Last Year My 27-year Marriage Ended, I Lost My Mum To Dementia And I Turned 60. So, Can An Eat Pray Love Trip To India Help Me Embrace A Future Alone?

My life is about to end in carnage as the tuk-tuk I’m in is heading for a moped carrying a family of four that has swerved to miss a sacred cow.

Our driver doesn’t blink. ‘You need three things here: a good horn, good brakes and good luck,’ he explains as he manoeuvres us to safety. Welcome to the roads of Indiaonce described by a visiting ambassador as ‘functional anarchy’.

Despite my brush with death, it’s the most alive I’ve felt for ages.

To say I’ve not been in a good place would be to put it mildly. Last year my 27-year marriage imploded overnight, shortly after I lost my mum to dementia. Oh, and I turned 60. It was suggested anEat Pray Love-style odyssey might be the thing I needed to help find a new me, given I scarcely knew who I was any .

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Boarding a flight to New Delhi, I head for an adventure involving spice markets, feral monkeys, pink temples, working elephants and a holy man who predicts my future. Over the next nine hours I ponder two questions everyone asks: how will you deal with the poverty? And how long before you get Delhi belly? I was exposed to both three decades earlier in Southern India, where my now-ex proposed to me on a Keralan riverboat.

As we floated down the waterways, families frantically waved from makeshift shacks, shouting to ask for pens, empty water bottles, anything we had. In Goa, our accommodation was a poky room next to a farmyard. Gangs of begging kids, no bigger than toddlers, followed us everywhere. Sanitation was basic, we saw fat rats in restaurants and, of course, I got laid-up with a gripey stomach.

But the India of then is not the India of now. It is the world’s fifth-largest economy (one ahead of the UK) and while poverty exists, optimism pervades the air.

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So do the smells of sweet spices, fuel and sweat as we land in Delhi. The next nine days, my all-women group tour will take in Rajasthan’s ‘Golden Triangle’ – minus the Taj Mahal, but with added lakes. First stop Delhi (Eat), then Jaipur (Pray), ending in Udaipur (Love). This curated northern Indian trail is offered by the Leela Palaces, whose properties across the country are upmarket than those I stayed in as a tie-dye-wearing pup.

Eat

If you are of a nervous disposition then Delhi, home to 34million people, is not for you. From the moment we arrive, the incessant beeping horns batter the senses and every moving thing seems to be heading in the wrong direction.

Arriving at the flagship Leela Palace New Delhi is like being scooped up in a calm embrace. The sleek 254-room Lutyens-inspired hotel is colonial meets cosmopolitan, with an impressive contemporary art collection, thousands of flowers (changed daily) and two vast ballrooms. Its gold leaf-ceilinged presidential suite has hosted Macron and there are sushi and French-Italian restaurants alongside classic Indian.

Breakfast is in the glass house restaurant The Qube, with its huge screen of revolving digital artwork. I mainline fragrant chai tea poured with a flourish by dedicated chai wallah Bhuvan.

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We visit Khari Baoli, a street home to one of the world’s largest spice markets. An explosion of turmeric, chilli, marigolds, fox nuts and dried figs (traditionally served to a groom on his wedding night to increase stamina) spill from baskets. Be warned, you’ll be coughing and sneezing within five minutes as the spices assault your nasal passages. Nearby, an open-air barber shaves customers as oxen, rickshaws and women in jewel-coloured saris pass by.

Our guide (you’ll need one to navigate the chaos and find gems you wouldn’t discover alone) leads us to the Chandni Chowk district of Old Delhi, famed for its flatbreads (parathas). In the narrow street of Paranthe Wali Gali we arrive at what looks like a workers’ café. For about £1, a man cooks heavenly clouds of parathas stuffed with peas, pumpkin and bananas.

Heading back, our driver turns down ‘monkey street’ where families of macaques gather in hope of food. I oblige with a banana.

Serenity returns on the sunbeds at the Leela’s rooftop infinity pool with its 360-degree city view (though no escape from those tooting horns) where mini burgers are served cooked to perfection. I’ve eaten so much I almost want a microdose of Delhi belly. I leave with just the belly.

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Pray

The ancient walled pink city of Jaipur is a spiritual counterpoint to Delhi’s mayhem, filled with history and mystery, forts and palaces. It was painted that shade in 1876 to welcome the Prince of Wales (later King Edward VII), who allegedly said: ‘Wow, nice pink city!’ I also said ‘wow’ a lot, starting with the welcome at the Leela Jaipur. We are strewn with rose petals from balconies as a traditional Kalbelia folk dance is performed by a whirling troupe.

The pristine white hotel echoes the grandeur of a royal Rajasthani palace, with marble fountains and chandeliers, one with 108 lightbulbs, the same sacred number of petals in the lotus flower. In my poolside villa, I’m served a tiffin box containing the best butter chicken, rice and daal I’ve ever tasted.

It is so perfectly peaceful I confess to having a little sob, releasing some of my trapped grief and anger.

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We head to the magnificent Amber Fort, a Unesco World Heritage site, built in the 16th century by Raja Man Singh with apartments for each of his 12 wives (thoughtful chap). Everyone wants pictures inside the opulent Sheesh Mahal (Palace of Mirrors) where walls and ceilings are adorned with thousands of tiny, dazzling mirrors.

We’re lucky enough to be here during Navratri, a major Hindu festival where nine forms of the Goddess Durga are celebrated over nine days. It is day six and back in the city thousands queue patiently to worship the temple dedicated to lion-riding warrior Kali Mata. It’s quite a sight, equalled only by actual elephants on the road.

On our final night in Jaipur we are served a Rajasthani royal feast at Jamavar, the hotel’s newly reopened restaurant. Inlaid with silver and 350,000 (count ’em) mirrors, there is no electricity in this dining room, just candlelight. If you’re waiting for your Maharaja to propose over an Alleppey fish curry, here’s your Insta-ready spot.

Love

I hate to have favourites, but Udaipur, the Lake Como of Rajasthan, had me at the first decadent boat ride – which swept us to the Leela Palace property in the city.

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The hotel is location heaven, perched on the banks of Lake Pichola, every room showcasing regal views of the ancient City, Monsoon and Taj Lake Palaces.

We wander around a Hindu temple and get caught up in a singsong for Lord Krishna. I dabble in traditional hand-block printing and get wrapped in a stunning indigo sari at Aavaran, a female-run clothing brand.

There is lakeside high tea and a traditional Indian feast under the stars. I leap out of bed for rooftop sunrise yoga, the real spiritual deal overlooking the serene waters. I buy the prettiest hand-embroidered bed throw that I stuff into my heaving suitcase.

It is joined by a ‘miniature’ – not a small gin, but tiny, intricate artworks of goddesses, peacocks and elephants painted with the aid of a magnifying glass. I choose a pair of handsome intertwined birds that remind me of my resilient sons.

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Someone mentions a holy man in the hotel grounds who will tell your fortune, and I meet him at his temple adorned with marigold offerings. He has an ancient Dell computer at which he studies my astrological chart while examining my palms. Via a translator he declares my marriage is not good. Then he explains my palm has an auspicious triangle indicating luck, success and strength. ‘You are a warrior woman,’ he beams. ‘But you are meant to be alone.’ I feel strangely relieved.

Back home from my Indian voyage of self discovery I set the doubters straight. This vibrant, welcoming country does luxury and hospitality better than we do.

I hope to return, if only to visit the Taj Mahal and get that famous Princess Diana-style photo. Alone. I’m fine with that.

Rooms at the Leela Palaces Hotels and Resorts start from £140 a night; theleela.com

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