negotiable). Admittedly, after about four hours, once we passed Ambala and entered Chandigarh, everything started to look… lovely. The roads were wider and cleaner, it was noticeably quieter, and the heavy fog from rural Punjab, mostly from crop stubble burning, was finally behind us. Driving through that in the early hours is not just unpleasant, it’s properly dangerous. By this point, my dad was running on sheer determination. He’d driven over eight hours the day before, four already that morning, and still had another four to go. Naturally, he wanted "that hot coffee that doesn't have any milk but with lots of sugar" coffee. I checked Google Maps and, to my surprise, my favourite coffee spot in India—Blue Tokai Coffee Roasters—was just two minutes away. A small miracle. Now, my dad isn’t a coffee drinker like me. He needed orange juice first to “cool down” (still not entirely sure from what). Conveniently, roadside orange juice stalls are practically a motorway institution, so we pulled over at one. My mum, dad, and wife stepped out for juice, while I stayed in the car, committed to my cold coffee mission. My wife, having just woken up from a solid car nap, made herself comfortable on the vendor’s charpai like she’d lived there her whole life. The stall itself was set beside a small, let’s say not particularly clean, stream, shaded by a tree, with the charpai parked right next to it and the juice setup just beyond. The vendor cheerfully told them that his children all worked proper jobs, but he sold juice simply because he’d rather be out here chatting than sitting at home bored with his wife. Fair enough, honestly. The conversation, laughter, and general roadside banter seemed to entertain everyone involved. Refuelled with juice and coffee, we carried on—and as we climbed higher, the beauty of the Kalka region began to reveal itself, slowly but surely.