Alone but not Lonely

A COMBINATION of fear, apprehension and excitement gripped me as the plane began its descent into Delhi. I wished someone special was sitting beside me to share the forthcoming adventure with. Yet, at the same time I was aware it was something I had to do for myself, on my own, to grow. And, just perhaps, to grow up.

India announced itself as soon as I stepped off the plane and made my way to the domestic terminal for my flight to Kolkata. The most recognisable reminder was the pungent, heavy air. It was winter, a season notorious for pollution and smog trapped between the upper and lower layers of the atmosphere. My nostrils welcomed it.

To a girl from Australia, the place fulfilled the definition of exotic, and left no doubt as to exactly where I was. Always absorbing, often confounding, but never boring. Love it, hate it, it's impossible to remain ambivalent about India. The sights, sounds and smells are so intrusive they cannot be ignored. Jostling crowds, blaring horns, the grate of rapid-fire Hindi, clanging of temple bells, cries of street vendors, brightly coloured saris, flashes of gold and the sweet smell of jasmine.

The shuttle bus to the domestic terminal was waiting near a carpark curiously designated for VVIPs (Very, Very Important Persons). Were there so many VIPs in India that another, more exclusive, category was needed? I wondered. Only later did I learn it was India's often corrupt politicians who received such special treatment. The bus finally lurched into life, taking us transiting passengers, both foreigners and Indians, over a dusty field away from the international terminal. Ignoring the looming signs that implored him to go ‘Dead Slow’, the bus driver proceeded to swerve violently around each corner. We passed dusty hangars sheltering aircraft in various states of repair, some with their seats ripped out and sitting dejectedly on the ground. To the side of the airport, airport employees slept on stretchers in makeshift huts, guarded by armed security. On the main road in front of the airport, roaming cows and monkeys greeted travellers. In the middle of the roundabout, a group of men wearing suits and ties lay sprawled on the grass in the late afternoon light, smoking bedis (hand-rolled cigarettes) and playing cards.

Chaos reigned at the domestic terminal. It was December 2005, and Delhi airport was yet to be woken by change. Its terminals were unrenovated, JetLite was still known as Air Sahara, and the local airline, Kingfisher, had only been operating a week. The cramped and outdated domestic terminal was hopelessly inadequate for the volume of traffic that mercilessly converged on it every day. I struggled to negotiate check-in and finally settled myself in the departure lounge. The cricket dominated every television in the terminal, and almost every passenger was glued to it. Disinterested as I was, I was glad when boarding for my flight to Kolkata was called an hour before the scheduled departure time.

This didn't mean that the flight actually left on time. We were herded onto another shuttle bus and taken to our plane, which was stationed in front of one of the ramshackle maintenance hangars near the international terminal. It was well into the night by the time I arrived in Kolkata.

I was met at Kolkata airport by the volunteer coordinator. The volunteer program was administered by an organisation in the UK, and for a participation fee, I was to be provided with a place to stay, meals and a coordinator to look after me. Her name was Sucharita. She emerged from the depths of the human wall that had formed against the barricades outside the arrivals terminal. It would be hard to miss her. Her considerable height and short wavy hair, unusual for a middle-aged Bengali woman, made her stand out.

Waiting in the car was Tara, another newly arrived volunteer. She was born in India but had been adopted by a family in the USA. On vacation from college, she'd come back to rediscover her Indian roots.

Sucharita announced we'd be having dinner at a restaurant with a visiting representative from the volunteer program office in the UK. We drove through the streets of Kolkata to the venue. The air was softer here than in Delhi, and the architecture distinctly colonial. Slowly crumbling walls and flaking paint unceremoniously revealed tired, grey cement. Unwilling to preserve the legacy of the British empire, Kolkata's communist government left it to decay. A mammoth resoration drive, the first of its kind in India, was gaining momentum in the city but it would evidently take a while for it to rescue the facades of all the buildings.

Among the dilapidation, the restaurant was located atop a swanky new shopping mall. This wasn't the Kolkata I was expecting. I was soon to discover that in contrast to its impoverished past and ailing infrastructure, Kolkata had been developing at a swift rate since the economic reforms of the mid-1990s and the information technology boom that revitalised its economy. No longer identified with just slums, destitution and the heartening work of Mother Teresa, the city was reclaiming its title of the cultural capital of India, particularly known for its writers, poets, musicians and artists.

Our dinner companion from the UK couldn't wait to have a beer.

‘Care to join me?’ he asked.

Feeling the tension of travelling for almost 24 hours, I indeed longed to join him. However, I was fully aware of how disreputable it would look. Virtuous middle-class women rarely drank alcohol in India. My hesitation to say no must have been evident because a beer soon materialised in front of me. The waiter proceeded to take a particular interest in this apparently loose western woman who was drinking beer. Sucharita didn't seem impressed either.

