Mention you are going to India, and the chances are you will be told: “You must go to see the Taj Mahal.” This historic landmark has been photographed time and time again a straight frontal shot. But India offers more than that. It’s a photographer’s paradise.

The hustle and bustle of life on the Indian sub-continent drew my attention when I arrived. Life continues at an alarming, hectic pace on the densely populated streets. People rush around to make a living. Survival is for the fittest and this is where one is confronted to grab pictures on the run. The Indian is least interested when you take pictures so it is very much easy to do lively street photography.

One scene that is always visible is the sacred cow leisurely walking among the people. The cow has the right of way. A cow will decide to squat in the middle of the street. No attempts will be made to shoo it off. Instead, the heavy traffic of cars, three-wheelers, scooters and pedestrians will by past it as life goes on with the least concern the cow is causing a traffic jam.

My favourite place was Rajasthan simply because it is ablaze with colour. Women dressed in colourful saris, houses painted with themes relating to their faith in vibrant colours is a tourist’s delight for pictures.

It goes without saying, “When you are in Rome, do as the Romans do.” In India, I had to make a complete U-turn from a Catholic upbringing to following the Hindu way. Being “westernized” by living in the west was not easy to make the change but I was hell-bent to adapt.

Just in case the reader is wondering who I really am let me put this in perspective. My parents emigrated to Kenya from India from a province called Goa that is south of Mumbai. Goa was a Portuguese Colony and my ancestors were converted to Christianity where subsequent generations lost their Hindu roots. The migrating path continued for us. My younger brother and I emigrated to Canada. One sister and a brother to the U.S. and the youngest sister to England.

The first task in India was to become a vegetarian and eat using your right hand. The idea of going to India came when Raman Khare my son’s mother-in-law, a Hindu woman who coaxed me to come to India with her. She said, “Since you don’t speak Hindi, you will be comfortable with me. I will do all the talking on your behalf. We will not be travelling in large cities but in small towns and villages where my relatives are.” She added, “You can take all the pictures you want to your heart’s content. No one will object.”

I mastered the task of eating using my right hand. At first, the food stuck to my hands and although most of it landed in my mouth some dripped on my chin. No one at the table made funny remarks. I was respected all the way in making an effort to recover my Hindu roots.

Raman told me whenever I wanted to talk to someone in the street when she was not with me, introduce yourself by joining your hands and say, “Om Shanti.” (Peace). The youth speak English and the people in the streets will be helpful after they discover that you are a foreigner a term to describe that you are not a native although you look like one.

Using transport in India was frightening. When you sit in a jam-packed three-wheeler, say a prayer that you will arrive in one peace to your destination. The first time I used a three-wheeler, my leg was protruding out into the street. By sign-language, I managed to tell the driver who was already racing down the streets my predicament. Without the least concern, he said, “Chalta hai.” I assumed it meant that God will take care of you. Later I learnt it meant that “Don’t worry. It’s ok.”

I loved to drink Chai in India. It is tea but prepared by boiling the milk and adding certain spices. One has to drink it hot. It is very soothing and relaxes you. While one is bargaining over the price of a sari or shirt in a shop, Chai mysteriously arrives and is offered to you to give the bargaining process a friendly touch. You don’t buy any item in India without bargaining. Raman Khare is an expert in the art of bargaining. When she discovered that I had purchased a shirt she was upset. She said that I had paid double the price because the shopkeeper discovered I was a foreigner. After that anything I needed she bargained for it.

We travelled from New Delhi right across the land by train stopping on the way to visit Raman’s relatives. The final stop was at the Thar Desert near the Pakistan/India border offering a complete change in scenery. People flock here to walk on the sand dunes and see the magnificent sunsets.

The Indian journey was an experience I will never forget. Raman stayed behind for a longer period promising me that she would teach me how to make Chai on her return. India is a totally different world far removed from the west. Before boarding the plane for Montreal, I turned around facing the city, joined my hands and said, “Om Shanti” to the people of India.