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strange about her, something beneath all her innocence.
    He was beginning to wonder how much she had hidden from him during their conversation.
    I might never see her again .
    When the driver stopped at a traffic signal, a beggar lady came up to the open rickshaw with a baby in her arms. She put her thumb and two fingers to her lips as a gesture that she needed food for the infant.
    The stop was brief, and Rick was aware of her presence, but he looked straight ahead. The driver moved forward and a sense of guilt consumed Rick when he looked at the beggar lady in the rearview mirror, a mother and baby, now just shadows.
    The night was alive with the throaty sounds of roaring motorcycles as the pedestrians breathed in their fumes. Soon, they left the noisy traffic and highways, with their wild cacophony of nervous street sounds. Everything became quiet. Rick’s driver took him down a narrow, unpaved road to a locked wooden gate. Behind it stood his home for the next few days.
    He knew in advance that staying with Indian people at their own residence would be a more personal experience, but he was also aware that if he were with Elena, a luxurious hotel would be his first choice. She liked the lavishness of a five-star hotel, and he knew she wouldn’t fit in here.
    Lubna, Rohit’s wife, showed him to his room as her son, Raj, carried his backpack. The room was spacious and clean, with a full-size bed in the center and a large, colorful Indian tapestry above the dark wood headboard. Framed watercolors of the Indian landscape were arranged artistically on one wall and sculptures were scattered about.
    The bed was inviting. He quickly unpacked, showered, and drifted off to sleep within minutes.
     
    ***
     
    Morning came. He dressed, grabbed his daypack, and walked out to the patio just outside the dining area. Rohit brought him a copy of the Hindustan Times and informed him breakfast was almost ready.
    Rick glanced through the newspaper. He read an article about isolated terrorist attacks in different parts of India, but from where he sat, he heard nothing but birds singing in the sunshine.
    An elderly British couple who occupied the other guest room were at the breakfast table when Rick entered the dining room, his newspaper folded and tucked into his daypack.
    Robert was a big man with sparse, sandy-colored hair, clad in a light khaki outfit. His round rimmed glasses gave him away as an intellectual. His wife, Elizabeth, showed none of the typical British behavior and could be the kind of person one could meet at a local town meeting.
    Everyone shook hands and introduced themselves when their host family, which included Rohit, his wife, Lubna, and his mother, Barindra, joined them. Together, they enjoyed a sumptuous breakfast of Indian pancakes, scrambled eggs, tea, and warm chapati. They chatted about where they were from and the countries they’d visited.
    “What I find most fascinating about this country is its culture,” Robert said, sipping his tea.
    “I agree with you there,” Rick said. “It’s amazing how your perspective changes when you leave the country of your birth. Now that I’m here, I feel like America is still so young and without an established culture. I think cultures need thousands of years to evolve in order to pass on its nuances from long ago.”
    Rohit shook his head as he chewed his food and said, “Oh no, I think America does have a culture, but it’s based on technology. Culture here in India is so…different.” He seemed unable to find the words, and washed down his breakfast with another swallow of tea.
    “You may have a point there,” Rick admitted with reluctance. “It’s a shame how obsessed people are with their computers these days.” No one disagreed with that, and they lapsed into silence as they finished their meal.
     
    ***
     
    After breakfast, Rick bargained a good price with a young, energetic auto rickshaw driver who took him to Connaught Place, a very busy area