A Deep Dive Into The Social Fabrics Of India

It’s January 2012. I’ve just returned from a Christmas and New Year’s holiday in Brazil with my son — still feeling the samba in my bones. Now I’m sitting at Dagmar’s kitchen table in Berlin-Mitte, which, if you ask me, should be declared a cultural landmark. That table has heard more stories than most seasoned travelers. It’s where ideas are born, plans are hatched, and hearts are both broken and mended – usually over a glass of wine and something yummy from the stove.

Dagmar, a dear friend with a life story as richly non-linear as mine — though, of course, we both age in the usual linear fashion — has no need to leave the city. The world comes to her — and lands, inevitably, at that table. I always say: I travel the world, she hosts it. It’s our thing.

That day, over a glass of wine, another journey began. One that would take me far from Berlin – straight into the dust, noise, and wonder of India. I didn’t know it yet, but my life was about to take a new turn. 

It Started With The Unbox Festival

Another friend of Dagmar’s is sitting with us at the kitchen table – Kate, from San Francisco, a city I know well and love deeply. We quickly find common ground and end up in an engaging conversation. At some point, she mentions the UnBox Festival, which a few of her friends plan to attend in Delhi, India, in February.

Kate describes the festival, hosted by the British Council, as not a ‘typical’ conference, “it’s more of a cultural lab”, she says. “A vibrant mash-up of creativity, collaboration, and social innovation which blurs the lines between disciplines. Mainly young people. Designers, technologists, artists, policy thinkers, and entrepreneurs come together to explore new ways of tackling pressing social challenges in India. The focus is on experimentation and co-creation – turning out-of–the-box ideas into tangible solutions, from urban sustainability to digital inclusion. It is not just theory; it includes real work on the ground and in the field.” 

It sounds exactly like my kind of thing, and I’m instantly intrigued. I’ve never been to India before, and this feels like the perfect entry point into a place I’ve only heard about — usually in extremes. People either fall head over heels in love with it or can’t wait to leave. There’s rarely anything in between. I don’t overthink. I glance at my NATO workload, see that I can handle most of it on the road, and decide to go. 

My First Time In Delhi

As much as I enjoyed the festival, I liked Delhi just as little. Delhi in February is a cold slap in the face. Not the clean kind of cold that wakes you up, but the dirty kind that seeps into your bones. The fog isn’t romantic or mysterious – it’s choking. A gritty, chemical mist that clings to your skin and fills your lungs with every breath. You can’t see far ahead, but you can smell everything: stale urine in alley corners, rotting vegetables near overflowing dumpsters, and smoke from a dozen makeshift fires lit by people just trying to stay warm.

The streets are loud and unforgiving. Honking horns form an angry symphony, echoing off cracked buildings that look as tired as the people huddled beneath them. The sidewalks are barely walkable — a chaotic collage of cracked concrete, plastic cups, and an impressive variety of garbage nobody ever seems to clean up! Cows meander through the chaos like indifferent gods and pigeons flap from ledge to ledge like they’re just as disoriented as everyone else. 

There’s no softness to Delhi in February. Just a relentless grind – cold, grey, grimy. It doesn’t stop for you. It swallows you whole. In one word, infernal. I was more than ready to go — and didn’t stick around long after the event.

Yet I have to admit that over the next decade I learn to see Delhi differently, and I grow to enjoy the incredible time journey the city always delivers: a mix of past, the complexity of the present, and the future visible in its booming tech corridors, futuristic art spaces, and the energy of nakedly ambitious young changemakers redefining what’s possible. It’s a city where Mughal domes cast shadows on startup incubators, and where centuries-old traditions collide with digital dreams. Delhi doesn’t separate time into neat chapters — it stacks them all on top of each other and invites you to live with all its contradictions. 

A Train Ride To The Taj Mahal

My return flight was out of Bombay, and my plan was to make my way there overland — from the capital to the colors and sounds of Bollywood. The distance between the two megacities is roughly 1,450 kilometers by road. If you take the train non-stop, it’s about a 20-hour journey. When I leave Delhi, I only have one stop firmly in mind: The Taj Mahal in Agra. It’s four hours by train.

I will never forget this first ride – not in this lifetime. Entering Nizamuddin Railway Station and making it to the platform felt like stepping into another dimension, somewhere between a festival and a battlefield.

It’s early evening, and my train is scheduled to leave at 6:30 pm. I arrive, wide-eyed and clueless, only to be swept into what can only be described as a human river flowing toward the platform. To get there, you have to climb a steep set of stairs to a bridge that crosses over the tracks. Simple in theory. But these aren’t stairs — they’re a human conveyor belt.

And let me tell you something: you cannot fall. Not because it’s safe, but because it’s physically impossible. Hundreds of people are pushing you from behind, everyone clinging to bags, boxes, children — or all three. Nobody’s making space. Nobody’s waiting. Everyone has exactly one goal: get up there now, and heaven help anything in their way. For a split second, I imagine myself tripping and being trampled to death by a stampede of sari-wrapped aunties and chai vendors. But somehow, magically, the herd flows upward without chaos. Or perhaps, through chaos.

