This is when I say goodbye to the three street kids from Pushkar. I'd given one of them my old jacket, thinking that was the end of it. But the next morning, true to their word, they turned up to see me off. Having walked for half an hour just to wave goodbye.

This isn’t one of those epic travel stories with tuk-tuks flipping off cliffs or temples in the mist. It’s quiet. Small. But it’s stayed with me for almost two decades.

Because sometimes the stuff that sticks isn’t what you expected. It’s a goodbye on a warm morning. It’s the sound of your name being shouted by someone who should’ve forgotten it. It’s some tiny strips of paper with your email address scribbled on them, disappearing into little hands you'll never see again.

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