The plane landed in Dubai on its way to New Delhi. I wheeled my luggage carrier up the long passageway, enjoying the exercise after the eight-hour flight from London. I was hungry. Since the food served on airplanes is not my favorite, I had had nothing but raisins and almonds on the way. My stomach grumbled but I ignored it. In five more hours, I would be in India.

As I moved slowly toward the waiting room, I was conscious of heads turning as I passed. I glanced hurriedly at my yellow and pink summer dress to see if the thin cotton fabric revealed too much. I tossed the matching shawl over my shoulder and let it fall gracefully down the middle of my back. Then finding an inconspicuous corner by the door, I took the comb from my handbag and proceeded to comb back my thick black curly hair. When I took out my mirror, I was not entirely displeased, but I rummaged through the red cosmetic bag until I found the lip pencil. I turned to face the door and as discreetly as possible applied a fresh layer of coral to the natural brown hue of my mouth. Perched on top of the luggage carrier was a gold-colored wide-brimmed hat with a peach silk scarf. As I replaced the cosmetics, it tottered and fell onto the floor with a soft swishing sound. In a circular motion, I swooped down and retrieved it, putting it on, and tying the silk scarf under my chin.

Then I glanced around. It was a modern airport with clean, sleek and polished floors. I wanted to sit down as my feet ached. However, Indian men who were fast asleep occupied all the seats in the waiting area. They sat slouching with curved backs or bent forward with their head hanging down on their chest. The Indian women were awake, tending to the babies they carried in their arms, or rocked gently backwards and forwards in their strollers. The women were all well adorned with colorful gold-trimmed saris trailing regally on the floor, and sparkling 22-carat gold earrings dangling from their small delicately sculptured heads.

I smiled to myself as I wistfully inhaled the scene spread out before me.

So this – India – is to be my home for the next ... How long? – I do not know ... Will he meet me at the airport? What will he be like? I sighed inwardly.

The boarding area was already full. I had to leave the airport luggage carrier outside before entering. It was a long queue. The unshaven man standing in front of me with matted hair down to his waist and torn brown trousers smelled as if he had not taken a bath in a month. I held my breath and turned in the opposite direction with my back to the door leading to the plane. My arm ached from carrying the blue vinyl bag. Although not unusually big, it was full of hardcover notebooks.

"Tickets! Passports! Please have them ready!" An Air India attendant shouted at the amorphous mass of people moving like a horde of humming bees toward the entrance to the plane. I was pushed forward.

"Free seating! Just be seated. Madam, there is an empty seat just here." The attendant pointed to a seat to my right next to a man who was obviously Indian. He was wearing tight blue jeans and a black T-shirt that accentuated his well-developed chest and muscular biceps. The T-shirt had "FLORIDA" written on it in blaring orange and yellow letters that simulated dancing flames. He was tall, agile and his strong regular features were framed by a mass of smooth black hair.

He smiled, his eyes perusing my figure as I passed him to sit in the window seat. Then he tugged at his jeans on the upper part of his legs as if to lessen their discomfort. I looked away embarrassed.

"What is your country?" he asked.

"America – I was born in New York," I answered. "How many more hours to Delhi?"

"Three," he answered. "How long you will stay in India?" he asked, looking directly into my eyes. His sleek strong body exuded the feline grace of a leopard stalking his prey, but he had a sweet gentle quality, which made his manner less obtrusive.

"I have a one-year visa." I stared straight ahead, as if peering into a vast open space, which contained the secret of my future. I felt a slight shiver go down my spine.

"Have you been to India before?"

"Oh yes, twice. I was in Simla in the foothills of the Himalayas and I lived in Varanasi for almost six months. I was studying music." My mind drifted back to Varanasi. "In Varanasi, I lived near the Ganges. I used to go to bathe in the river at dawn. Watching the sun rise on the Ganges was the best part of the trip."

"Oh? You liked it. It is a holy river." He paused. "What's your name?" he asked, turning in his seat to face me.

"Shantila."

"Mine is Yogesh," he said.

"Sounds like yogi," I replied, smiling. "You should be a yogi with a name like that."

"My mother chose the name. I think my mother hoped I would be religious – I mean more than I am."

"You're not?" I asked.

"Oh I used to be, but I don't have time now. I work for Air India. I'm a manager. I just returned from a ski trip in Aspen, Colorado. Nice place. Do you ski?"

"No," I answered, "but once I tried cross country ..."

"Fasten seat belts!" the loudspeaker blared out.

As the plane lifted into the sky, I leaned back in the seat and closed my eyes. I remembered those early-morning walks in Varanasi down the dirt road leading to the shore. As the plane soared ever-higher into the sky, the picture of the Ganges unraveled on the canvas of my memory: India, India ... I saw again the wide expanse of the river spreading out before me. The pale blue waters of the river had stirred my soul with such peace. Those waters had whispered to me of a world without end or beginning where love wove the garment of life – a love eternal which reigned supreme over all.

The river seemed to open her eyelids at dawn, her veil fluttering in the morning air. Her veil, of pale blue silk, made of undulating waves and woven by the hands of God rippled in the shimmering light of dawn. Her voice, like a caress, sang in silence of a world born before time. Her voice seemed to call to me as I boarded the simple wooden boat ... I remember even now how the oars of the boat kissed the surface of the water, and then sank momentarily into the translucent folds of soft blue silk. The divine Ganga did not mind the touch of the wood upon her body. Like a woman who willingly bears all burdens, the waters yielded to the slow rhythmic pressure of the oars as the boatman plied his way forward toward the rising sun.

The voices of prayer coming from the ardent devotees who lined the bank of the river rose and fell like the gentle waves murmuring in the unbounded ocean of silence which pervaded everything.

I drifted in and out of sleep as these images arose in my mind:

I saw again the straight-backed women carrying puja...