Destiny Revealed

‘YOU look years younger and seem like a completely different person.’

My mum couldn't get over the change when she saw me. I felt different too. More connected to people, with a desire to be open with them. Previously, I would have needed alcohol to facilitate that.

‘I've met someone special,’ I confided to her. I spoke to her like I'd never spoken to her before, and found her to be unexpectedly receptive.

‘He sounds like a gem. It's obvious India has done wonders for you too. You should go back there and keep being creative.’

Her support took me by surprise and gave me confidence. I'd expected to encounter negativity. I was so used to hiding my life from her. Instead, her willingness to be open-minded made me feel closer to her and really improved our relationship.

It was harder to talk to my father. I usually found it easier to relate to him because he was more emotional like me. But I also feared his reaction as he was very protective. Although he didn't try and stop me, I knew my plans worried him. He didn't like the thought of me being with someone he'd never met, and one from a country so far away such as India. Just as Indians had preconceived ideas about foreigners, so too did foreigners about them – the wariness cut both ways.

I announced to anyone who wanted to know that I was going back to India to be with Aryan, and to write. Many people were alarmed. They relayed stories of Indians who had taken advantage of foreigners. Even my Indian friends in Australia were sceptical and concerned.

I was torn in so many directions. I felt more connected to my parents than I had in many years, and was enjoying spending time with them. Yet, Australia felt so strange. There was no spicy smell of incense. No feeling of wonder and possibility. Just a quiet emptiness, from everything being so orderly and in its place. I'd also become used to speaking in Hinglish, sentences that were a medley of Hindi and English, and had to stop myself.

It was worse at my house in Melbourne. My room and my furniture were there, but so were people I'd never met before. My housemate had moved on and friends of a friend were staying there. I sat on the sofa in my study, gazing out the window and feeling dazed and displaced. I now had belongings scattered in three places – my house, my parents' house and in India – but no home to call my own.

I tried to remain focused on getting back to India, but at the same time, I needed to be in the present. Getting a job was a priority. I registered with an employment agency in Melbourne and went for an interview. In the past, I would have been filled with trepidation and dread. This time I went energised and in a positive frame of mind.

The consultants were friendly and helpful, and they found me a position while I was there. It was a temporary role administering community programs at a state government department. Instead of feeling anxious, I went to the interview with an open mind, in touch with everything around me. It didn't surprise me that I was offered the job. The manager held my previous work in high regard and was pleased to have me join the organisation. The only problem was I was needed for five months – longer than I'd planned to stay in Australia, and longer than I wanted to be apart from Aryan, but I decided to let fate take its course.

I returned to work, trying to appreciate rejoining to the professional world. It added structure and status to my life after a year of wandering. I couldn't fault the job or my colleagues, but being confined to a controlled environment, in a high-rise office building all day, left me unmotivated. I felt like I was losing my connection with the outside world. The sense of emptiness returned, along with constant tension in my muscles like my whole body was contracting. I could feel my mind narrowing, shrinking and closing. The life was being sucked out of me.

During my lunch hour, I lay on the soft grass under a tree in the park opposite. Eyes closed and totally relaxed, I let my body absorb the healing energy of the plants and earth. On the train, I read spiritual books about change and how to attract what I wanted into my life. I tried to keep myself inspired and focused, but inevitably, the daily work routine dominated my life and was adept at dragging me back into the lifestyle I'd known for so long. It was comfortable and familiar, and provided me with an assured income. But I knew I couldn't let it take over; I could feel in my soul that I was destined for other things.

I felt so alive when I thought of my future in India, even though we'd both be starting our lives from scratch in Mumbai. Did I really want to give up all that I'd worked for in Australia to do that? It would be so much easier to stay where I was.

Deep down, I knew I had to keep moving forward. I'd grown so much that I'd outgrown my life in Australia. My motivation came from India. If I didn't go back there I'd lose it.

Aryan's love for me remained steadfast and unconditional. We spoke daily.