At the top, I pause and look down at the platform. I can’t see the ground. Seriously, the floor has vanished under a mosaic of humans. People are sitting, sleeping, shouting, eating. Kids are running around barefoot, and someone’s uncle is stretched out snoring under a signboard. There’s a symphony of sounds: the jingle of bangles, calls of vendors, the occasional loudspeaker announcement that nobody seems to understand.

Cows meander peacefully between clusters of families. Cows! How did they get there? Did they buy a ticket? Are they also heading south? Not to be outdone, a troop of macaques — the mischievous, ugly cousins of the majestic langur — swing across the beams, eyeing snacks and wallets alike.

Somewhere amid this technicolor madness are tiny kiosks selling chai, samosas, water bottles, and books. They usually have a nice collection of books, classics and modern literature alike.  The air is… a journey in itself: a cocktail of urine, fried oil, mango juice, sweat, and something that smells faintly like survival.

And then the train arrives.

It pulls in slowly — and before it’s even stopped, the madness hits a new level. People sprint alongside it, hurling themselves onto still-moving steps. Some leap through open windows into the general class — the “non-reserved” part of the train where seats are more concept than reality. 

Meanwhile, I, the naïve foreigner with a printed ticket in hand, wait politely for the train to stop. My coach is at the very front — naturally. I start walking. And walking. And walking. It feels like trekking across a continent. Somewhere near the locomotive, I finally spot my coach: 2AC Tier. The “fancy” class. Four berths per compartment, sheets, pillows, curtains — the whole deal.

I clamber in, toss my little suitcase under the lower bunk, and flop onto my seat. It’s clean enough, cozy enough, and the AC is doing its job. Later, someone tells me they wash the blankets only once a month — which sounds terrifying until you realize the sheer math of it. Thousands of blankets. Every. Single. Day. Okay. Fair enough.

I lie back and exhale. This, I think, is going to be one hell of a ride. 

The locomotive lets out a proud, theatrical blast and groans into motion. We’re off. 

Inside the compartment, all heads swivel toward me. No subtlety, no shame – just full, unfiltered curiosity. Their eyes lock in like I’m the evening entertainment. A live episode of “Foreigner on a Train.” One soul finally asks, “Which country?” Translation: Who are you, alien woman, and why are you on this train with us?

I smile, drop a simple “Germany,” and that alone earns a collective nod, like I’ve passed some unofficial test. But I know what’s coming next: the infinite-question sequence – name, job, marriage status … So I make a tactical retreat. I pull the curtain shut around my little berth – the closest thing to personal space in a land that doesn’t believe in the concept. It flutters closed like a silk shield, cutting off the audience.

And then comes the lull. The gentle, hypnotic rhythm of steel wheels on track. The occasional clank. The hum of distant conversations. I stretch out on my bunk, cocooned in my curtain castle, and let the train rock me into sleep. It’s oddly comforting. 

Privacy? Barely. Peace? Almost. Adventure? Absolutely.

The train huffs into Agra around 1 am. We are an hour late, but who’s counting? The platform, in stark contrast to the chaos of Delhi, is eerily quiet. A few human shapes are sprawled like forgotten luggage on thin blankets or flattened cardboard, deep in dreams or just waiting for trains that may or may not exist. Nothing disturbs them. Not even the distant bark of a dog or the soft hiss of the engine cooling off.

I step off the train and like a switch flipped, a pack of auto drivers materializes from the shadows. “Taxi? Taxi? Madam? Auto, madam, good price!” At least twenty of them. No clue where they were hiding before, but now they’ve spotted me – the solo, foreign-looking woman with a small suitcase and big eyes – and it’s showtime.

There’s no elegant way to escape. I smile awkwardly, nod like I have a plan, and wedge my way out of the human wall. 

Agra, at least around the train station, isn’t trying to win any beauty contests. Even in broad daylight it’s rough, but now? It’s post-apocalyptic. Rickshaw drivers doze in their vehicles like tired beetles, slouched over steering wheels. A group of men huddles around a fire made entirely of garbage – plastic bags, old shoes, who knows what else. The flames crackle; the fumes sting. It’s not smoke. It’s chemistry. The scent is unforgiving.

And I think: What. On. Earth.
Where am I? Why am I here? 

But instead of bolting, I do what one learns to do in India: I surrender to the madness. I pick the least aggressive auto driver, give him the name of my hotel, and we buzz off into the night, past sleeping dogs and neon signs that flicker like bad dreams.

The next day: the Taj Mahal — a childhood dream etched into my imagination. And when I finally stand before it, I’m completely unprepared for how breathtaking it truly is. Especially during those quiet early morning hours or just before sunset, when the light wraps around the marble and softens everything. Then the view from across the river is otherworldly. 

Next: Khajuraho – Midway Between Delhi And Bombay

From Agra to where? That was the next question. I pull out the map, looking for something – anything – between Agra and Bombay. I have no plan, just a vague sense of direction. That’s when Khajuraho catches my eye. It’s midway, in the Bundelkhand belt, one of the poorest areas in India. I’ve never heard of it before, but something about the name sticks. The first thing that jumps out isn’t the temples – it’s the nearby Raneh Falls. These volcanic rock gorges carved by the Ken River look absolutely stunning in the photos. Remote, and surrounded by untouched countryside. After the noise and sprawl of Delhi and Agra, that sounds like a breather. I’m drawn to the idea of rural Madhya Pradesh, the state where Khajuraho sits tucked away in its northeast, some 600 kilometers from Delhi.