‘My name is Martin, like as in Ricky Martin. I sing like him also,’ he announced with a grin. ‘And what is your good name, madam?’

I'd forgotten how excitable Indian men could be. And there was that peculiarity of asking to know one's ‘good name’, as if I had a bad name. (In fact, the correct alternative is a pet name.) Fortunately, his curiosity didn't end with me. He soon turned to Sucharita.

‘And who might you be, madam? You are with these people for what reason?’

Not keen to indulge his fantasies, she told him that we were from a hospital far, far away.

‘Oh, I was thinking that you might be a nun,’ he replied animatedly.

‘He must be helping himself to the liquor while serving drinks,’ Sucharita declared in disgust after he'd departed.

After dinner, Sucharita delivered Tara and me to our accommodation. Again, I was surprised. We would be staying at Hiland Park; by Indian standards, a luxurious new high-rise residential complex on the outskirts of town. It was the first high-rise development in Kolkata, and its gleaming white towers rose starkly from the vacant grassy surroundings. The complex contained nine towers in total, ranging in height from 17 to 28 floors. Within it were an astonishing 941 apartments. We were on the fifth floor of one of the shortest towers.

It soon became obvious that my accommodation wasn't ready. The apartment that my room was located in was unoccupied and mostly unfurnished. This was in contrast to the other volunteers, who were sharing a comfortably lived-in apartment down the hall. While my apartment had a couple of beds, couches still in their plastic wrapper, a coffee table and a fridge, there were no kitchen cupboards, no curtains, no wardrobe, no mosquito nets, no washing machine, no microwave, no cooking utensils and no hot water.

‘You'll have to adapt,’ Sucharita told me, adding that I'd be getting a flatmate and more furniture soon. I learned pretty quickly that though congenial on the surface, she was prone to emotional outbursts when volunteers failed to adapt as required. It also became apparent that ‘adapt’ was the most favoured word in her vocabulary.

In that empty apartment in an unfamiliar city that night, I was assailed by packs of massive and unrelenting mosquitoes as I tried to sleep. My loneliness was oddly offset by my gratitude at the opportunity to be alone for a while.

The next morning I drifted around the apartment, examining its whitewashed walls and marble floors and benches. On the floor in a corner of the other bedroom I found a small bronze statue of Lord Ganesh, a box of incense, incense holder and matches. I gently carried them to the coffee table in the living room and lit the incense. Its soothing, ancient smell instantly calmed and cheered me. Although it had only been a night since I'd arrived in Kolkata, I thought that I might actually be okay there.

It wasn't long before Sucharita arrived at the apartment. I had only the one day to settle in before starting work at the centre for underprivileged women that I'd been assigned to. She was keen to start the orientation process. Behind her was a small dark man.

‘This is Kali,’ she introduced him. ‘Kali will be providing your food and cleaning the apartment.’

It was a curious name, one better known as the fearsome Hindu mother of death and Kolkata's presiding deity. With blood-drenched tongue jutting out of her black face, hands bearing bladed weapons, and ears and neck decorated with dismembered body parts, the true Kali is a terrifying sight. The name also means ‘black one’.

It was obvious that Kali, the servant, was uneducated and couldn't speak much English. Communication would be interesting. He went about his work while Sucharita took me to the other apartment to meet the rest of the volunteers. They were all in their late teens and early twenties.

‘You can't be!’ they exclaimed, when I told them I was 31. ‘You only look like you're 25.’ Unconfident and unsure of myself, I certainly felt that young.

The youngest two girls, Georgie and Nicole, were also from Australia, on their first trip overseas. They were suffering from severe culture shock and couldn't engage with India's confronting personality and were keen to leave. Bubbly, blonde Claudine from England appeared to have settled in well. Cliona, who was from Ireland, was out, but I was told she had been there the longest and had apparently become almost Indian. She could speak Hindi, often wore Indian clothes and had made plenty of local friends.

It emerged that the girls were all volunteering together, teaching in schools and slums; I would be the only one working at the women's centre. Not only did I have to live by myself, I had to work by myself too.

I felt even more anxious when Sucharita told me I would have to take the bus to work. The journey would take an hour each way, and I'd have to change buses. I was in an unfamiliar city and I didn't speak the language. How would I ever cope?

‘We will take a practice run,’ Sucharita said. ‘And on the way, we'll go to a shopping centre so you can buy some Indian clothes. You must wear Indian clothes to work to blend in with the women there as much as possible. They are poor and will feel more comfortable if you dress like them.’

This was getting harder by the minute. Sure, they might feel comfortable, but what about me? I'd wanted to be a bit less concerned about my appearance in India but I could see that it wouldn't be possible if I had to dress in a certain, and completely untried, way. I would be more unsure of myself than ever.

The bus stop was located on the main road, a five-minute walk from my apartment. Heaving, rusty, mechanical monsters that belched out pollution ground to a halt there at irregular intervals. Hordes of people scrambled to get on and off before the conductor bashed the side of the bus with his hand and shouted something incoherent to let the driver know he should proceed.

