There's something about reading of a place while being in said place. Contained herein are accounts of India from her almost all foreign visitors - except perhaps Naipaul - from different moments of time. My account in 2021 will be as disparate from theirs, as theirs are from each other. The selections are not particularly memorable as a whole, but individual ones left their imprint. Here's a passage from Twain's below.
Mark Twain in Following the Equator (1897)
When I think of Bombay now, at this distance of time, I seem to have a kaleidoscope at my eye; and I hear the clash of the glass bits as the splendid figures change, and fall apart, and flash into new forms, figure after figure, and with the birth of each new form I feel my skin crinkle and my nerve-web tingle with a new thrill of wonder and delight. These remembered pictures float past me in a sequence of contrasts; following the same order always, and always whirling by and disappearing with the swiftness of a dream, leaving me with the sense that the actuality was the experience of an hour, at most, whereas it really covered days, I think.