But getting there isn’t exactly straightforward. Back then, no direct train or bus went that far. The closest I can get is Jhansi, and from that point it’s a 200-kilometer taxi ride through a winding and, as it turns out, bumpy country road. A small adventure in itself.

It’s only later, once I start reading properly, that I realize what Khajuraho is actually famous for. The temples. Not just any temples — world-renowned, UNESCO-protected, and covered in some of the most intricate, sensual, and bold carvings I’ve ever seen. Built between the 9th and 12th centuries, they reflect an era when art, spirituality, and human desire coexisted unapologetically. A place where stone tells stories about everything from gods to everyday love. And — as I’ll only learn much later — it’s practically a rite of passage for every young Indian boy to be brought here by his parents.

And lucky me — I arrived right in the middle of the Khajuraho Dance Festival. Every February, classical dancers and musicians from all over India gather here to perform in the open air, against the magical backdrop of the lit-up temples. Therefore, it is a bit tricky to find a place to stay. I managed to land a room in a family-run hotel for 10 euros a night. It’s right across the lake, within walking distance of the temples. Perfect.

I tick off the full tourist checklist: wander through the temples, visit the dance festival, explore Khajuraho’s secret gardens — a hidden gem — take in the stunning Raneh Falls, and even go on my very first tiger safari at Panna National Park. No tiger in sight – but just across from the park entrance, I stumble upon a charming little spot for lunch. The locals call it The Treehouse. Perched above the Ken River, it’s a unique wildlife resort. Nothing fancy, but full of local flavor. Rustic, real, and refreshingly authentic. So, in Khajuraho I do the classic superficial tourist visit, and I enjoy it. The place grows on me. It’s the wild openness of the land, the soft rise and fall of green hills, the unhurried rhythm of people moving through the streets. What really gets under my skin, though, are the colors — the shining saris of the women, and the endless shades of green and brown that ripple through the fields. It holds a quiet, grounded beauty.

An Idea Keeps Whispering

Raj, the eldest son of the family I’m staying with, takes it upon himself to look after me. He’s more than 20 years younger, but that doesn’t stop him from being bold and cocky — very open to the idea of a romance, which I decline gracefully. It doesn’t seem to faze him. He keeps driving me around, proudly narrating stories of his family’s status, their properties, their businesses — painting himself as a young man of serious importance in this rural corner of India. And maybe he is. I don’t know. 

One day, he pulls up next to a quiet stretch of land and gestures proudly.

“I want to build a school here,” he says, with all the casual ambition in the world. “Maybe you can help me?”

Wait – what? Me? Build a school? The idea is so wildly out of place it feels like a scene from a movie I didn’t audition for. I have no clue what he’s actually getting at, so I laugh it off and steer the conversation elsewhere.

I ended up staying in Khajuraho for a week and made it to Bombay just in time to wave at the city from the taxi window on the way to the airport. No sightseeing, no Bollywood dreams – just enough time to board my flight. But I left with a wild little idea that kept whispering, “Hey, let’s build a school!”

At the airport in Bombay, I finally open my laptop and check my emails — something I haven’t done in days. The internet back in Khajuraho was spotty at best, and honestly, I didn’t miss it. As my inbox refreshes, one email catches my eye. It’s from Egon, one of my closest and oldest friends in Heidelberg. We’ve worked together, traveled together — and now he’s in New York.

His message is short and sweet: “If you need any kind of help during your travels or any project, I’m ready to jump in and work with you!”

I don’t hesitate. I write back: “Why don’t you come to India and we build a school?”

I’m half-joking — at least I think I am. I am smiling when I hit send, and I feel something shift. Maybe this school idea isn’t so ridiculous. In fact, it starts to feel… possible.

When I get back home, the signs pile up fast. I’m still on my NATO assignment, but two weeks later, I quit. My work with the Bertelsmann Foundation’s ‘FutureChallenges’ project is running — it’s online, it’s functioning, and I’m no longer needed in the same way. And it no longer excites me the way it once did. The only collaboration that still energizes me is with Peter Kruse — and that cooperation doesn’t require staying in one place.

Tim is in Heidelberg, living his student life, doing well. I’m free.

So when Egon replies, “Why not?” — that’s it. That’s the moment this crazy idea of building a school in rural Madhya Pradesh stops being a casual joke and starts feeling real. Out of nowhere, an idea becomes a direction.

The Reality Check

Khajuraho, April 2012. The air is thick with heat — a dry, punishing kind of heat that saps your strength by noon at the latest. Egon and I arrive. We’re here on a mission: to see if this idea has legs, if we can actually make something happen in Khajuraho. We settle into Rajiv’s family hotel – the deal is simple: we’ll work on the school project, they’ll support us and provide the rooms, where we can stay.  