‘We will take the number 1B to Dhakuria, okay?’ Sucharita instructed. ‘I want you to tell the conductor where we're going. It's important that you pronounce the name right and be understood.’

Our destination, which required a series of tongue acrobatics completely foreign to an English speaker, did nothing to put me at ease. The ‘dha’ is known as an aspirated, retroflex consonant. There's no equivalent to its pronunciation in the English language. The speaker has to touch her tongue to the roof of her mouth and flip it down, while breathing out and trying not to choke. The word ‘Dhakuria’ also requires a slightly trilled rolling of the ‘r’. I was being thrown in at the deep end.

Inside the bus, I squeezed myself onto a cramped wooden bench seat and awaited my fate. Most of the passengers were men, neatly dressed in the customary pants and shirts. The few woman sat segregated, with their saris wrapped immaculately around themselves and the pallu (loose end of the sari) often draped over their heads. Their long dark hair was scraped back into tightly woven buns and their faces were devoid of make-up. The warm shades of their skin blended together but contrasted against mine. Combined with my western dress, I stood out like a beacon. Despite the teeming humanity, I was isolated because of my difference.

It wasn't long before the conductor stopped in front of me. No matter how much I tried, my tongue refused to position itself as needed. As all heads turned in my direction, the source of the shambling sound, I wished I was anywhere else but there. What had I gotten myself into? Whatever was I thinking coming to India by myself? I wasn't brave enough for this!

After my third hopeless attempt, Sucharita realised I wasn't going to make myself understandable and intervened. I resisted the urge to leap off the bus and run to the safety of my apartment. In this unfamiliar city that contained the population of Australia, I felt very much an outsider. I had no one to share my trials and tribulations with, empathise over the challenges or laugh over the misfortunes. I was going to have to rely on myself. I badly wanted someone to hold my hand.

As the bus crunched and groaned along, I distracted myself by looking out the window while the people of India played their lives out on the streets. So used to the quiet streets of Melbourne, it seemed like the whole of Kolkata was gathered by the roadside. Vegetable vendors sat hunkered down, their bright array of produce laid out on the ground in front of them for finicky Indian housewives to pick over. I'd never seen such varieties of gourds before. Men gathered around makeshift chai (tea) stalls, fashioned out of chunky bits of bamboo tied together. The richer shopkeepers were holed up in their small tin shacks, draped in assorted potato-chip packets and other consumable items. Cycle rickshaw walas rested, leaning up against their rickshaws, waiting for the next fare. People coughed and spat. Vehicles honked.

Around forty minutes later we reached Dhakuria. I took note that we disembarked next to a petrol station, and hoped I'd recognise it the next day.

‘From here, we'll take bus number 45 to Park Circus,’ Sucharita told me. It wasn't long before the required bus lumbered up to us and we were on our way again. I found some comfort in the fact that Park Circus, a name reminiscent of the British Raj, didn't present with any pronunciation challenges.

Park Circus, I soon discovered, was aptly named. A huge roundabout with roads running off it in all directions, it had cars, buses, auto rickshaws, bicycles and a man carrying a heavy hessian bag on his head jostling for their place. Sucharita took me along Park Street, then down a side street to the women's centre where I'd be working. The centre was located on the top floor of a decaying, whitewashed residential building. The doorway was so low I had to bend down to enter. Inside, I met the people who ran the centre – Aarti, Meera and Nalini.

‘So, what do you do?’ they asked me.

‘I'm an accountant,’ I reluctantly replied.

‘Ah, perfect, you can work in the showroom,’ they decided. ‘A stocktake is needed.’

Inwardly, I groaned. A stocktake! I'd come all the way to India to get away from accounting, and I was going to have to do a stocktake. The universe has a sense of humour sometimes.

My hours were to be 9 a.m. to 5 p.m., Monday to Friday, just like an office job. I knew the other volunteers were only working around five hours a day at their projects. It seemed unfair. However, the position would only be for five weeks, and I still hoped that I'd get to meet and work with the women who the centre supported.

While stopping to change buses at Dhakuria on the way back, Sucharita took me to the Dakshinapan Shopping Centre for my Indian wardrobe. This open-air shopping complex houses a number of handicraft emporiums, as well as row upon row of cheap, nondescript clothing shops. The task was to find a salwaar kameez or two that suited me. Every shopkeeper vied for my attention as soon as they saw me.

‘Madam, madam. Come look my shop. Yes, madam, can I help you?’

After being shown dozens of outfits, I finally found a red-and-brown patterned salwaar kameez for 150 rupees ($5), and another in blue for 250 rupees ($8). The salwaar kameez, a loose-fitting pants and tunic combination with dupatta (scarf), hung like a tent on my thin body. But it would suffice.

