By Kavita Mistry 
There are three things I wish someone had told me before I set out to travel solo for the first time: 1. There is no such thing as too much research. 2. You cannot and should not plan a strict itinerary. And 3. Something almost always goes wrong.
In 2016, right before I turned 21, I set out on what felt like an audacious odyssey: travelling from my home in Hyderabad to the daunting, chaotic city of Mumbai. Wanting to spend my birthday away felt like rebellion. I don’t remember exactly how I convinced my parents, but I suspect it involved my aunt and a close friend who lived there at the time — plus a few half-truths and plenty of reassurances that I would be fine. Little did I know I would be giving out reassurances even a decade later, that I know how to be safe and aware of my surroundings while travelling solo as a woman.
Key Monastry, Spiti Valley
| Photo Credit:
Sangita Rajan
Over two days, my friend and I wandered the city of dreams: taking kaali peelis to Marine Drive, sharing one cup of tea at Leopold Café, window-shopping at Colaba Market, and stretching our shoestring budget as far as it would go. It was July, the peak of the monsoon in Mumbai, when we ventured into Chor Bazaar. I bought an old Amitabh Bachchan movie poster for my father, filled up my new with camera a hundred photographs, and ate vada pav in the rain.
I came home feeling as though I had conquered the world. It was decided. I vowed to travel solo every birthday from then on, to celebrate with myself. And I kept that promise, barring the years the pandemic stole, and others when my job kept me busy.
In 2017, I had started earning from my first job which was completely unrelated to my degree. The thrill of having both money and freedom was intoxicating, so I went big. I signed up for a 10-day group trip to Ladakh with strangers I met on Instagram. Most of my savings vanished into the trip fee, which did not include flights. To cut costs, I flew in and out of Srinagar instead of Leh — a mistake I still regret.
Srinagar
| Photo Credit:
Sangita Rajan
That trip feels like a fever dream. Ladakh is one of those places you don’t believe exists until you see it yourself. I was determined to return with thousands of photos, to play them on our family TV and prove to my parents that my hard-earned money working night-shifts was not going to waste. But the mountains took from me as much as they gave. On the way back to Srinagar, our share taxi stopped at a tea stall in Kargil at midnight. The next morning it felt like waking up from a nightmare, and realising it wasn’t one. My wallet, with minimal cash, and the 32 GB memory card with about 10,000 photographs from the last 10 days was left behind at the tea stall. I often think to myself that maybe those mountains, the sand dunes, the galaxies, and the apricot trees were not meant to be shared. A trip I took, just for myself.
Spiti Valley
| Photo Credit:
Sangita Rajan
So I did it again. In 2018, I went on another trip, with strangers again. Spiti Valley was as brutal as it was beautiful. The rain, the mist, the thin air — everything tested me. Days were spent in bone-rattling rides along cliffside routes, nights in freezing guesthouses with little more than blankets and conversation to keep us warm. The landscape looked like it had been carved by some divine hand: stark monasteries perched on impossible cliffs, rivers that appeared out of nowhere, and skies so vast they made you feel both insignificant and infinite at once. I guarded the memory card with my life, and managed to bring it all back. Those photographs made their way into three art galleries that year. I wonder how many galleries the shot of Milky Way from Pangong Tso, Ladakh would have made it into.
More importantly, these photographs made it on to the family TV. My parents seemed to try to understand why this madness of taking on the world by myself was so important to me, but only after I gave many more reassurances. “I travel with just enough cash, I always keep important documents in my backpack, I carry a pepper spray, I would never eat or drink anything handed to me by a stranger, I have my guard up,” I’d say over and over like a plea.
Spiti Valley
| Photo Credit:
Sangita Rajan
And then the pandemic hit. In 2020 and 2021 I turned 25 and then 26 while baking cakes and desserts for myself. From lemon olive oil cake that my mother said tasted like dish soap to a decadent tiramisu completely made from scratch (yes the mascarpone too), which both my parents found bitter. I thoroughly enjoyed them both, pairing each bite with a generous side of existential dread.
Lemon olive oil cake
| Photo Credit:
Sangita Rajan
In 2022, while working my first job as a journalist, I finally found the audacity to take the leave I was entitled to and decided it was the perfect time for my first trip to Goa. I spent four days doing almost nothing: beer on the beach, a book in hand, a sandwich for company. When the rain let up, I hired a scooty and drove aimlessly, and ate ross omelette at roadside stalls. One day I volunteered at a café, baked bread in their kitchen, and ended the evening playing poker with the chef and the owner and won ₹500. Beginner’s luck! By the time I left, I knew I had to come back, and I did, which is a story for another day.
Goa’s butterfly beach
| Photo Credit:
Sangita Rajan
I landed in Chennai in late 2023 after not celebrating my birthday that year. I had to redeem myself, and quickly decided to take advantage of the many small hillside towns nearby. My heart was set on Kodaikanal. I decided to turn 29 there, eating pastries from a local bakery, and shelling out an exorbitant sum to the taxi mafia. I stumbled upon a tiny pizzeria, run out of the owner’s kitchen, where I treated myself to a birthday lunch. I wandered the town, avoided the tourist traps, and spent Sunday morning at the local market, picking up red chillies to make hot sauce. Back in my tiny one-bedroom apartment, the sauce fermented a little too much and nearly exploded — my most volatile birthday souvenir yet.
Kodaikanal
| Photo Credit:
Sangita Rajan
The thing nobody tells you about turning 30 is that it feels like you have won a war. Not against anyone else, but against your own twenties, the uncertainty, and the endless search for who you are.
I celebrated this win with a trip that was in the making for almost a year. Sri Lanka was easy to reach, and by now I had developed a taste for the finer things in life: craft cocktails, quiet beaches, local food, and friendships forged over late-night Korean meals in small towns. Skipping all the touristy destinations, I boarded a coastal express train straight to the small beach town of Hiriketiya. There, perched on the pristine shore, sat one of Asia’s top 50 bars. I had my birthday dinner at Smoke & Bitters, sipping cocktails and making friends with the owners and their pets.
Hiriketiya Beach, Sri Lanka
| Photo Credit:
Sangita Rajan
The thought of turning 31 means only one thing: it is time to start plotting the next escape. Travelling on my birthday has become a way to mark growth and embrace solitude. I have learned to plan just enough, to leave room for surprises, and to accept that the best stories often come from the mistakes.