Only having one month in India, I decided that focusing on one area would be best. I wanted to visit Rajasthan, home to numerous fortresses and palaces. It is near Delhi and borders the state of Uttar Pradesh, home to Agra, and the magnificent Taj Mahal. The land is dry and dusty, but the people are colorfully dressed and provide a stark contrast to their environment. Red, purple, hot pink and orange are the predominant colors of women's saris and men's turbans. In Jodhpur, in western Rajasthan, colors extend to people's houses, many of which are painted blue. Originally this was to distinguish the homes of the Brahmins (priestly caste), but nowadays non-Brahmins also paint their houses blue, which is cool in the summer heat and is said to keep mosquitoes at bay. Towering above the city of Jodhpur is the huge Meherangarh Fortress. Built atop a 125-meter-high hill, this imposing fortress is run by the Maharajah of Jodhpur, although it is now a museum and not his family residence. Maharajahs ruled hundreds of kingdoms all over India until just after World War II, when they renounced their thrones to merge with a newly independent India. For a while they received money from the Indian government to maintain their lifestyles, but the privy purses were abolished in 1971 and many former royal families fell on hard times. Throughout India, numerous palaces were sold and turned into hotels or fell into disrepair. Many of the maharajahs retain their titles, although they have no formal powers. Some still have great wealth and are highly respected. The original Meherangarh Fortress was built in the 1400s, but over the centuries additions were made to create the massive complex it is today. It was never penetrated by an enemy, although it does bear battle scars on one of its gates: large indentations from cannonball strikes. The view from the ramparts of the fortress is spectacular. They look out over the arid landscape and the blue buildings of Jodhpur, which as you probably guessed, is where those horse-riding pants originated.

I didn't get to ride any horses, but like most travelers to the region, I took a camel safari into the desert. Riding a camel is fun at first but after a few hours in forty-degree temperatures the camel's loping gait causes friction in tender places, and it loses its exotic allure. Some of the people on our safari gave up riding and decided to sit on camel-led carts. I was determined to see the safari out. My fortitude paid off when the cart riders, sitting directly behind the camel, bore the brunt of loud and noxious camel farts that echoed into the desert causing great mirth amongst everyone except the cart-riders. That night we set up camp in the desert. We ate dinner around a fire and sang and danced with the camel hands. They sang more than us, as the only song we could come up with that everyone knew was, "There were ten in the bed." The camel hands gladly joined in the chorus of "roll over, roll over," happy to be singing no matter how trite the song.

It is memories like these about people that stay with me the most. In small towns, children ran up to me and shook my hand then darted off squealing with pleasure at their daring. In so many places, poverty-stricken men and women and destitute mothers clutching emaciated babies held out their palms making my chest constrict with pity and sadness. Everywhere I went, rickshaw drivers and taxi drivers offered their services, sometimes vying with each other to get my attention while touts tried to entice me into shops, guesthouses, or restaurants by striking up conversations. "What is your country?" or "What is your good name?" are common openers, and while sometimes all the attention was infuriating, other times it was a sheer pleasure to chat to the many curious and friendly Indians that I met on trains and buses or sitting in caf市. Curiosity is openly shown in India. Small crowds gather around travelers, looking and listening. At first it's a little disconcerting to be having a conversation with someone in a station and then suddenly realize that three other people are standing there, their heads and eyes moving to take in each conversation turn as if they were watching a game of tennis. I soon realized that there was no malice involved, and that these bystanders probably couldn't understand what was being said, they just were curious because visitors to India look and are so different. I began to think of curiosity as a wonderful thing that we are sadly ashamed of in the West. However, my newfound advocacy of pure curiosity was severely tested when traveling by jeep along the dusty Rajastani country roads. I was suddenly hit by a case of "Delhi belly" and had to make a dash for some bushes. Turning around to see if I had the necessary privacy, I suddenly realized that a couple of inquisitive women had followed me from the road. Horrified, I stumbled on to more bushes making all kinds of gestures to motion them away. No doubt this piqued their curiosity even more, and they kept approaching. I needn't go into details about what happened next, although afterwards I felt a certain intimacy was established between us. Meanwhile they seemed quite disappointed with the outcome of my actions and trundled back off into the scrub.

People who worked in shops made shopping sometimes a pleasure, sometimes a hassle. It was hard to visit a shop without staying for ages, as the charming shopkeeper offered me a seat and a cup of chai, made small talk, and then proceeded to show me everything he had to offer. Only after these formalities were over was price discussed. This is an enjoyable way to shop if you have the time, but if you want to shop around, it makes things very difficult. I have to admit I loved the attention, and certainly met some of the most eloquent, velvet-tongued salesmen ever. I left India with my bags an extra ten kilos heavier, having been convinced on different occasions that I could not live without those silver ankle bells, that Muhgal carpet and that maharajah puppet.

Of course no trip to India is complete without a visit to the Taj Mahal. This struture was built in 1653 under the orders of the Mughal king Shah Jahan as a memorial to his beloved wife, Mumtaz Mahal, who died giving birth to their fourteenth child. The stunning white marble edifice took 20,000 artisans 22 years to complete. I decided I wanted to see it first thing in the morning before the hordes of people descended. At 6 a.m., with a feeling of excitement, I practically ran through the ticket gate. As I walked closer to the Taj, I felt myself choking up as I remembered tracing pictures of it and dreaming about visiting it when I was a little girl. The building is covered with Arabic inscriptions and floral patterns all inlaid with semi-precious stones. Inside the Taj the dome has incredible acoustics, so that even the slightest breeze makes a gentle humming sound that reverberates throughout the interior. It was bigger and whiter than I had imagined, and was certainly the most beautiful building I had ever seen.

I left India the day after I visited the Taj. As I drank my last cup of chai outside Indira Gandhi International Airport, I knew that my connection with India had only become stronger, and it was just a matter of time before I would go back. There is something special about India and I don't think even my colonialist great-grandfather could have denied that.