Back at the apartment, I knew I was going to have to do something about the mosquito menace. Although Hiland Park was located in the middle of nowhere, on a road known as the EM Bypass, it wasn't completely isolated. There was a shopping mall right in front of it. And, in that shopping mall was the closest thing I was to find to a western department store, the Big Bazaar.

To the uninitiated, the Big Bazaar is India's version of a discount department store. It's a two-storey mecca that stocks everything from food to fridges, to cookware to clothes. With a slogan of ‘Is se sasta aur accha kahin nahi! (nowhere cheaper or better than this!)’, it's been expanding through India and fuelling frenzies among shoppers at an alarming rate. No doubt, a sign of an emerging middle class with a disposable income.

That night marked the beginning of my strong love/hate relationship with the Big Bazaar. Blissfully ignorant, I was unaware that the colossal crowd milling around outside was also an indication of what was within. As I passed through a security check to be admitted indoors, the first thing that struck me was the complete disarray. Merchandise was clustered together in islands, piled onto tables and overflowing from large bins. Whole families hunted for bargains in huge groups, eagerly pushing past me in their hurry to unearth the next good deal. Trolleys acted as obstacles in already jammed thoroughfares.

All of this, I was later to learn, was no design flaw but purposely laid out that way. A neat and empty shop, which may appeal to foreigners like me, will never attract the masses in India. For Indians, shopping is entertainment. They like to be able to bump into people, chat, gossip and eat while shopping. The Big Bazaar, with its organised chaos, purposely facilitates this.

It certainly didn't make easy my mission of acquiring a mosquito net. My confusion only increased as I left the store. At the checkout, the mosquito net was placed into a plastic carry bag, which was then heat-sealed shut. At the exit, a security officer demanded to see my receipt, which was then hole-punched and returned to me. Neither process made sense, especially as it wasn't possible to check the contents of my sealed shopping bag against the items listed on the receipt. It would be a long time before I futilely stopped looking for logic in India!

The next morning, I managed to make my way to work and arrived on time. I was proud of the fact that I'd done it without any hiccups, or having to ask for help. I nervously stepped inside the building and, deciphering a handwritten sign instructing ‘Please Open Your Shoes Down’, removed my sandals.

Every day the women's centre opened with meditation and yoga, followed by music, singing and prayer.

‘Saab ka mangal, saab ka mangal, saab ka mangal, hoi re (Let good happen to everyone).’ It was touching and inspiring. Most importantly, for all the women from diverse backgrounds who attended the centre, it fostered hope and oneness. It was impossible to know, just by looking at the women, that they had suffered intense hardship and oppression, living in unhygienic conditions with the burden of having to meet the domestic and financial needs of their families. They were so composed and attractively dressed, although they looked at me with wary eyes.

Introductions were made over steaming hot cups of spicy chai. I felt as shy as the women, and didn't know what to say to them to bridge the divide between us. The women at the centre were taught skills that would empower them to earn a decent income and live a more dignified life. They learned how to read and write, make handicrafts, pickles and jam, market the goods and manage a small business. The showroom was a retail outlet for what they produced. It was stacked from floor to ceiling with eye-catching batik wall hangings, bedding, clothes, bags, aprons, greeting cards, leather purses and notebook covers. All of a sudden, the thought of immersing myself in their work and having to do a stocktake didn't seem so bad.

At lunchtime, Nalini and Meera invited me to join them in their office.

‘Come, sit,’ they directed me as they unfurled mats on the floor. I contorted myself into a cross-legged pose and positioned my lunch in front of me. It was a simple meal of rice and potatoes, cooked by some of the women at the centre. It suited me, as I'd always liked Indian food and had never had a problem eating it. Fortunately, I was given a spoon, and so was saved from having to make a clumsy attempt to eat with my fingers. But I would learn and become familiar with eating with my fingers by the time I left the centre. The trick is to use the fingers to work the food into a ball. Then with four fingers acting like a spoon, gather it up onto the fingertips with the thumb, place the thumb behind it, and lever it into the mouth.

‘So, tell us about yourself,’ they asked. Used to living communally, Indians like to know as much as possible about each other. There is little concept of privacy, so prized in the west. ‘How old are you and do you have a husband?’

Just the questions I didn't want to answer! I knew if I told them my true age but said I was single, they would think it strange since anyone over the ripe old age of 29 is looked on as being past marriageable age in India. I decided to be truthful but to say as little as possible.

‘Um, I'm 31 and yes, I do.’

‘How long have you been married? What is his work? He didn't mind you coming here?’

The questions kept coming. I answered them briefly, and then deflected their interest by asking some of my own.

‘And what about both of you? Any husbands?’ This prompted one of the most enlightening discussions I've ever had in India.

‘Oh no, we don't want to get married,’ they chorused. ‘Once we get married, we'll have to give up working and look after our husband's family.’

‘Really?’ I said in surprise.