‘My parents are so pleased with the changes in me. I've been helping out around the house, coming home early and not drinking. I've even started inspiring my friends.

‘I was never sure that we'd end up together. I always thought you'd leave and go back home. It was only during our last week in Manali that I realised for sure that we could have a future with each other. Now I'm really serious about us.’

Every day, Aryan's mother asked him a new question about me. Once, it had him phoning me in an anxious state, wanting to know my date and time of birth, and where I was born. His mother and elder sister had decided to get our horoscopes matched.

In India, where Hindus place a great deal of emphasis on Vedic astrology, it is common practice before marriage to find out a couple's compatibility. The technique, which is around 3000 years old, has its roots in Vedic scriptures. Based on the precise positions of the planets at the time a person is born, it assesses 36 gunas (attributes) that form an important part of every person's physical and spiritual life. A score below 18 means that the couple is incompatible and the match should be rejected. If the score is between 18 and 25, the match is acceptable. A score of 26 to 32 means that the match is very good. A score above 32 is an issue, as the couple will have the same nature. This isn't viewed favourably for a long-term relationship.

Soon, the results were in. Aryan phoned to tell me.

‘My mother came rushing into my room and woke me up early to tell me. The pandit said that only 1 in 100 couples are fortunate enough to get a match as good as ours. Our meeting was favourable and destined. We're going to be very happy together.’

‘Are you serious? That's amazing,’ I was so pleased.

‘Even my mother was amazed. She kept wondering how it was possible to get such a good match with someone who isn't even Indian.’

Apparently, we'd scored 24.5, which was average. However, Aryan's animal was a harmonious mouse and mine was an eagle, which supposedly meant that we were great friends (perhaps as long as I didn't decide to eat him!).

It was true. We were each other's best friends.

But an eagle? I hardly considered myself bold enough to be an eagle, soaring above the world. The voice in my head kept nagging and beckoning me to hold onto the past, and keep living a normal and ordinary life. Was I mad throwing away my comfortable life to go and live in India?

Wanting reassurance that I wasn't making a mistake, I went to see a psychotherapist.

‘You're definitely on the right track and heading in the right direction,’ he offered after listening to me.

He readily recognised my issues. ‘The reason why you're holding onto the past so much is that it's known to you and is part of the fairytale you created for yourself. You're scared of moving forward. You're scared of living your life differently, scared of where your life will end up. You may even be scared of how good you'll become.

‘It's obvious from your behaviour, and how critical you are of yourself, that you have low self-worth. Your big life lessons are to learn to love and appreciate yourself, and value yourself. Your value isn't dependent on what other people think of you, you know. You need to be assertive and stop basing your worth on the opinions of others.’

He continued. ‘Your real fear is coming from the possibility that you might actually succeed in your plans. What if there is a grand new life waiting for you? Then you'll end up at odds with who you currently are. Many people will no longer recognise or relate to you. You'll lose friends. You'll probably feel very alone. But, you'll be tapping into something much greater – the power of doing what you were put on this earth to do. And you'll find new friends in places you never thought you'd look.’

It all made sense. Did I really have the strength and courage to live my life in an unconventional way, the way that my heart told me was right?

Aryan's parents had showed a lot of courage by accepting our relationship. We hadn't expected their support, at least not so soon. Love marriages, especially to foreigners, were still quite rare in India and very much against Indian culture. Traditionally, marriages in India involve the joining not just of two individuals, but of two families. Substantial effort is put into arranging marriages and finding a suitable family from the same caste and of similar social standing. A good match garners much respect in the community. Going against this deeply ingrained tradition can have wide-reaching, even scandalous, implications. Not only can the head of the family lose respect in the community for allowing the marriage to happen, it can also tarnish the family's reputation and affect the future marriage prospects of the other children.

Many people in India are beginning to think progressively. Yet, they're often stopped from behaving in such a manner by the reactions of a conservative community that abhors anyone doing anything differently. Admirably, Aryan's parents had decided to place their children's happiness above community expectations. No doubt, their relief at Aryan finally wanting to get married helped. They were curious to meet the girl who had brought their wayward son back to Mumbai and prompted him to settle down.

