When I came back it seemed so quiet. I looked out of the window and nothing was happening. Every moment there had been something, lots of things, going on. So much interaction between so many people. "All human life is here"

John's words of warning had proved true. "Everything works in India, but not in the way you would expect" It is a place of massive bureaucracy, so much so that people find ways of avoiding it, and create their own way of doing things. It can be a bit disconcerting until you relax into it. Rights of way? Highway Code? Not really in evidence, but the apparent chaos of the roads is moderated by human interaction - eye contact, negotiation, subtle displays of precedence. It mostly works. On one roundabout in Delhi we made our way past a taxi driver (tuk-tuk) kneeling in the road, trying to get his engine going with a bit of rope around the starter motor; a camel cart, two cycle rickshaws each carrying 20 foot long steel poles, and we were just going straight ahead. Heaven knows what we would have found if we had turned right.

On our first day I experienced an unexpected sense of familiarity. I'd thought it would seem exotic, that I would struggle to make sense of it. But there it all was; The Red Fort. India Gate. A banyan tree. Bullock carts. As if I'd always known it. Was it the influence of Rudyard Kipling - The Jungle Book? The Just So stories? Or EM Forster? Or the influence of Indian architecture on British cities that made it seem so familiar? (Do the mosques at the Taj Mahal look like Victorian railway stations or vice versa?) Or is there a deeper connection between British and Indian culture? I never felt uncomfortable, never felt threatened, never felt I didn't know what was going on around me.

What won't I forget? Women in beautiful saris working in the fields and on the roads. The goat in the back of the taxi. The elegance of the older girls walking to school in their salwar kameez and dupatta. First sight of the Himalays. The hub-bub of Ahmedabad market, Going out in all the hustle and bustle in the three wheeled tuk-tuks, like being on the dodgems but more fun. The Patri Palace and breakfast with the Zamindar.

And the real need and the dignity in the communities we visited. People are glad of the support that Lotus Flower Trust can give, but this is an equal partnership. They clearly want to take ownership and control of decisions that affect their children and their communities. It wasn't just the smiling faces of the children at Mala Ramnagh, and the songs they performed for us that won me over, but the conversations with the parents. Farmers, labourers, who could articulate exactly what they wanted for the school, what help they needed and what they could do themselves. And the dedication and commitment of the teachers working in what, in the UK, we would consider impossible conditions.

Everywhere we went we met people who had, in our terms, virtually nothing. But, without exception, the children in the schools and homes we visited were happy, healthy, clean, well looked after, interested in us, relaxed with their friends and with the adults caring for them. There is a sense of optimism, of "we can make things better" that was invigorating and refreshing - a real antidote to the prevailing atmosphere in the UK at the moment.

Early mornings, long drives, serendipitous meetings, travelling with a plan, but open to what happens on the way. To travel with Lotus Flower Trust is to become immersed in India. Don't try to compare. Don't take your preconceptions with you. Don't judge. Travel with an open mind and accept what is offered to you. Stories, Chai. Blessings in the temple. Garlands. Sweets. Children singing and dancing. Invitations to people's homes (which may entail long drives down country roads or the back streets of the town without really knowing where you are or where you're going) Accept it all, and when you are back in the UK, or even back in the tourist zone, you'll realise what a privilege it has been to enter into other people's lives in this way.

You see things differently here. At Akaash Ganga, the gate opened and in came a little boy, 8 or 9 years old, pulling himself along the ground in a sitting position. He can't walk - maybe cerebral palsy(I don't know?) Shocking? Appalling? Should we be going all out to get him a wheelchair? I don't think so. He is mobile. He can get to where he wants to, when he wants to. He's not dependent on someone pushing him around. He is at school with the other children, accepted by them. A wheelchair would disable him further.

At a residential school for children with learning disabilities we asked, "What happens to the children as they get older?" Well, they said, families often take them back to live with them. The school has dealt with some of the behavioural problems, addressed the issues of toilet training and hygiene, the children can now follow simple instructions and so be of help at home. Child Labour? Exploitation? Or young people with learning disabilities enabled to find a place in their own society, able to contribute to, and have a place, in the family economic unit, and growing up with a sense of their own position and the security that must give? Isn't that better than being completely dependent on the support of professionals? Do we offer our own young people this much?

You'll meet extraordinary people. The paediatric physiotherapist whe had gone to Kabul to train staff there -"because it was needed". The 78 year old paediatric consultant working voluntarily in the children's hospital. The teacher putting virtually all the income from his family's farm into the school he runs for children with learning disabilities.

When you come back you have a choice. You can wrap it all up and label it as a "fantastic holiday", put it away, and get on with your life as though it never happened. Or, which is harder, you can try to keep your mind open to this amazing experience and let it influence your thoughts and actions now and in the future.

I know which I'm trying to do... 

Gwyneth Lamb 2011