Egon and I are the same age. He is a dedicated artist – deeply perceptive, funny, intellectually sharp, very good with words and occasionally ‘slow’ to respond, as if his thoughts are processing on a different wavelength and if he prefers to wait if anything else might happen which influences his response. Born in Timișoara, Romania, his family was part of a German minority in Romana and relocated to Germany in 1964 to escape the rise of Nicolae Ceaușescu. Egon studied graphic design at the University of Mannheim and received a Fulbright scholarship that took him to Georgetown University in Washington, D.C., and the University of Texas in Austin. He furthered his studies in computer graphics at the New York Institute of Technology and pursued postgraduate work at the Institute for New Media at the Städel Art Academy in Frankfurt under Peter Weibel. In the early ’90s, Egon lived in Milan, Italy, before settling in New York City in 1996, where he has maintained a studio ever since. His work often involves repurposing urban artifacts like stickers and graffiti tags, a process he terms “Devandalizing,” to create collages and paintings that reflect the visual language of city life.

Working alongside Egon, I find that our differing perspectives complement each other. We understand each other well enough to bridge our viewpoints, creating a collaborative dynamic that’s not always seamless but continually evolving as we learn and grow together.

We spent most of that year in Khajuraho. Sometimes I’m alone with “our” family while Egon travels. Sometimes he’s the one holding down the fort. But most of the time, it’s the two of us — trying to figure out what kind of school this place really needs. Because the truth is, we don’t know. Not yet.

So we start with the obvious: visiting schools, government-run and private. Talking to state and local authorities. Asking teachers, mothers, children. What’s missing? What works? What’s broken beyond repair? Bit by bit, we begin to understand the landscape — legal frameworks, cultural obstacles, the small print of building something real in rural India. 

And then comes the other Khajuraho — the one that doesn’t make it into the glossy travel brochures. Beyond the sculpted temples and curated hotel gardens, we wander into the fringes of town. The paved roads fray into dusty tracks, and the glamour peels away. Here, families live under patched tarps stretched between sticks, pressed up against the roadside. Children — rail-thin, barefoot — swarm toward cars with outstretched hands, asking for money and food. 

Garbage lies everywhere — not in bins, but in heaps. Towering piles of rotting waste slump in the heat, buzzing with flies. We watch dogs and children squat side by side, relieving themselves into the same mounds. Cows nose through the trash, chewing blindly on plastic bags and paper like it’s cud. No one seems shocked. This is normal.

Down a narrow alley, I see something that stops me cold. A bloodied plastic bag, dumped just past a low fence. Inside, unmistakable — an embryo, freshly discarded. Someone tossed it from the house beyond. I stare, unable to move. The smell of rot hangs in the air, heavy as the heat.

And then there’s the caste system — fully alive, everywhere. A man from a lower caste approaches, then crosses the street as a higher-caste man walks toward him. He doesn’t meet his eyes. He doesn’t dare. It happens again and again, until we no longer wonder if it was a coincidence.

Gradually, we realize what’s missing — not what’s there, but who isn’t. Women. The streets belong to men; the silence of the missing half hums beneath the surface. We ask where they are. The answer is simple: they are not allowed to go out on their own — but the language that carries it is layered, careful, and coded. We begin to understand that what we’re seeing isn’t a glimpse — it’s a whole structure, built on silence, hierarchy, control. And yet — it’s peaceful. Not in a perfect, postcard way. But in a deeper, almost unsettling sense. People endure the caste system and their fate with a grace I can’t quite explain. Maybe it’s faith. Maybe it’s the Hindu philosophy of life, death, and everything in between. Whatever it is, it’s unlike anything I’ve ever felt before.

While we dig into research how to establish a school, I float the idea of a ‘Hole in the Wall’ learning station. I’d first heard of it from Sugata Mitra at a conference in Munich — the same one where I met Stefanie, the head of public diplomacy at NATO. In an experiment, Mitra embedded a computer in a wall in a Delhi slum — no guidance, no adult supervision, just the curiosity of children left to discover what it could do. And the kids? They figured it out. Browsing. Typing. Sharing what they’d learned with each other. It’s the pure and refreshing curiosity of kids in action.We thought: why not start there? Something visible, useful, and symbolic. So we partnered with the local government school, broke open part of its exterior wall, and built two public-access computer stations. By that time, we already had a working title for our school project: we_school. ‘we’ stands for community — a place where people come together to learn, share, and grow. It wasn’t just about education; it was about connection. The two computer stations we set up were the first of their kind in the entire area — a small but meaningful step toward bridging the digital divide. Kids gathered instantly — peeking in, reaching out, swiping clumsily at the screen and across the keyboard, then more confidently. Even teachers showed up, intrigued. Within days, it was the talk of the town.

I fly in my two dogs, Fynn and Lenny, from Germany. They’re huge black sheepdogs, each with a white patch on the chest. A bit taller and leaner than German Shepherds, with slightly longer fur. Tim drives them to the airport in Frankfurt; I pick them up in Delhi, sweaty and exhausted but relieved to see those wagging tails. In Khajuraho, my dogs cause a minor sensation. No one had seen anything like them — people stop, stare, and genuinely ask, ‘Is that a lion? Or maybe a leopard?’ We just smile and let the mystery linger a little longer.

And just like that, Khajuraho starts to feel like home. My flat in Germany sits empty most of the year. The center of gravity is shifting.

Egon and I buy a motorbike — in Rajiv’s name, because foreigners aren’t allowed to own one. No big deal, we think. It gives us freedom. A way to escape the orbit of the family’s car and driver. We ride through town, past temples and open fields – we even do a motorbike tour up to the Himalayas. What an adventure!