I enrolled online in the writing course that I'd come across in Delhi. Each night after work, I shut myself in my bedroom and worked on compiling a website about natural health. Although I was learning a great deal, I was fast ending up with an unwieldy and unpolished website that I didn't really know what to do with.

One night, I came across an advertisement for freelance writing jobs on the Internet for a large article library website. It evoked the same sense of enthusiasm that I'd felt in Manali for the ad for travel writers.

To apply, I'd need to provide details of my background experience and two samples of my writing.

‘There's no point. It's all too hard. You're really not good enough and wouldn't be accepted,’ the discouraging voice in my head piped up. It didn't take much to convince me. Of course, I wouldn't be accepted. I didn't have any experience.

As I lay in bed preparing to go to sleep, a separate and more soothing voice spoke to me.

‘Remember the travel article about India that you had published on the Internet years ago? Find it and submit it. You'll be successful.’

This voice felt right. It was an intuitive voice that came from deep within.

I still needed one more piece of work. After much thought, I decided to write a fresh article about the Sunday market held along Melbourne's St Kilda Esplanade. I immersed myself in the market, noticing and noting down the sights, sounds and smells.

Not long after I submitted my application, it was approved. The website lacked articles about India so I decided I'd write about Indian travel. Perhaps if I was good enough, I'd even be promoted to features. With that resolved, I abandoned my natural health website to focus on travel writing.

A little over a month before I planned to return to India, Aryan's family started looking for somewhere for us to live. Aryan didn't want to keep living with his parents; like me, he preferred quiet and privacy. Plus, his youngest brother and wife were already living with them in their two-bedroom apartment. There wasn't enough room for more people.

I was quite relieved. Although I would have agreed to live with them, it would have been a challenge for me, and made the adjustment process even harder. Aryan's family decided that we should live near his elder sister so she could help me settle in. His mother, eldest sister and youngest brother's mother-in-law took him to inspect apartments.

‘It was such a slow process. They kept stopping to look at things and ask the price along the way,’ Aryan complained on the phone. I laughed, imagining him being surrounded by a contingent of three constantly chattering Indian women.

They found a suitable one-bedroom apartment but it was in a vegetarian Gujarati apartment complex. These denominational apartments are very common in Mumbai, where people of the same backgrounds cluster themselves together. We were neither vegetarians nor Gujarati. The landlord objected.

‘It's okay, my family handled it,’ Aryan reassured me. ‘They argued with the landlord so much that he finally he gave in and agreed to give us the apartment.’

Only a very brave Indian man would resist a feisty group of Indian women.

‘And what did your family tell the landlord about us?’ I was curious to know.

‘They said I'd be living there with my fiancée, and that we'd soon be getting married.’

I giggled. ‘Wait until he finds out your fiancée is actually a foreigner.’

As my departure crept closer, I was inundated with conflicting emotions. Nervousness, dread, sadness, excitement and an overwhelming feeling of wanting to be back there immediately. Again, I was in the all-too-familiar situation of packing up my life and boarding a plane for the unknown. This wasn't going to be just another trip to India, however. I was going there indefinitely, to be with my sweetheart, get married and live my life like an Indian. At one stage, it felt like the time would never come. Then it was hard to believe that it had arrived.

I sat on the floor of my bedroom, surrounded by boxes, dizzy and my mind in overdrive, coming up with as many memories of the past as possible to hold me in Melbourne. It was torture; I was almost paralysed with anxiety at the prospect of stepping out of my comfort zone. Miraculously, in among all the mental turmoil, came a saving grace from a most unexpected and unlikely source. On my last day at work, a colleague gave me a book, The Dream Giver, by Dr Bruce Wilkinson. In it was the story of Ordinary, who dared to leave his Comfort Zone in the Land of Familiar to pursue his Big Dream.

