Takashi Miyata’s “My Awakening”: Life Is a Journey — My Globe-Trotter’s Awakening in India

I loved my grandmother since I was little.
She used to tell me stories about her time living in Manchuria, and about her travels to places like New York and Uluru. Looking back, I realize she was the one who sparked my interest in travel and foreign cultures—she was the person who awakened that curiosity in me.
She was from Sendai, and whenever I got into trouble, she'd scold me with a sharp "Takuranke!"—which means "fool" in her dialect.

One summer day when I was in third grade, I told my mother I wanted to travel alone from our home in Yokohama to my grandmother's house in Funabashi, Chiba. Though she was worried, my mother encouraged me to go on my first solo trip. The journey from Yokohama Station to Funabashi Station took only an hour, but for me at the time, it was without a doubt a grand adventure.

My mother saw me off at the platform at Yokohama Station, watching until I boarded the train. Right after that, she called my grandmother to let her know: "He's on the train leaving at this time, so he should arrive at Funabashi Station in about an hour."
But I never showed up at the expected time.

Somehow, during that short one-hour ride, I had fallen asleep and missed my stop.
I could have kept sleeping all the way down to the Bōsō Peninsula, but I was saved by a kind woman who had overheard my conversation with my mother back at Yokohama. As she was getting off at Chiba Station, she noticed me still asleep and gently woke me up: "Weren't you supposed to get off at Funabashi?"

Thanks to her help, I finally arrived at the ticket gate of Funabashi Station 50 minutes later than planned.
There stood my grandmother, tears in her eyes.
She didn't scold me with her usual "Takuranke!", but instead she just kept repeating, "Thank goodness, thank goodness," and gave me the biggest, tightest hug I can still remember to this day.
And that's how my first solo journey came to an end.

Seven years later, I was in my second year of high school. I had started riding a Honda Steed 400—customized with front and rear fenders modeled after the vintage American "Indian" motorcycle. It's the same motorbike that inspired the title of Shigeaki Kato's book, "Dekiru Koto Nara Steed de" (If I Could, on a Steed).

Not long after I started riding, a senior student invited me on a trip to Hachioji. On the way back, I had to return to Yokohama on my own.
At the time, there were no smartphones, and I didn't even have a map—my only guide was the directional signs.

Things went smoothly at first as I kept following signs pointing toward there. But at one point, the road split into three lanes and there were no signs mentioning 'Yokohama.'"
Confused and unsure which way to go, I pulled over to the side of the road and stopped my bike.

As the sun began to set and night started to fall, a wave of anxiety washed over me.
Just then, a car pulled up beside me. The driver rolled down the window and called out, "What's wrong? Out of gas?"
When I told him I was lost, he laughed and said, "Ah, I get it. I've been there. Where do you need to go? Follow me!"

With tears welling up in my eyes, I followed his slightly rough-looking car all the way back to Yokohama.
That experience—of being lost and having someone step in to help—gave me the courage to keep traveling.

By this time, I was already able to make round trips by bike to Funabashi—a place that once felt like the ultimate adventure.
That particular visit was to the hospital where my grandmother had been admitted.

Apparently, she heard the sound of my bike approaching, because as soon as I walked into the room, she scolded me:
"You came by motorbike? That's dangerous. Take the train next time, takuranke!"

That turned out to be the last "takuranke" I ever heard from my grandmother.
Her parting words—"Do what you can only do now"—struck me deeply at the time.
I rejoined the rugby team, which I had once left, quit my part-time job, and sold my bike. I threw myself wholeheartedly into youth.
While going through her belongings, I found a newly purchased edition of "Chikyū no Arukikata: India."
Thinking I might be able to sell it, I took it home and placed it on my bookshelf.

Three years later, after spending a year preparing for entrance exams, I had finally become a university student.
I was majoring in business administration, with dreams of becoming an entrepreneur. That said, I also wanted to enjoy college life—have fun, go on dates.

It was during the spring semester of my first year that I met a girl who sat in front of me in one of our lectures. Fired up, I asked her out for a meal. But while my head was in the clouds, she was already looking far ahead—she had decided to study abroad in France that fall, and over the summer she'd be heading to the Philippines for student organization work. I was overwhelmed by the strength she showed in moving steadily toward her goals, and deep down, I felt a growing urge to change something about myself too.
One night, just before going to bed, my eyes fell on my bookshelf. There it was—"Chikyū no Arukikata: India," the guidebook I'd brought home from my grandmother's house. For some reason, I reached for it and started flipping through the pages.

That's it, I thought. I'm going to India.

And so, I arrived in India for my very first trip abroad. The flight was delayed by six hours, I got shortchanged when exchanging money, and when I took a taxi to the budget hotel area, I was instead dropped off at a mysterious travel agency. By the time I finally arrived in the hotel district, all the entrances were shut with iron bars.
By some miracle, one employee sleeping on the front counter noticed me and let me stay the night. I was relieved—briefly. The next morning, when I tried to check out, I realized I had forgotten to ask for a receipt when I paid. They told me, "No receipt, no proof. You need to pay." I had no choice but to pay a second time. (Later, I read in "Chikyū no Arukikata" that this was a common scam.)

Trying to shake it off and do some sightseeing, I headed to the Gateway of India.
There, a snake charmer placed a snake around my neck and took a photo. He then demanded money—an amount equivalent to last night's hotel fee. I argued, and a crowd gathered. A passerby told me, "Since you've already let him put the snake on you, you must pay what he asks. It's your fault for not asking the price first." In a country where so much could happen in just two days, I stayed for 45.

After the trip, I shared all the crazy stories with my family.
My mother said, "You only live once, so I'm glad you had such a valuable experience."

The hunger and thirst for travel that had awakened in India drove me to spend every long vacation—summer and spring—traveling abroad throughout my university years.

Before I knew it, I had become one of the people behind "Chikyū no Arukikata" —someone who now walks alongside fellow travelers.

Even now, I'm still traveling.
If I had to name where "my awakening to travel" began, it would probably be India.

Every journey has a beginning—a spark that sets it in motion.
When I reflect on my own awakening to travel, memories come to me effortlessly, as if they were waiting to be recalled.
Perhaps travel is life, and life is travel.

This text has been translated using an automatic translation tool.