‘Yes, in India, traditionally when a girl gets married she goes to live with her husband and his parents. Everyone lives together in the same house. A wife must take care of her husband's family while the husband earns the money to support them. We're not ready to spend our lives cooking and cleaning for other people all day. We like our work here.’

I was amazed. Coming from a country with a culture that cultivates independence, the idea of not only having to live with the in-laws but also to look after them was completely incomprehensible to me. Travelling around India as a tourist, I hadn't had the opportunity to find out much about daily life in India, and was keen to know more.

‘So, how old are you both, and where do you live? And do you have any boyfriends?’

‘We're 24 and 26,’ they replied. ‘And we live with our parents.’

It was no surprise to learn that they were still living at home, but all the same it was a little perplexing. Like most young people in Australia, I'd been so anxious to move into my own place as soon as I'd finished university and started work. I couldn't wait to taste freedom. But that kind of freedom, while not only a rarity, was also quite unacceptable in traditional Indian society.

‘Boyfriends? No!’ they giggled, embarrassed. ‘Our parents will arrange our marriage for us.’

And how would they find prospective grooms?

‘Our parents will talk to people or advertise,’ the women explained. ‘Then they will come to the house and we'll meet them. Of course, we can say if we don't like them but it's not the case for everyone. The most important thing is that both families agree. In India, it's not just the couple who becomes joined, it's the families too.

‘See, for us Indians, love and affection grow after marriage. Husbands and wives learn to love and respect each other. It's not like in the west, where people initially try so hard to impress each other, have so many expectations, then fall out of love and get divorced. In India, marriage is about partnership and compatibility. A lot of effort is put into finding a compatible match with a good family of similar background and financial status. This helps ensure that the couple stays together.’

Given my situation, I could definitely see the merit in arranged marriages, difficult as the idea is for westerners to fathom. In India, marriage is more about duty, whereas in the west it's about finding ‘The One’. Many westerners view the idea of having to marry someone who they hardly know, or aren't even attracted to, as almost barbaric. In India, the arranged marriage produces the best and most stable outcome because other factors, apart from emotions, are taken into consideration.

The conversation left me filled with wonder at the world and how two completely different, and in fact opposite, cultures existed on the same planet. It was a feeling that would remain with me as I continued to discover extreme differences between the cultures.

Western facilities were conspicuously absent at the women's centre. That afternoon I had my first encounter with the infamous Indian squat toilet. There it was, beckoning me, a porcelain basin in the floor, with a hole and space for my feet on either side. I soon discovered there are two challenges involved in using the squat toilet – aim, and the cleaning of body parts afterwards. Making a stream of urine go down a porcelain hole without splashing or spraying the sides and getting wet feet is no easy matter. And even if it is achieved, the task of cleaning the nether regions still remains.

Foolishly, I didn't carry any toilet paper. Cleaning would have to involve my left hand, the small mug nearby, and water. But with my bottom pointing downwards, and loose salwaar kameez pants bunched around my ankles, how would it be possible to pour the water onto myself without getting everything wet? I managed to splash the water around in a totally unsatisfactory manner, and had the displeasure of it dripping down my legs and on to my clothes as I stood up. A large bucketful of water was waiting by the side of the door, so I quickly tipped it down the toilet to flush it and beat a hasty retreat.

By the end of the day, I was exhausted and couldn't wait to go home. I dragged my weary body onto the packed bus and wedged myself in between the other commuters who were standing.

The one redeeming feature of the buses is their ladies only seating. While it really highlights the distinction between men and women in India, and how they interact, it also helps prevent any untoward incidents between the sexes. Unfortunately, during peak hour there's barely any room to move, let alone sit, on the bus. A portly Indian male's potbelly pressed into my back. No sooner had I managed to disengage myself from it than I felt a hand on my bottom. Its owner whispered something unintelligible to me as he squeezed past. I promptly rewarded him with a swift and strong elbow for his effort. The most disconcerting thing was that he looked so respectable, like a decent family man.

It was a relief to wash the day's sweat and grime from my body. Somehow, I managed to summon my last remaining bit of energy to go to the apartment next door to reheat the curry and rice dinner that Kali had kept in the fridge for me. Then I promptly crawled into bed and fell into a deep sleep under my bright purple mosquito net.

As the week progressed, people at work seemed to become more open to my presence, and warmed to me more. I warmed to them too and was keen to befriend them. On the plus side, I always had company in the showroom. It was Nalini's job to oversee it. A very attractive Bengali woman, she was slight in build with sharp features, sparkly eyes and an engaging smile. We were often joined by the women who attended the centre. They would sit in the corner and stitch their handicrafts.

‘Do you know any Hindi? Bangla (Bengali)?’ they eagerly inquired.

‘Aap kaise hain? (How are you?)’ I offered. It was one of only a few things I knew how to say in Hindi. But it was enough to please them. They were even more amused when I pulled out my Hindi and Bengali phrasebook and attempted to read from it.