Ordinary soon learned that although the Dream Giver had given him a Dream, the road to the future that he really wanted was clogged with greater obstacles than he'd ever faced before. Dream-threatening obstacles. These obstacles caused many Nobodies to turn back. But Ordinary put his faith in the Dream Giver's powers and persisted. And the Dream Giver rewarded him with entry through the gateway of his Big Dream.

Increasingly, I was realising the immense power of the universe. Looking back to when I first arrived in Kolkata a little over two years ago, it was becoming obvious that I was being directed and supported to go down a particular path. What was initially a quest for independence and a new perspective had now turned into my life. On the one hand it made no sense anymore, but on the other I had more purpose and inspiration than I'd ever felt.

Giving into my fear of uncertainty wasn't an option. I reminded myself that comfort is a deceptive dream because it becomes a prison. The more I turned away from fear, the more I'd believe that my comfort zone was where I belonged. And the more time I spent being comfortable, the more I'd become convinced that because I hadn't stepped through fear, I couldn't.

The only way forward was to gather my courage and keep moving down the unknown path to my dream, where my soul was calling me. I wasn't running away. I was actually running towards something.

The book became my constant companion for the days that followed, and during my journey to India. As I sat reading it in bewilderment on the plane, with tears rolling down my face, it comforted me in my grief over leaving my home and my parents. That was the moment when I surrendered my dream to the universe and relinquished controlling my life. My dream was just too big for me to handle alone. If the universe had a special plan for me, if it was asking me to take such a big step for my dream, I trusted that it would bring into my life what I needed.

*

My eyes met Aryan's through the crowd, fenced in behind the barricades at the airport. Everything looked so strange and yet familiar. We sat holding hands in the back of the taxi, shy about how to act towards each other after so long.

I quickly realised the biggest adjustment I'd have to get used to was my new home. Mumbai is the most densely populated city in the world. In some areas, there are up to 60,000 people per square kilometre. Space is understandably at a premium, and it has pushed the price of real estate up on par with New York City. Around half the city's population occupies chawls, multi-level tenements with single small rooms and a shared bathroom for each floor.

There are very few houses in Mumbai. The middle and upper classes live in apartments. One-bedroom and two-bedroom apartments are common, with two or three generations of family members living in a single flat. Most of the apartment towers in Mumbai reminded me of the Melbourne's characterless high-rise housing commission estates, which housed the city's lowest income families.

Our 500-square foot apartment was less than a quarter of the size of my home in Melbourne, and it needed decorating. Paint was flaking off the walls but the stingy landlord refused to do anything about it. Mosquitoes and pigeons lurked everywhere, along with all the people.

The apartment was located in a decent middle-class outer suburban neighbourhood, but middle class in India didn't translate to middle class in Australia. The building that was our new home was less than five years old, modern enough to have reticulated gas instead of the infamous camp-style gas bottle. Yet, the exterior was already dirty and decrepit. Individuals didn't seem to have an appreciation for property. Rubbish was left lying around. To get to our apartment on the first floor, we had to walk past red paan stains on the stairwell – graffiti from people's mouths, where they'd carelessly spat after chewing the substance.

I slept a lot during my first few days back in Mumbai. My head swam. I felt completely overwhelmed and sick with fear. The words of some of my friends kept echoing in my head about the insanity of my giving up my comfortable life and material possessions. I wondered if I had gone mad. I felt like running back to the safety and familiarity of my own country, where I had everything I wanted and could understand everyone. Aryan and I hadn't discussed the possibility of living in Australia though. He'd always been happy in India, with his friends and work. I was in search of transformation. For that to happen I really needed a change of environment despite the appeal of familiarity.

Then, to add to my fragile displacement, I found myself in a situation that left no doubt in my mind that I was now living a country that functioned entirely differently from the one I was used to. An experience involving an insidious, everyday activity that no level of Indian society was immune to – corruption. Perhaps there was such a thing as a ‘real India’ experience after all.

