It was a crisp and sunny day, just like my favourite fried egg. My friend and I slung our backpacks and hooked off through the Pyrenees on the road to Santiago following scalloped shells, yellow arrows and Paulo Coelho’s footsteps.
Having spent a fortnight in the quietly elegant St. Jean de Luz, gently kissing the shores of the Atlantic next to its more popular neighbour Biarritz, and occasionally hopping across to San Sebastian for the best ‘tapas’ ever, we were now ready for the oldest Christian pilgrimage in the world.
Oozing excitement we arrived at St. Jean Pied de Port to collect our “carnets” which were akin to passports duly stamped at every point of stay during the walk. And we walked and walked up the Pyrenees, a 27 kilometre hike into Spain, arriving at the quaint Roncesvalles perched on the hilltop, looking like an anachronism. It boasted of a boutique hotel, an old monastery, an inn and a blanket of almost surreal peace.
The air chilled us to the bone and we dived into some red wine for succour. By the time we emerged from its heady feel, the night had crept up on us, and the hotel was full. The only place we could park our weary derrières was the monastery. And so we did just that.
Before the crack of dawn we were hauled out of our bunk beds and sent packing down the hill with a pat on our backs.
From Pelerins we had now become Peregrinos, the French and Spanish equivalents of pilgrims. We trekked down to Pamplona, famous for its bull run, accosted by looks of utter astonishment. Indians and not even Christian! We could’ve been koalas in Africa!
Once the surprise had washed over, mobiles would whisk out as they announced to their loved ones about their encounters with the third kind.
Pamplona led us to Logrono through La Rioja, famous for its red wine. Walking through wine country we plucked passionate purple grapes and surreptitiously popped them in our mouths.
Stopping for wine and tapas more often than not, we arrived in Najera, a small town carved out of a giant rock face with larger-than-life chairs perched on top of rocks and bridges. Louis IVth chair, Marie Antoinette chair and so on.
I sulked as I walked the next day to Azofra, a geriatric village with nothing to its credit except a small church which I didn’t feel like visiting at all, given my petulant state of mind. And then a strange thing happened. I went up the hill to the church against my wishes and was greeted by an old woman who insisted I put some money in the bowl. I unzipped my money belt, saw 250 Euros grin at me, zipped it back and announced irately, “I have no money.”
Shortly after, we were on a bus to Santa Domingo (after having walked 160 km I had finally put my foot down) and half hour later we were inside one of the most beautiful cathedrals when I realised my money belt was missing. Gone in less than 60 minutes. Credit cards, ATM cards, passport, driving license, mobile phone and the much cherished 250 Euros in cash.
Everyone went into a tizzy as I tried to control the bile rising to my throat. The scene that followed would’ve made Gerald Durrell come up with yet another howler. Sheer pandemonium. They gathered forces and argued in high pitched Spanish about what course of action to follow. I was surrounded by a sea of babblers who had just descended from Mars.
Suddenly a calm and collected voice cut through the babble like a knife ... in Hindi, actually Urdu! “Majra kya hai?” were the three magic words which sounded even prettier than the ubiquitous ‘I love you’.
To cut to the chase, our rescuers who lived in Santa Domingo assured us the bus would be back in another five minutes and like Pied Pipers led us to the appointed stop. The bus came screeching to a halt as predicted.
My money belt was found on board with all the plastic intact. Only the cash was gone. I had declared in the House of God that I had no money and it had come to pass. And as we continued on our spiritual journeys traversing the road to San Tiago de Compostela, I finally realised the importance of being honest.

The writer is a fashion designer