The school begins to take shape — not just as a place, but as a living idea. We’re figuring things out step by step, with more questions than answers, but also with a growing sense of direction. I stay alert, curious, trying to keep my assumptions in check. India demands that. It doesn’t fit into neat boxes. There’s beauty and chaos, generosity and frustration, all tangled up together. And somehow, it all starts to feel like part of the learning.

Guns, Feudal Landlords, and Foreign Fools

But inside the hotel, something darker simmers.

Communication with the family is slow, scattered, full of vague promises, and missed follow-ups. We start to suspect that they’re not as ‘connected’ as they claim. They know nothing about how to build a school. Nothing about NGOs or educational frameworks. What they do know is power.

On the balcony, they clean pistols with the same ease others clean their shoes. Grown men — some older than Rajiv — drop to the floor, laying flat to kiss his and his father’s feet when they enter the room. Women have no say at all, are not even allowed to walk outside without their men. Children work from dawn till night, serving tea, mopping floors, sleeping on rags under stairwells. Always alert, always waiting for the next order barked from upstairs. Rajiv lashes out at them with his belt when they make mistakes. One day I step in — tell him to stop. He does. At least when I’m around.

And slowly, it becomes clear: they don’t want to build a school for the community. They want ownership. A shiny new institution, built with our money, stamped with their name. We’d be the foreigners who funded it — and then got kicked out once the ink dried.

They never agree to form an NGO, which is needed to run a school. Never agree to transfer the land. Always one excuse after another. The realization sets in slowly, then all at once: this was a setup. And we decide to walk away.

It’s November. The hot season is fading. We call one last meeting. We sit down across from the family and calmly explain: we’re done. No NGO, no land, no trust. This partnership is over.

The old man — Rajiv’s father — says nothing. Then he leaves the room. A moment later, he returns… with a rifle. He stands directly beside me, gripping the gun like a walking stick. I glance at Egon. He glances at me. And despite the absurdity, we both stifle a grin. It’s too cliché — too cinematic — to be real. The patriarch, barely taller than me when I’m seated, trying to intimidate us with an antique gun and centuries-old pride.

That moment says everything.

These are not just landowners — often, they acquire land through dubious or unlawful means – they’re feudal landlords in the most old-school, brutal sense of the word. Ruthless, entitled, and utterly shameless. Power is their birthright, and they wield it with zero regard for law or consequences. They don’t just bend the rules; they ignore them entirely. Justice is something they believe belongs to them — to dish out or deny, depending on who’s asking.

It’s like stepping into a live-action version of the Trump dynasty — minus designer suits, plus loaded rifles and barefoot servants. 

We finally understand why Bundelkhand is called the ‘Wild, Wild West of India’. And this family? They’ve given us a front-row seat to witness that.

But that was only the beginning.

Because what comes next — the violence, the court cases — makes this look like nothing more than the opening scene.

Pride. Power. Punches.

After our final meeting in the lobby, Egon and I pack our bags and get out. I take the motorbike –  surprisingly, they don’t stop me –  and Egon squeezes into an auto-rickshaw with the dogs. Our new place is a quiet, family-run guesthouse just outside of town, still smelling of fresh paint, with a beautiful garden and open fields around. A good place to walk the dogs. A good place to regroup.

We’ve just finished the build of the ‘Hole in the Wall’ computer station. Kids flock to it, eyes wide, curious fingers dancing across the screen and across the keyboard. Everyone knows it was us who built it. Not the family. It feels like momentum. We’re not giving up. We still want to build the school. Our vision is sharper, the need here is undeniable. We just need new partners. New land. 

Then, one night — just a few days after moving — it all shatters.

It’s around 11 p.m. Egon’s in the room. The dogs are upstairs with him. I’m in the garden, typing notes under the dim glow of a hanging light. The iron gate is locked. And then I hear it — a voice, loud and sharp, shouting something I cannot understand from the street. A second later, the sound of someone climbing. The scrape of metal. The thud of feet landing on gravel.

Rajiv.

He’s in front of me before I can stand. His face twisted with rage, eyes burning with something feral. He’s probably drunk. Without a word, he lunges. Hits me. Kicks. I fall. Then he drives his weight into my back — I hear a crack, or maybe I imagine it — but suddenly I can’t breathe. My lungs seize. The pain is everywhere, deep and sharp.

I scream. It takes time — seconds that feel like hours — before Egon and the hotel staff burst out. But by then, Rajiv is gone. Slipped back into the dark like a shadow that was never there.

They help me up slowly. I can’t stand straight. Breathing feels like being stabbed from the inside. I can’t lie down — my chest won’t let me — so Egon builds a fortress of pillows, and I sleep propped up like a broken statue, heart racing, mind spinning.  

What just happened?

Later, we learn the full picture: we weren’t the first foreigners to work with this family. But we were the first to stay in town after things went south. The others left quietly. We didn’t. We made it clear — to them, and to everyone else: we stopped our collaboration because of them. And Rajiv? The poor chap. He couldn’t take that. Couldn’t stomach rejection — not from a woman, not publicly, not from someone he thought he had power over.

His attack wasn’t random. It was a message. Get out. Or else.

How cheap. The entitled son who defends his pride with brute force. A pathetic show of dominance.