‘Aa-mi Bang-la bohl-te paa-ri-nai (I can't speak Bengali),’ I stumbled and they laughed. It soon became apparent that my phrasebook would be the thing that united us.

‘Read, we will help,’ they encouraged me.

I quickly grew very fond of two women in particular – an irrepressible girl named Lakhi, and a gentle older Muslim woman called Mastari Begum.

Lakhi taught me how to reprimand people in Bengali. Baloh naa. (Not good.) Aap ni karap. (You are bad.) Aap ni dushtu. (You are naughty.) Mastari, who didn't know much English, would just sit next to me and smile. When English was spoken, it was mostly broken Indian English, as the women hadn't been formally educated in the language.

It wasn't long before I got to see firsthand the impact the women's centre had on people's lives. Two volunteers from another organisation brought a mother and her young daughter to the centre one afternoon. They were extremely poor, distraught and dejected-looking. The daughter was still at school, but had already developed some skills in making handicrafts. The mother begged for advice and assistance for her daughter. After sitting down and talking to Meera in the office, the mother left, crying tears of happiness, knowing there could be a positive future for her daughter after she finished school.

‘Phir milenge (We'll meet again),’ I tried to reassure the mother as she left, in the only other Hindi phrase I knew. She reached out, grabbed my hand and kissed it. I felt like crying myself, it was so emotional. However, that I was almost moved to tears by her plight indicated that I wasn't really suited to a career in social work. I had actually given serious thought to it when pondering my future. Yet, the reality was that I didn't have the tough mind needed to deal with confronting situations and other people's suffering. I was sensitive and easily saddened. I wished I could wave a magic wand over her and take away all her problems. But life isn't like that.

Just seeing the depth of the mother's despair reminded me of how many positives I still had, and took for granted, in my existence. It left me feeling disturbed for the rest of the afternoon. My sombre mood didn't go unnoticed.

‘Come, sit, drink tea,’ the other women tried to make me feel better. Little did they know that I had had enough of sitting on the floor all day, and had had enough tea (try explaining to Indians that you don't want tea, and they'll look at you incredulously).

I was thankful it was already dark when I took the bus home that night. The dim glow of the lights took away some of the harshness of reality and gave the streets a magical feel. I leaned my face towards the open window and breathed in the sights and smells – the dust, the smog, the spices, the incense. Street vendors lined the pavements. Everywhere, people. The foreignness of my surroundings made me feel like I was a very small part of a huge, unfathomable picture. It was strangely reassuring.

Before long, it was Christmas Eve. Kolkata has a nostalgic relationship with Christmas, as a result of its colonial history. Tara, Claudine and I decided to go shopping in the heart of Kolkata. The taxi dropped us at the iconic stretch of Park Street near Chowringhee Road, at the opposite end to where the street connects with Park Circus. The city's most prestigious thoroughfare, it was named after a deer park that existed there in the late eighteenth century, during the glory days when Calcutta was the capital of British India. With those days long gone, and with Calcutta metamorphosing into Kolkata, the street has now been renamed Mother Teresa Sarani after the Albanian nun who dedicated herself to helping the poor.

It's clearly still a prestigious part of town, even if it doesn't glitter like it used to. There was a time when Park Street was the focal point of the whole city, if not the country. The street's grand old mansions housed the finest of shops and restaurants on their ground floors, and the richest of the rich in airy apartments on the upper floors. India's first independent nightclub opened there, with soulful voices and swinging six-piece bands, along with India's first department store.

Today, the main symbol of Park Street's pre-eminence is The Park Hotel. Restaurants are still filled to capacity but the class of diners has changed, and dinner jackets are no longer compulsory. DJs have replaced the live jazz and cabaret, and shops selling pirated books and fake perfume have encroached where once they wouldn't have dared.

Around the corner Chowringhee Road has been renamed Jawaharlal Nehru Road. It's now dominated by packs of pavement vendors selling cheap jewellery, western and Indian clothes and handbags. We tried to browse as we walked, but the clamour and commotion didn't make it a peaceful activity.

A bangle seller latched onto me.

‘Madam, just looking. I show you. See, pretty bangles. Very cheap,’ he assured me.

I made the mistake of smiling at him and pausing to take a peek. They didn't interest me, and I attempted to move away.

‘No madam, I give you good price. How much you want to pay?’ he persisted.

‘Really, I don't want them,’ I replied.

‘But madam, best deal,’ he beseeched.

I turned away and began to push through the crowd to catch up with the other girls, who were already well ahead.

He followed me. ‘Madam! Madam! Wait!’

Some people find it easy to be abrupt and dismissive of these kinds of annoyances. I don't. I never want to seem rude and always find the attention hard to ignore, no matter how irritating. All of a sudden, I remembered why India can be so tiring.

The bangle seller was still pestering me by the time I reached the girls.

‘Looks like you've got yourself a fan,’ they laughed.