I had to collect three boxes that I'd sent as unaccompanied baggage from the cargo complex at Mumbai airport. Right from the start, the process was fraught with difficulties. We tried calling the airline responsible for the baggage, only to receive a recorded message saying the number had changed. All the new numbers that were given failed to connect.

More confusion awaited inside the customs compound. A large board, detailing the steps required to complete the customs clearance process, occupied prime position at the entrance. Based on the number of men everywhere, in various states of filling out forms, queuing and waiting, the process seemed every bit as complicated as the board suggested.

A man presented himself to us. ‘I'm a customs agent. I'll kindly do the needful for 2900 rupees (nearly $100),’ he announced.

There was little alternative but to engage his services. We managed to negotiate the fee down to 2200 rupees and asked him to proceed.

‘What do you have in your boxes?’ the agent asked.

‘Shoes, books, kitchen and household items.’

He seemed satisfied with my answers as he recorded them on the forms. That was, until he saw the itemised packing lists I'd taped onto the sides of my boxes.

‘You have electrical items in these boxes!’ he confronted me.

‘Yes, a used printer, DVD player and toaster. What's the problem?’

‘Madam, these are not household items, they are dutiable electrical items! You've made a false customs declaration. This is a very bad matter. How could you do this? My whole family business could be brought into disrepute because of this!’ he shouted.

I was shocked. ‘I didn't make a false statement. These are household items. How was I supposed to know that electrical items have to be declared separately? I've stated on the packing lists what's in my boxes. Besides, these are used appliances. Surely, duty isn't payable on three used household appliances?’ I argued back.

At that point, a customs officer arrived to inspect my boxes. He unceremoniously rifled through and pulled out the contents, while continuing the lecture about my undeclared electrical items. Another customs officer noticed my books on palmistry.

‘Madam, you read my hand,’ he excitedly extended his hand to me. What I naïvely expected would be a straightforward process of collecting my belongings was turning into a fiasco.

One of the customs officers took me to see the chief customs officer.

‘I'll charge you duty on the DVD player and the toaster, but not the printer,’ he decided.

The amount of duty payable was agreed to be an arbitrary 1000 rupees ($30). I was more confused than ever.

‘Happy?’ he asked, as if he were doing me a huge favour.

Of course, I wasn't happy. I became even less happy when I was told it was lunchtime. The clerk I had to pay the duty to wouldn't be back for another 40 minutes. To fill in the time, Aryan and I went to have lunch. The only option was the stuffy staff canteen, crowded with unappealingly aromatic men.

After finally giving everyone their money, I mistakenly thought we'd be able to take the boxes and leave. Not so. While standing under a huge sign, which warned that bribes were illegal, our customs agent blithely asked me for a bribe.

‘Madam, please give me 300 rupees ($10). It will take care of the trouble you caused me and the other officers by making a misleading statement.’

I was incredulous.

‘Madam, kindly be a little generous,’ he insisted.

‘You should be giving me money to cover the cost of the medical treatment I'll need to recover from this ordeal,’ I retorted. ‘I should also report you to the appropriate authority as this sign says!’

Sensing that the matter could cause the day to drag on even longer, I offered him a deal.

‘100 rupees, take it or leave it.’

After much debate he took it. ‘You drive a hard bargain, madam.’

Was this the Indian way of making me feel better about his win and my loss?

Corruption is extremely common and well tolerated in India, despite the occasional public outcry. The reason is often hard for foreigners to understand. In a country where there's such a scarcity of resources, many Indians are more concerned about the end result rather than the means to get there. Western notions of morality rarely apply. It's considered bad if someone has to pay a bribe, but good if the bribe yields the desired outcome. It hurts my head, too, when I try to figure that out.

The prevalence of corruption proliferated in the years after India achieved independence. Politicians indulged in all manner of corrupt acts, unpunished by deficient legislation that produced no conclusive reprisal. Bureaucrats, noticing the corruption at the highest levels, started following the example themselves, justifying that if India's leaders are doing it, it cannot be wrong.