But they misjudge us. We’re bruised, yes. But far from broken. We’ve come too far to back down now.

Cash Rules. Justice Follows.

When I file the case against Rajiv and take him to court, I begin to understand that corruption here isn’t just a nuisance. It’s a way of life, stitched into the very fabric of the system. It seeps through everything, like dust that settles into the cracks of an old, crumbling wall. Police stations crouch at the edge of villages, not necessarily as protectors, but much more often as warnings. Justice isn’t blind – it squints through wads of cash. If you’re poor or from a lower caste, your complaint rarely even makes it past the front desk. Filing a report costs money. Protection costs more. And if you’re up against someone with land, power, or the right last name, good luck. The police might not just ignore you – they might be working for the other side. And Rajiv’s family? They’re exactly that kind of family. Feudal, brutal landlords who treat their laborers like slaves and enable the corrupt system.

But I have an advantage. I’m an older white Western woman, and I have friends – good ones – who know how this system works. And I don’t hesitate to bring them into the game. I am determined to achieve justice. One of them is Lokendra Singh, the Maharaj of Panna. Panna is a neighbouring district of Khajuraho and a former kingdom. Over the past months, Loken Singh has become a trusted ally. He always calls me ‘madam’ — stretching the word with a grin that’s equal parts mischievous and suggestive. And now, in this critical moment, he shows up – exactly when needed. He knows how this place runs, and warns us:  bribes, backdoors, and all – and he doesn’t waste time pretending otherwise. Slightly unhinged, endlessly entertaining. A bit of a character, but the kind you’re glad to have on your side.

The attack happens on a Friday night. By Saturday morning, he’s at our hotel. I can hardly walk. My back is screaming, and every breath feels like a knife stab into the lungs. He’s calm, collected. “We go to the police,” he says. “But not in Khajuraho. They’ve already been bought.” Instead, we drive to Chhatarpur, the district headquarters. It’s a painful hour-long ride on bumpy roads, each pothole a jolt to my lungs.

At the Chhatarpur police HQ, the Maharaj doesn’t knock. He walks straight into the office of the Superintendent of Police (SP). No one dares stop him. Egon and I trail behind, and I’m doing my best to stay upright. The SP, a young officer, listens closely. He knows the family, too – it shows. He takes my statement, writes up the case, then immediately calls the Khajuraho police with firm instructions: arrest Rajiv. No games. Then he picks up the phone again and calls – the local media!

What we don’t know yet is that Rajiv has vanished. So the police, under pressure, arrests his father instead. They throw him into a cell, force him to kneel, pile bricks on his back, and tell him: if a single brick falls, he’s in trouble. He holds the pose until his son finally surrenders. We hear later that the father was screaming furiously outside the police station –  not believing that his status couldn’t shield him. For a family so used to pulling strings, this was unthinkable.  

That night, my story runs on local television. By then everyone in town knows. The landlords aren’t pleased – but the people of Khajuraho are. At last, someone stands up to the ones who’ve ruled them unchecked for years.

The SP leans forward, his tone shifting from formal to firm. “I’m assigning you personal security. Around the clock. For both of you.” His eyes flick between me and Egon, leaving no room for argument. The Maharaj nods. 

We share a look that says it all. This just got real.

He explains that the family might retaliate — not just because we filed the case, but because we made it public. The media coverage, the arrest, the humiliation… it’s a blow to their pride, and men like that don’t forget easily. The SP doesn’t sugarcoat it. “You’ve shaken their world. They’ll want to restore control.”

So now, we’re not just witnesses. We’re targets. It’s not a movie. It’s us. 

But the police and the family aren’t the only forces we’re up against. Regarding bribery, the game just starts. Bribes don’t stop at the police. Judges, too, can be bought. Decisions here are currency-driven, not justice-driven. The Maharaj knows this. So our next stop in Chhatarpur is the district judge. Loken Singh hands his ornate business card to the guard outside the gate, and once again, the doors swing open. The judge makes a quick call to his counterpart in Khajuraho, instructing him – plainly – not to ‘follow the money.’ It doesn’t sound like a suggestion. It sounds like an order. In this system, the word of a higher-up still trumps a bribe. Is that a good sign? I don’t know. It’s power all the same – just slightly more aligned with justice, for now.

And I’m painfully aware that my experience is a luxury. I have a voice. I have support. I have visibility. Most villagers do not. For them, justice is a mirage – something only the rich, powerful, or connected can grasp. So they stop filing reports. They stop hoping. They stop fighting. Because corruption here doesn’t just bleed your pockets – it bleeds your spirit.

And just to be crystal clear — I didn’t pay a single rupee. My ‘status’ as a white Westerner, a bit older, and having the Maharaj on my side did all the work. That alone opened every door.

Two Foreigners, Four Guns

It takes time to adjust — to this strange new life under 24/7 security. At first, it feels less like protection and more like surveillance. Four policemen, rotating in two shifts, twelve hours each. Two by day, two by night. Always there. Always watching.

After dark, they sit right outside our hotel room. During the day, they follow us everywhere. If I take the dogs out for a walk at sunrise, they come too, boots crunching behind me on gravel. If I head to the vet, they are with me — leaning against the wall, arms crossed, waiting. Once we took an auto rickshaw: the two dogs, our two security guys, Egon and me. It was cozy – and fun. Even in town, they’re never more than two steps behind, always shadowing us like silent ghosts. No privacy, no breathing room. Just the constant weight of presence.