‘I can't get rid of him,’ I sighed.

At that point, I was feeling really hungry and dragged the girls into a nearby restaurant to eat.

‘I'd have to be paid to eat here,’ Claudine complained as I ordered my aloo gobi (potato and cauliflower curry). It was a dingy dining establishment, where functionality took priority over aesthetics and tasteful decorations were conspicuously absent. Yet, when the aloo gobi arrived, it was undeniably good. And it cost only 15 rupees (45 cents). Claudine helped herself.

‘You really don't look like you're 31,’ she said again as I got my bag to leave. ‘But I can see that you act like a grown-up and have nice things like one.’

I was amused and alarmed. How were 31-year-olds expected to act? Did 31 really seem that old? And when had it stopped seeming old to me? I'd been happy to turn 30. I still felt and looked young, but was glad for the wisdom that I'd acquired during my twenties.

‘You know,’ she continued, ‘I think the reason why you get hassled so much here is that you're smiling all the time. Every time I see you, you're smiling.’

No doubt she was right. Smiling came naturally to me. But it also disarmed people, and encouraged them to be persistent. Claudine, on the other hand, had her own way of dealing with unwanted attention. She waved, said ‘See you later’, and walked away without looking back. It was a non-offensive but effective technique that even amused many Indian onlookers. I'd seen them start laughing at their counterparts after witnessing it.

For the next few hours, we immersed ourselves in Kolkata's historic bargain shoppers' paradise of New Market. Another remnant of the British Raj, it sprawls over a series of buildings and the surrounding area on Lindsay Street. It had been established solely as a white man's market, providing exclusive goods to the affluent English populace. These days, locals claim there's nothing its 2500 stalls don't sell. We wandered through the warren of corridors, trying on Indian clothes in infinite shades and designs until we were exhausted. Afterwards, we headed to Peter Cat restaurant to replenish ourselves.

Opened in the swinging 1960s, Peter Cat had managed to survive the passage of time and remained as popular as it was back in its heyday. The dimly lit interior spoke of history. The waiters were resplendent in crisp Rajasthani white and red costumes, which matched the colours of the restaurant's interior but curiously contrasted with its name – a name that didn't give away much at all. However, a bit of research revealed that it's the namesake of a famous cat who lived in Lord's cricket ground in London from 1952 to 1964 (and Kolkata is a city obsessed with cricket).

I ordered a Tom Collins. Priced at only 74 rupees ($2), it was the cheapest cocktail I'd ever had, and was likely to ever get in India. Already drained by the day's activities, I struggled to stay awake after drinking it.

The Christmas lights twinkled warmly on Park Street as we climbed into a taxi to go home. Nevertheless, by the time we arrived back at the apartment building, melancholia had descended over me like the mist that falls over Kolkata night after night in winter. Kolkata's winter lacks the bitter coldness, cloudy skies and rain of the Melbourne winter. However, it's extremely dusty and the chill of the night air adds impenetrable thick mist and fog. Not only does it make it very difficult to breathe, it often grounds flights as well. My head pounded from the noxious blend.

Since childhood, Christmas Eve has been a magical occasion filled with anticipation for the day to follow. This Christmas just wasn't going to be the same. Music from a Christmas Eve party being hosted for residents in the apartment courtyard drifted through my apartment windows. But I couldn't summon enough interest to investigate.

Christmas day dawned bright and sunny, but with the usual layer of Kolkata smog. It was Christmas morning in India but it was already Christmas afternoon in Australia, where celebrations would be in full swing, eating and drinking at a relative's house. It seemed so far away, a detached and distant land. For me, Christmas morning had involved the same ritual since childhood – sitting on the floor and unwrapping presents with my parents. I had never spent a Christmas away from my family until now.

Just last Christmas, Michael was still in my life. We had the presents ritual as usual but he had later spent a lot of time out of sight on the phone, when we were at his father and stepmother's house for Christmas lunch. Looking back now, it was a sign. But although I noticed it at the time, in my ignorance I didn't really think anything of it. My, how so much can change in a year! If anyone had suggested to me that I would be spending Christmas in India, on the brink of divorce this year, I would have thought it totally obscene. Yet, here I was.

Claudine, Tara, Georgie, Nicole and I decided to go to the Christmas-lunch buffet at the luxurious ITC Sheraton hotel in our Indian clothes. We wanted to give our appearance an Indian touch, but looked forward to eating something other than curry. I'm blessed with a very strong stomach and hadn't experienced any digestive problems at all, but some of the other girls weren't so fortunate.

At 1200 rupees ($30) per head, the buffet was affordable only to well-off Indians. The cost, which we regarded as quite a bargain for a sumptuous all-you-can-eat lunch with alcohol, was more than a week's wages for much of India's population. What we were entitled to as the middle class in our developed nations and were casual about was reserved for the privileged in India. I couldn't help noticing the distinction between us and the other portly Indian guests. Us, dressed in the cheap outfits we'd thrown together, and them resplendent in the finest of saris. Us, acting exuberant and unfussy; them, reserved but demanding. Us, with our bodies kept deliberately slim; them, displaying the desired roundness that comes from having more than enough to eat.