As corruption spread through the administration, ordinary Indians increasingly felt like they were living in an atmosphere of corruption. They began to see nothing wrong with it either. It became something that was simply necessary in order to get ahead and get things done.

It took me around five days to start settling in. I realised the cause of my anguish: while my heart was in India, my head was still well and truly back in the western world. Not only was I imposing my western standards on everything, I was looking externally for my happiness and focusing on what I'd given up, not what I'd be gaining. I'd again developed attachments to so-called ‘luxuries' and ‘wants’, and was struggling to let them go.

‘Remember how you said you felt, being stuck in the office every day in Melbourne,’ Aryan gently reminded me.

Oh, so true! I'd hated it to the point I wanted to run out of there screaming. But it's easy to forget those feelings when you are totally consumed by what's in front of you. Rather than letting my dream of the different life I wanted play out, I was struggling to control exactly how it should be. I was reluctant to give up anything, such as my comforts, to achieve it. Again, the dreaded western mentality was lurking. I wanted everything and wanted it immediately. In India, everything takes time and it's extremely difficult to control the outcome of anything. The easiest way forward is acceptance and surrender, and appreciation of the idea of impermanence.

The troubled feelings wouldn't last forever, I told myself. Nor would the situation always be the same. Aryan and I were establishing our lives in Mumbai; it was bound to be difficult in the beginning. We were, after all, starting from nothing. It would get better.

I had to trust in my dream and the outcome. It was also apparent that the more I sat around thinking about what needed to be done, the longer the dark cloud would continue to hang over my head and overwhelm me.

I threw myself into daily life to absorb myself, and to make a home for us – cleaning the apartment, shopping for decorations and food, unpacking my belongings and cooking. All this gave me back some control over the smaller things in my life and made a huge difference.

The apartment started looking bright and cheery, and just seeing all my books on the shelves was comforting. I began noticing and appreciating the little things: a sparrow on the window ledge, the way the apartment lit up in the midday sun, the quiet from not being located on a main road, the groovy chandelier and the smooth feeling of the Indian granite benches in the kitchen. Back home, I would have overlooked these little things in pursuit of the bigger, perfect picture.

The thought of meeting Aryan's family terrified me, but it wasn't something that I could avoid for long. They'd graciously given me time to settle in but were very eager to meet. I was petrified! I had absolutely no idea what I was supposed to say or do, and I so badly wanted them to like me. There were no western customs and manners to fall back on in such a situation, plus there was the further complication of Aryan's parents not speaking English. Aryan's idea of moral support was to warn me that his dad was scary, didn't talk much and that he probably wouldn't even say anything to me.

I was alarmed, but greatly curious about the people who had made Aryan the loving man who had captured my heart.

I dressed in a salwaar kameez for the occasion. Aryan's eldest sister, Maliha, and her husband came in their car to take us to the family apartment. Maliha was tiny with huge, sparkly brown eyes. I felt like an odd, white giant standing next to her. Despite Aryan's reassurances that she spoke English, Maliha addressed me in Hindi. I struggled to find any words in reply. We were both as unsure and as nervous as each other. Her English had failed her, just as my Hindi had failed me.

I sat trembling with unease in the car, wondering what was in store. Even though it took well over an hour to travel to central Mumbai where Aryan's parents lived, I wished the journey would never end.

‘Baitho,’ Aryan's mum invited me to sit after we arrived. She was much taller than I expected, and wore her long dark hair tied back in a bun at the nape of her neck. Her delicately woven Orissa-style sari, in shades of blue, purple and pink, caught my eye.

‘Yeh sari sundar hai (This sari is beautiful),’ I complimented her.

She smiled and laughed happily. Aryan's dad also greeted me and smiled. He was diminutive, but with a body made strong from work. Could this really be the scary man Aryan referred to? I found it hard to believe. He definitely didn't act that way towards me. Perhaps Aryan felt the adversity between father and son that came from his inappropriate career choice and failure to live up to family expectations.

