Before getting on the plane to India, I became hesitant. Suddenly I felt like not going because I was envisioning mayhem in temples, strange smells, no public toilets, unsafe water, diarrhea, abandoned cows, and of course, the heat. But my mind struck that thought away like the way I would smash a mosquito against the mud-brick wall I grew up with in Sichuan.

Four hours later, I landed in Singapore. ‘Getting closer’, I again became excited. After all, traveling in India has been my dream for 8 years. When I got to the security entrance, I already saw some Indians waiting. When I got to the gate, I was the only Chinese waiting in a sea of Indians and my hesitation returned.

Half way from Singapore to Bangalore, the Indian flight attendants started serving food. “Good morning madam, would you like English breakfast or Indian breakfast?”, since I was determined to live like a local for a week, ‘this is a good chance to start,’ I said to myself. “Indian breakfast, please.” The flight attendant passed me a tray with a box, a piece of bread and a plastic cup of water. As soon as I tore open the cover of the hot box, I could smell the pungency of the contents, which were two small brown balls sitting in a yellowish soupy mix. I noticed there was no spoon or fork when I tried to taste the food. “Excuse me, could you give me chops … I mean, spoon?” ah, damn, old habits die hard! The flight attendant turned back with a confused look. But in a few seconds, he passed me a cutlery set. I fished one of the small balls out onto my spoon and began nibbling, ensuring that my stomach was up to the task. It tasted sweet, too sweet for me. I had no idea about the ingredients of those balls, but didn’t feel like eating the second one.

Two hours later, looking through the plane window at the land I’ve been dreaming about for 8 years, I spied mountains, little towns, and winding roads running through villages and over the mountains. ‘Hello India,’ I greeted the land below.

While the young customs officer was asking me immigration and customs questions, an older officer came over and standing behind the young one seated at the counter, began to repeat some of the questions presented by the junior. “What is the purpose of your trip?” he said in a thick Indian-accented head-bobbing manner. “I want to live like a local for a week.” He was amused by this answer. A few minutes later, “Welcome to India”, the young officer said with a wide white-toothed smile. “Thank you!” … ‘now I’m officially in India!’

Pooja and her cousin were already waiting at the gate, though I did have to take a closer look to make sure it was her. Now that she was in an Indian dress with an Indian hairstyle, she looked very much different from the one I see in the office. Her cousin looked like a tough, however, I was soon to discover his exceedingly warm-hearted nature.

“Do you want to take a bath? I’ll show you to the bathroom” and proceeded to lead me to an ill-lit room. I couldn’t identify much under the dim light. Ug, the wet, cold concrete floor sent chills up through my feet to my spine, raising the hairs on the back of my neck. ‘I don’t really want a “bath” here.’ I turned to her, “I’m having jet lag, will do it tomorrow morning,” as I glanced around trying to identify something that looked like a shower or bathtub.

It wasn’t till dinner time that I realized there wasn’t a dinner table to be found in the apartment. Two mattresses were spread on the floor. Then about 10 plates were placed in front of the mattresses. I sat at the end of one mattress against the wall so that nobody could notice my ill manner. A teaspoon of salt appeared on my plate, then some pickles, then some yellowish mix, then some flat bread, a tin glass of water appeared on the left side of my plate and a small bowl of soup appeared by the right. I was hesitant to drink the water but Pooja’s father sensed my apprehension and ensured me “it’s very safe water, don’t worry!”. I gulped down the water and smiled at him.

That night as I was laying on my mat, I was anxiously waiting for the legendary waves of upset stomach to commence but nothing came. I fell asleep to the sound of silence punctuated by the sounds of insects that emanated from outside the apartment. It was a still and beautiful night.

I woke up to the chirping of birds and laid there comfortably on a bed of pillows, feeling surprisingly well rested.

That evening, the girl friends of the bride came to visit. Being the bride’s college friends, they chatted lively and the living room was filled with loud laughter. They came with a mission – to draw mehndi for the bride. Before coming to India, I thought mehndi was like a tattoo and only certain people are qualified to do it. And so if you want a mehndi, you need to go to a parlor. Yet the girls just pulled up mehndi images on their phone and asked the bride to choose her favorite. Once the decision was made, one girl started drawing expertly on the bride’s hands and feet, and it was as simple as that. The rest of them started drawing mehndi for each other. Pooja did the same for me. The design I chose served only as a reference for her, as she was constantly putting her own ideas into the drawing. It was a time-consuming job yet the finished work was a piece of art.

Everybody was up before 7 and started dressing up for the big day. Bright-colored Saris were laid out on the bed, along with numerous bangles, gold necklaces and shining earrings, fit to be the wardrobe of a bird of paradise going to meet her suitor. The intricate folding and draping of the dress pleases the aesthetically minded, a feast for the eyes, particularly with the colors of peacock plumage, where the hue of green abounds. Green is for married women. Pooja and the other married women all put on green bangles and Pooja’s mother wore a flowing green sari. When the dressing was finished, everybody looked like the stunning stars from Bollywood movies.

At 8:15 a lady came to the hotel room to do make-up and hair for the bride. Having nothing much to do, I went to enjoy Indian tea on the small veranda and enjoy the view of the street below. Pooja’s father walked over and sat at the same table. “In our caste, weddings are like this.” Then we had a small talk about the wedding, the city and the state of education in Karnataka.

“Lauren, the groom will arrive on a horse, let’s watch.” Pooja’s husband excitingly announced. Before long, the noise of what seemed to be thousands of drums approached from one side of the street. “Lauren, will you dance with me?” Pooja’s father invited. Remembering my painful experience of people laughing at my dancing, I instinctively said “No” with my quintessentially apologetic Chinese smile. ‘Me, dancing?!’ my painful memory was still fresh “you look like a robot when you dance!” had said my university roommate. I wasn’t going to embarrass myself again today. But the drums came closer, and I could see a sea of orange approaching. Blocking the traffic, the wall of orange, I quickly realized, belonged to the hats of the largely male wedding entourage.

The groom came on a horse. He was in a long purple-trimmed white traditional southern Indian two-part suit with a purple Hindu hat adorned with a white feather at the front. He had a noble look about him with his confidence exclaiming “I’m the king today”. The crowd danced more enthusiastically upon seeing the groom. As I bobbed back and forth and as I struck my hand out to the imaginary center of the crowd, I sweated buckets inside my blue sari as my perspiration turned it bluer by the moment. As the dancing crowd and now groom dancing toward the hotel, I found myself finally dancing with Pooja’s father.

After the photo session, we walked to a lower floor to have dinner. I grabbed a plate and spoon on a green vegetable mix, red paneer masala vegetable, cabbage, corn salad, mango pickle, chapati made from whole wheat flour, and a bowl of white, sweet Ras Malai, resembling yogurt. All were amazingly delicious vegetarian dishes.

Immediately after finishing my lunch on the stretch of tables outside the house, one of the million sacred cows that roam the street of India walked over, looking for food in the trash can. “Feed her,” Pooja’s husband encouraged me, so I offered a piece of bread which it gladly accepted and then sauntered away. Cows are everywhere yet beef is illegal, which is probably why cows are everywhere.