The disparity between rich and poor in India stretched deeper than that. The richest ten per cent of India's population owns over half the country's wealth, while the poorest ten per cent owns a mere 0.2% of it. Most of India's poor struggle each day just to make ends meet. Only yesterday, we had been alongside those people. Today, we were alongside the rich, playing the role of privileged tourists. The extremes seemed hard to justify.

Champagne flowed, a live band sang Christmas songs and a roving Santa stopped by our table to give us gifts and wish us Merry Christmas. His starkly white beard stood out against the deep coffee colour of his skin. It was Christmas, Indian style!

At the buffet, we had to search for roast meat among the dominating curries. I ate a plateful of curry because it looked so appealing. The roast turkey delivered to us by the chef next was delicious. And the desserts, laden with chocolate, were among the best I'd ever had.

After spending almost four hours in the dining room, we retired to an outdoor pavilion in the hotel's grounds. We reclined on the couches and admired the large marble bowls filled with colourful floating flowers, as fountains cascaded around us.

Outside the sanctuary of the hotel, the illusion was shattered and we were quickly reminded of exactly where we were. A short distance down the road, our taxi driver pulled over as a random Indian guy came running up alongside us. It seemed that he was a friend of the taxi driver and desperately wanted a lift. Despite the decrepit taxi barely accommodating the five of us, as well as the driver, he insisted on getting in the front with Claudine.

It was one of those mad Indian moments that we were completely unaccustomed to, and had no idea how to react. Vehicles are commonly burdened beyond their capacity: motorbikes carry whole families on them, with children gripping the handlebars in front of their father and sitting on their mother's lap. Any available space is used. The taxi lurched forward, with all of us aboard and the two Indian occupants clearly amused by the unexpected situation they'd found themselves in. It was probably the first time they'd been crammed in a car with a bunch of hyperactive white girls. The brakes were slammed on multiple times by the distracted driver, who had a few near misses as we shrieked in unison.

The day spent with the girls did wonders for my mood. They were young, innocent and carefree, and they made me feel that way too. Bonding with them gave me a huge boost.

‘You always seem so positive and happy,’ the girls said during the day.

This was a welcome revelation. I was relieved to know that, apart from the fact that I was noticeably underweight, the difficult year hadn't had an obvious impact on me. And, perhaps, I was more likeable than I thought.

Two days later, on what I thought was going to be an uneventful day, I arrived back at the apartment after work to find that my flatmate had moved in. My clothes and belongings had been picked up off the other bed in my room, which was acting as my wardrobe in the continued absence of any furniture, and unceremoniously dumped onto mine. Not long after, the door opened and a mature-looking Indian lady entered.

‘Hi, I'm Panna,’ she introduced herself in a British accent. She must have noticed the less than enthusiastic look on my face because she quickly added, ‘I didn't do that, by the way. It was Kali.’

‘No one told me you were coming today,’ I replied. ‘Otherwise I would've moved my things.’

It transpired that she had also been shifted without notice, and was equally unimpressed about it. What's more, she'd apparently been comfortably ensconced in a properly furnished apartment on one of the upper levels of the building. In her late thirties, she didn't appreciate having to live in this barren and inhospitable environment or sharing a room with me.

The feeling was mutual. I was even more underwhelmed by the prospect when Panna told me her routine: ‘I only have to work for a couple of hours a day, so I go out every night and don't usually come back until late.’

She was enjoying living the life she didn't have back in England. This was a massive difference from my eight-hour work days and two-hour commute, which meant an early bedtime and waking to a 7.30 a.m. alarm five days a week.

Despite the fact that the apartment was generously sized and had three bedrooms, Sucharita had insisted to Panna that we share one bedroom because it was the rules.

‘She said that since we were volunteers, we must learn to adapt,’ Panna relayed.

Ah! Adapt. That word again.

What was even more illogical was that Sucharita had conceded to let us keep our clothes in one of the spare bedrooms until a wardrobe arrived, whenever that would be. So we could use the vacant room for storage, but not for sleeping?

‘There's no point discussing it with her anymore,’ Panna advised. ‘I've tried, but it got me nowhere. Indians have their own ways of doing things.’ Although assertive, Panna had failed to resolve anything in our favour with the unreasonable Sucharita. Our only option was to adapt, and try and make the best of it.

Having spent a considerable amount of time in India, and being of Indian descent herself, Panna was right. Indians can be extremely adjustable or extremely stubborn, depending on the perception of power. Rules are created or bent at will to suit situations. Definitions of right or wrong are never absolute, and instead depend on the context and the desired outcome.

In any case, I was quite thankful for the company; I was beginning to feel lonely in the apartment.