The fact that I spoke minimal Hindi saved me from the direct inquisition I would have otherwise encountered. When meeting the parents for the first time in India, it's usual for all manner of questions to be asked. Instead, much to my relief, Aryan's mum brought out the family photo albums. The pictures of the latest family wedding were so bright and colourful, capturing the joy of the occasion perfectly.

Aryan's second eldest sister, Amita, who was tall like his mother, displayed none of the shyness I was feeling. She chatted animatedly with me in perfect English about what was going on.

Later, we sat together on the floor in the living room to eat, while Aryan's mum waited on us. It was a delicious home-cooked dinner of chicken curry, rice and daal. We ate with our fingers. I couldn't help wishing that Aryan's mum would join us. But as is common in India, she only had her meal once everyone else was satisfied. It was her honour to make sure everyone was well fed and content. After dessert, Aryan's dad spoke to me.

‘Aur kuch chahiye? (You want something more?)’

The question was unexpected. I froze.

‘No, no, nahin chahiye. Main khatam ho chuki (It's not needed, I've already finished),’ I stammered.

‘It went great. You handled everything so well. Even my dad was smiling, and he hardly ever smiles. And see, my mum is taller than my dad, just like us,’ Aryan said afterwards.

Comfortingly, Aryan's family reminded me of an Indian version of my own. Being from the country, my parents were genuine, simple and creative. Aryan clearly got his sunny nature and lack of pretension from his family. It was obvious how much love he'd received as a child and how secure that had made him feel.

Yet, he was very different from them. They were very traditional where he wasn't. I could see why he'd resisted his mother's attempts to arrange his marriage. His life experiences were worlds apart from a good, middle-class Indian girl of the same caste, especially one from the village. What would they have in common?

The day that Aryan's mum announced she was coming to see our apartment threw me into a major panic. As is the Indian way, she only informed us a couple of hours before she intended to arrive. Aryan wasn't even going to be there as he had some important errands to attend to.

‘Can't you tell her to come another day? I'm not ready to be alone with your family,’ I pleaded with him.

I felt so unprepared. I knew she wanted to find out how well I'd made the apartment into a home, and more importantly, how well I was looking after her son.

‘It's impossible to tell family not to visit, especially parents,’ Aryan insisted. There was no option but to deal with it as best as I could. I was terrified. All my fears about not being good enough and not being Indian surfaced. And how was I going to talk to her? My unreliable Hindi deteriorated rapidly when I was nervous.

I quickly tidied the apartment as much as possible before the knock on the door. My heart skipped a beat and I took a deep breath before opening the door. Aryan's mum was standing there with Maliha.

‘Andar aaiye (Please come inside),’ I said. A broad smile, which didn't reflect my inner turmoil, was plastered on my face.

‘Machi (Fish),’ his mum said, handing me a container. She'd kindly brought me some fish, marinated in her special homemade masala (spices) and ready to cook.

The inspection of the apartment commenced. It started with a thorough look at the contents of the kitchen cupboards and refrigerator, before a tour of the rest of the rooms. Aryan's mum then turned and spoke to me in a rapid string of Hindi. As I'd dreaded, I didn't understand a word. I stood there blinking dumbly as my mind tried to process the words.

‘Cookbooks. She's asking if you have Indian cookbooks,’ Maliha came to my rescue in English. She did speak quite a bit of English after all, it seemed, now that she was feeling more comfortable around me.

Relieved, I rushed into the kitchen and gathered a suitable collection of cookbooks.

‘Arre wah! (Oh, wow, great!)’ Aryan's mum was impressed.

Having gained some approval, I started to relax. I felt surprisingly comfortable in her presence. She wasn't at all intimidating. In fact, she joked a lot and was very funny. She merrily told me how she'd learned to say ‘come here’ in English. But then a friend had asked her what if she needed to tell someone to ‘go there’. Her solution? She'd go there first and then tell them to come! Somehow, I managed to understand what she was saying.

