A country like India could only exist in literature. Flanked to the north by the snow-capped peaks of the Himalayas —where mythical kingdoms still lie hidden and ascetics live in caves—the rest of its geography stretches out across deserts inhabited by men in colorful turbans and houses the same color as their camels, jungles that are home to tigers and tribes,  chaotic metropolises large enough to fit entire countries, palaces that float on the water , imposing fortresses from which its thousand kingdoms were ruled, polychrome temples  with towers that rise toward the sky ,  and mausoleums that, as Tagore described them, are a teardrop on the cheek of time.

It is also home to sadhus who silently roam the country; to the majestic Ganges , in whose flow so many still see a living goddess; to the most populous pilgrimages in the world; to trains that form a universe in themselves; to a gastronomy that is, literally, finger-licking good; to gods with a hundred arms  who ride improbable animals; to colors, flavors and smells so intense that it seems as if they were invented there.

India is the place to ask questions and seek answers, because all the diversity of this world fits into a single country for which any superlative falls short.