It’s nerve-wracking. And somehow, a little absurd. But there’s no way around it. The SP is firm. And the Maharaj — always playing his own subtle chess game — insists too. “This is necessary,” he says. “For now.”

So we surrender to it. The absurdity. The discomfort. The strange new rhythm of being followed by men with guns, even to the corner shop.

Welcome to our life in Khajuraho.

The Great Indian Rickshaw Shield

For nearly three weeks, we trace the same worn path — eight kilometers from our hotel to the courthouse in Raj Nagar, a suburb of Khajuraho. Day after day — crammed into a rickety green-and-yellow auto rickshaw. Egon, me, and our two “security” guards squeezed shoulder to shoulder, knees pressed tight, bumping along the dusty road to the courthouse. The SP had warned us: No motorbikes. “Too easy to target,” he’d said. 

The rickshaw driver quickly becomes part of our little entourage. He’s soft-spoken, with kind eyes and a slow, confident smile. Our case has made waves in town, and he’s firmly on our side. “You are safe with me,” he says one morning, glancing at us in the rearview mirror. “If anything happens,” he pauses for effect, “I’m the head of the auto rickshaw union here. We have 170 drivers. I’ll call them all. We’ll form a convoy, you ride in the middle. No one will touch you.”

I laugh — not because I don’t believe him, but because I can see it. A whole army of rattling autos, horns blaring, engines buzzing like locusts, weaving through the streets like a protective swarm. The image is absurd and glorious. And oddly comforting.

Our First Day At Court

In the morning of our first day in court, something shifts. The courthouse is no grand building — just a single room, maybe 25 square meters. At one end, an absurdly tall desk; I can barely see over it when I stand before the judge, who sits hidden behind like a phantom. To his right, the prosecutor. In the back, a few sleepy court helpers. Rajiv is there too, guarded on both sides by silent policemen. Outside, the market buzzes — fruit sellers shouting, rickshaws honking, life carrying on. The chaos seeps in through the open door, blurring the line between courtroom and street scene. Occasionally, a cow ambles up the steps, peeking in like it’s part of the audience. 

My lawyer walks in. We’d taken Loken Singh’s advice seriously. Don’t hire someone local, he said. Get a lawyer from Panna. An outsider. Someone clean. Unentangled. So we did.

And now, I see what Loken meant. The moment he enters, the entire mood tilts. Eyes follow him. And then I spot it: the prosecutor’s jaw slackens just slightly. A flicker of recognition. Maybe even dread. My lawyer leans toward me, voice low, eyes sharp. “No worries,” he says, with a calm, knowing smile. “The courtroom is ours.” He doesn’t blink.

Only then do I learn the story. Turns out, my lawyer had once been the prosecutor’s senior. Years ago, the prosecutor worked under him. And here they are again, roles reversed, tension hanging in the air like an unfinished sentence.

I glance toward the judge. He’s quiet, expression unreadable. His message is clear. He remembers what the district judge had told him. The stage is set. The lines are known.

It’s strange, this system. Not clean. Not linear. But somehow, in its own crooked way… it works.

And indeed, the courtroom is ours.

When Rajiv realizes what happened, he snaps. You can see it in his eyes — panic flaring into rage. In a flash, he lunges forward, trying to come at me from behind. For a split second, I feel the surge of danger. But the police are faster. They block him, hold him back. There’s no way through for him. He’s shaking with fury, shouting things I don’t understand. And in that moment, it’s written all over his face: he obviously knows. He’s lost. The case is slipping from his hands, and there’s nothing he can do to stop it.

Hurry Up and Wait: Justice on India Standard Time

A lot happens on that first day in court — but in the end, things move at a snail’s pace. The wheels of justice here don’t just turn slowly, they seem to drift. It takes over two weeks for all the paperwork to be processed, stamped, and shuffled through invisible procedures.

Every morning, as instructed by my lawyer, we show up at the courthouse. And every morning feels like rolling dice. Some days, we arrive and the place is completely deserted — no judge, no lawyers, not even the clerk. Just us wondering if we’ve misunderstood something. Other times, Rajiv doesn’t show. Then there are days the judge is missing altogether. No explanation. No apology. No schedule. It’s like time itself is on pause here.

And now it’s mid-December. Our Christmas flights back home are booked for the 23rd. Not that anyone here cares — Christmas is just another Tuesday in Khajuraho — but for us, it means something. A reunion. A break…

The closer we get to the 23rd, the more nervous we become. Will this process drag on into the new year? Will we even get to leave? We try everything to put a bit of pressure on the court. We bring printed flight tickets. I even ask the Maharaj to call the district judge in Chhatarpur, hoping his title still holds some sway. Whether that call works or not, we’ll never know — but something shifts. Finally, we get a date. December 21 and 22. Our interrogations. Mine comes first.

Interrogation Time 

The morning of the 21st, I stand outside the courtroom, stomach tight, breath shallow. I’d expected my lawyer to be here — to guide me through, or at least be a reassuring presence — but he brushes it off: “Not necessary,” he says over the phone. “A good translator will be there. Just answer the questions.”