By the time she left, I was sad to see her go. I knew the fear I felt about Aryan's family wasn't justified. Even though they didn't expect me to be Indian and weren't at all critical of me, I was hard on myself and judged myself more harshly than others did.

I'd been in Mumbai for almost two months when the universe rewarded me for being brave enough to leave my comfort zone. It showed me, via an unexpected and unusual email from a stranger, the gateway to my big dream. The sender was an Australian who wrote for the same website I did. She didn't get in touch merely to compliment me; she told me to apply for a position with an organisation that was part of the New York Times Company. They wanted someone to write and manage their Indian travel website. Preferably someone who was living in India, and had experience writing for the web and using content management systems.

I was stunned. A stranger had gone to the effort of writing to me to tell me about a job she thought I might be interested in! Not only was it a job that would suit me perfectly, it was one that combined everything that I was aspiring to: my own website and Indian travel. This job had both. And I'd be able to work from home.

The application process looked intense. The company wanted professional travel writers with published clips. They intended to select five candidates to take part in a two-week online preparation program, the outcome of which would determine who'd get the job. I'd have to learn about the company's editorial standards, prepare a sample website, write sample articles and blog posts, and publish them on the sample site using the company's templates and publishing tools. An editor would evaluate my work and decide who to hire at the end of the process.

For some reason, I was oddly undeterred. I sent in my application and was accepted into the program in a matter of hours. I would start in a week. Meanwhile, the company sent me hundreds of pages of instructions about how to use their publishing tools and what they wanted me to write. Hotel reviews, restaurant reviews, walking tours, lists of attractions, photo galleries – all of it original.

Madly, I sorted through all my travel photos, roamed around Mumbai compiling interesting walking tours and racked my brains to create appealing articles about the places I'd visited, stayed and eaten in. Twice, I worked through the night. Once, I worked continuously for over 24 hours with barely any breaks. I didn't even have a desk, so I sat with my laptop in a beanbag on the floor, papers spread out all around me. I'd never worked so hard or put so much effort into anything in my life. Somehow, from somewhere, energy kept flowing into me to allow me to continue.

When I received the email telling me that I'd been selected for the position, it felt like two years of wandering around India and questioning myself had culminated in something worthwhile. As the Dream Giver had promised, I'd been rewarded for my courage, and in a way greater than I could ever have imagined. I could hardly believe that I had been so blessed. I felt like weeping tears of relief and joy. I told my parents the good news, and they shared my excitement.

What I later discovered astounded me even more. The company usually gets hundreds of applicants for its positions, especially in the popular travel channel. And I was the person who got the job – I couldn't help feeling like the universe had manifested a miracle. I may have attracted the opportunity into my life with my thoughts and actions. But, like a genie in the fairytale creation process, a greater force had conspired to deliver it to me. There was no other way to view what had happened. I hadn't even been searching for a job; I was humbled and touched.

The event was indisputable proof that it really was possible to create my own reality. It was one thing to read about the power of attraction, but another to have it take place in my life. All I needed to do was persist and have faith in the power of the universe. The job couldn't have come at a better time. It provided us with a much needed source of income and kept me focused when the wearisome trials of daily life in Mumbai became too much.

Aryan had decided to prove to his family that he was responsible by working with his sister Maliha and her husband in their manufacturing business. It was expanding, and they were importing a computer-operated wire-cut machine to make engineering parts out of metal. Aryan would learn how to operate the machine, oversee the workshop and visit clients. The machine took months longer to arrive than expected. In the meantime, he did random DJ gigs when openings came up. There was no point looking for a permanent job as no one knew exactly when the machine would arrive. I also didn't want him to be out working late in clubs every night, while I was alone in our apartment.

Pieces were being moved around, and it was a period of great transition. I couldn't wait for some quiet, and for when things would settle down. But first, I would have to adjust to life in Maximum City, a city that seemed to have minimum middle ground. A city that's both addictive and repulsive at the same time. A city that takes so much, and yet gives so much.