The Indian heat had left me with itchy skin, popping lips and inflamed eyes. My body was a landing strip for bugs — they rested on my ankles, chugged along my legs, and crash-landed on my eyelids.

The sound of cleaning was inescapable. Whoosh-klack! Whoosh-klack! No one scrubbed or wiped, they hit with cloth instead.

On the teeming streets, people prayed amidst the puttering engines and tooting horns. Taxi drivers discussed which was more important — money or faith.

A man stumbled through the swarming bodies, pushing a metal bowl into my chest.

“Yes? Yes?” he said.

No time for full sentences here, even the beggars were in a rush.

Everything was on me: the people, the sweat and the bugs. For a while I embraced it — and then, when it became too much, I fled for the mountains.

Dharamsala was full of red-robed monks; they strolled the streets, chatting on their mobile phones.

Next to my hotel there was a small yoga school. I noticed a constant stream of beautiful women drifting through its doors, so I decided to give it a try.

Inside the building, an Indian instructor sat in front of a huge window that looked onto the hills.

For a moment I felt relaxed, then the class began.

My body was so stiff I could barely touch beyond my knees. Saddened by this, I resolved to fix it — the quicker the better.

The following week I attended two yoga classes a day. These brought me no relaxation, but who cared? I wasn’t trying to find inner peace — I just wanted to get into shape as fast as possible.

This kind of mentality was an accident waiting to happen.

Two days later it did.

I was reaching for my toes — my face stiff with effort — when a bolt of pain shot through my hip.

“You need to visit my doctor,” said the instructor. “He’ll fix you. He’s a wonderful man.”

This guy has got a great business, I thought to myself. First he injures the tourists in his yoga classes, then he recommends his doctor and they split the profits.

“The doctor only works on Sunday mornings,” the instructor added. “So I will send someone to go with you in the taxi.”

“Thanks,” I said, certain the taxi driver was in on the scam.

On Sunday morning, a guy called Sam collected me from the guesthouse. I was in so much pain — and in such a bad mood — that even his smile pissed me off.

He and the driver sang along to Indian pop music.

“How much will this appointment cost?” I sulked.

Sam turned to give me his full attention.

“The doctor only accepts donations. You can pay nothing if you like.”

“Wrong,” I replied. “I can’t just say ‘Thanks for the service’ and give him nothing. It’ll be too awkward.”

Sam offered me the kind of smile a parent gives their child mid-tantrum, then began to sing again.

We left the centre behind and entered dusty farmland. I watched the scenery fizz past the window, waiting for the hospital building to appear.

It never came.

Instead we pulled up outside a run-down farmhouse.

The garden was full of people — most were seriously ill. There were kids with rashes, men with burns, and women whose faces had ballooned with infection.

When we reached the front queue, Sam pushed me through the door of a wooden barn.

In the darkness, my eyes found an old farmer sitting cross-legged on a bed. He was dressed in the same clothes he had been wearing in the fields all week.

“This is the doctor,” Sam smiled.

I didn’t argue with this definition; I didn’t have the energy.

The farmer hopped off the bed, and then — without warning — shoved his knee into my (uninjured) hip and twisted it hard.

I doubled over, trying to process the pain.

“He wants you to walk in a circle,” Sam told me.

“What for?” I spat.

“Just do it.”

“He’s got the wrong leg! It’s the other one which hurts!”

“He knows where it hurts. Now walk in a circle.”

“Alright, alright.”

I took a walk around the barn.

“Am I doing it right?” I asked. “Am I walking in a big enough circle?”

No reply, so I continued to walk.

Eventually the farmer beckoned me over.

Cracks of light crept through the curtains and cast his face in shadow. Lowering his voice to a whisper, he spoke in English for the first time.

“Your leg is fixed. But if you start lying again, the pain will return.”

He held eye contact for a moment, then slapped me on the back.

Before I knew it, we were outside again.

Sam led me into a little courtyard, where incense smoke swirled in the heat. He pointed to a statue of Ganesha and the donations around it.

“How much should I give?” I asked.

“It’s up to you. The doctor won’t keep the money anyway. His healing powers are a gift from God — so he can’t charge for them.”

I tucked some cash beneath the elephant’s trunk, then rubbed my hip, which hurt as much as before.

“Give it time,” smiled Sam, “Give it time.”

As it turned out, I didn’t have to give it too much time at all.

The next morning I prodded my hip to find the pain completely gone.

In that moment two emotions arrived — doubt and panic.

Don’t get me wrong.

I didn’t feel like I had been part of a miracle.

But it had planted the seed that maybe — just maybe — everything I thought I knew about the world could be wrong.