So I go in alone. And at the far end of it: an absurdly tall bench, like something out of a Kafka novel. The judge sits above, looking down. I stand alone below, waiting.

Rajiv’s lawyer begins the questioning, smug and confident. The judge occasionally interjects, sometimes the prosecutor chimes in — it’s almost like a strange, unscripted theatre piece. At first I’m thrown off. But slowly, I begin to understand the rhythm of it. The tension gives way to a kind of dance. And once I realize how the game is played, I begin to enjoy it.

Then comes the ridiculous part.

Rajiv’s lawyer asks if I was in love with him — suggesting, absurdly, that I fabricated the attack because he didn’t return my affection.

I pause. And then say, deadpan: “He probably wished I would.”

The entire courtroom bursts into laughter — even the judge lets out a smirk. It’s like a moment from an amateur village play. In Germany, we’d call it Bauerntheater. That’s exactly what it feels like: small-town drama dressed up as law.

The questions keep coming. Did I know exactly how Rajiv entered and exited the hotel? Why did I stay with the family so long? Did I really want to build a school, or was it just a cover? Why didn’t I pay for my stay — and here, of course, they suggest laughably inflated rates. He even asks why I couldn’t defend myself, considering I’m taller than Rajiv.

And so it goes. For eight long hours. Question after question. Accusation after accusation. I stand the entire time — no break, no chair, just shifting my weight from one foot to the other, trying not to let fatigue show. But when I walk out, I don’t feel exhausted. I feel oddly… steady. I did okay. Maybe even better than okay.

Outside, Egon is waiting. His eyes search mine: “How was it?” I give him the short version. He exhales, visibly lighter. At least now he knows what to expect.

That night, we share a bottle of red — Sula, the best India has to offer. It’s a toast to surviving the circus. To making it through one more round.

Next day is Egon’s turn. It’s Saturday, December 22nd. They start at 10 am. I am not allowed inside the courtroom. So I am waiting outside. Just like Egon did the day before. Sometimes I hear him talk – quite some drama in his voice, I can imagine his gestures. As if he is part of a theatre performance. 

It’s late afternoon. The sun is just about to set. Egon steps out of the courtroom. He’s drained — but smiling. The typical Egon smile, a grin – it’s more his eyes than his mouth. “Yeah,” he says. “We’ve made it. We’re done. All evidence is collected. We can leave for Christmas!”

For Egon It’s A Goodbye, For Me It’s A Pause

Outside, the car is already waiting. A seamless transition – straight from the courtroom into the back seat, as if every move had been scripted. Which, in truth, it had been – I’d arranged it all down to the minute. Lenny and Fynn wag their tails in the back, sensing something’s shifting. Their noses press against the windows, eager. Bags are packed, engines running. Delhi is calling. Tomorrow we fly. Egon will head to Berlin, to see his mother. I’m flying to Frankfurt, then onwards by train to Heidelberg — Tim is waiting. The dogs will stay with friends just outside Delhi. 

We’ve got two drivers, so there’s no need for long stops – we just keep moving. Beyond the windows, everything is swallowed by fog. The headlights barely cut through the thick grey veil as the world blurs into shadows. Only vague silhouettes drift past – hooded figures wrapped in shawls, crouched by roadside fires. Sleeping cows lie motionless in the middle of the road, their shapes looming like ancient rocks in the mist. The air is biting cold, slipping in through the cracks of the windows despite our layers.

We float through the night. Potholes jolt us now and then, but the driver swerves with the calm of someone who’s done this a thousand times. The honking never really stops – sharp, sudden blasts from unseen vehicles, echoing in the dark like a strange nocturnal language.

Inside the car, it’s warm. We pass the bottle of red wine back and forth, sipping straight from the neck. No glasses. No ceremony. Nothing to celebrate. We don’t talk much. There’s comfort in the silence, in the shared understanding that this moment doesn’t need to be filled. We both know that what has happened over the last few months will be forever in our memory. Something we’ll carry with us. 

The drive feels grounding. With every passing kilometer, we’re carried further from the tangle of family, the noise, the tension, the 24/7 security and that strange mix of chaos and relief that comes from something finally being over. Little by little, the calm begins to settle in. Conversation fades. There’s no rush now, no demands. Just motion. 

The experience is quietly priceless. We don’t need to name it or frame it. We just let it wash over us, soaking it all in –  a quiet return to ourselves.

Yet there is something final. Egon doesn’t hesitate: “I’m not coming back,” he says.“That’s it. I can’t take the garbage anymore. It’s just everywhere! And the way they treat women, the men spitting everywhere… I am done!”  

For him, it’s a clean cut – he parts ways with India, no hesitation. For me, it’s different. When it comes to Rajiv’s family, yes, there’s a definitive line. Moving on with them is all but a waste of time. But India? This isn’t goodbye. It’s just a pause. A Christmas break. Because beneath all the noise, the contradictions, the sheer intensity – something has taken hold of me. India pulls at me in ways I can’t fully explain. I don’t yet know what I’ll do when I return. But I know I will.

A Brief Epilogue 

In case you’re wondering what became of Rajiv — yes, he lost the case. Ended up serving six months in prison. Not exactly a luxury retreat, either. Some dusty, godforsaken facility about 100 kilometers from Khajuraho — basically, the end of the world with bars.