He was a tiny dark skinned man who couldn’t speak any English, leading us out of the airport into the dense and oily air that immediately burned our eyes and pained our nostrils. Even at 1 a.m., when the sky was pitch black, the smog was oppressive. Three men followed us to the car, grabbed our bags and then negotiated for tips. Handing over 100 rupees (less than $1) and told to split it between the three of them got us out of the hassle and on our way.

The car was an old wreck, but we ignored it gallantly and got in, trusting him to take us to the Queen’s Inn in Gurgaon, a suburb south of Delhi where our host lives and works. Even at the late hour, driving on the roads was as equally chaotic as the airport – 90% of which were trucks sandwiching cars, motorbikes and an array of other vehicles on roads and highways with no divided lanes. Along the route, we passed shanties, crumbling buildings, construction sites, modern skyscrapers and mega-malls silhouetted by undernourished cows, wild dogs and rickshaws. It was all a bit frightening for our first 30 minutes in India. 

We entered what seemed like a residential neighborhood, over rocky unpaved streets stopping in front of a large house with three friendly dogs out front, to learn it was the Queen’s Inn guest house. Four men were awake to greet us and sign us in to the clean and sparsely equipped room, except for the luxuries of a color TV, telephone and Internet connection that never functioned. My daughter described it as “random” – an apt description for what so far has already been a strange adventure. The real adventure began the next day, of which we had not a clue as to what to expect. In many ways, I’m glad we didn’t.

The guest house became a bit like home after six nights, two dinners, untold numbers of orders of chai tea, bottles of mineral water, hand wash hung on a line stretched over the bathtub, constant use of the Internet on the one available communal computer and becoming friendly with the very nice and helpful all male staff. A few of the wedding guests were staying there, too. . .in particular, a holy man from the south and his family who hosted an American man from Seattle – a complete coincidence with the daughter of our host, who was the bride and also living in Seattle with her fiancé.

Our first two days visiting Delhi were a small preparation for what was to come attending the two traditional Hindu weddings. My daughter, Erica Simone, was hired to photograph brother-sister weddings scheduled back-to-back over a four-day period of non-stop activities with an all-expenses-paid trip including a tour of the Golden Triangle – Delhi, Agra (Taj Mahal) and Jaipur. It was an opportunity of a lifetime that would have been foolish to pass up. She may think otherwise after discovering the stressful work it entailed to be on duty every moment and then to edit and prepare the literally thousands of photos she has taken.

Gurgaon is about a 30-minute drive from New Delhi. A hired driver with a long list of the city’s most important sights took us on a whirl-wind tour that ended mid evening with dinner at the guesthouse our first day.

The headline on the day’s paper and the intense stare of the young child begging at our car window couldn’t have expressed our sentiments better. Less than 24 hours from landing we were dumbfounded. There are no words to describe the intensity of life in a land as contrary to France as India. On the roads and highways, bikes, motorbikes, rickshaws, both manual and motorized, cars and trucks of all sizes blend haphazardly with camels, cows, dogs and massive amounts of humanity. Men have their hair cut roadside in front of mirrors hung from trees. A man bathes himself in front of a sea of motorized vehicles under a veil of dense pollution. Beggars approach the car at stop lights with the most pathetic of offerings, stories and gestures. While our hearts pour out and we want to reach into our wallets for a few rupees, we know that once we surrender, we will be harassed by many more. . .so we try not to look back and deny their very existence, as everyone else seems to do.

Within moments traveling along the roads in bumper-to-bumper traffic, the landscape can easily change to the most poverty stricken shanty-towns to the most elaborate and beautiful monuments and perfectly tended gardens. Some women are dressed elaborately in stunning silk crepe saris and Punjabis (Indian casual wear), wearing glittering bangle bracelets and delicate shoes while riding sidesaddle on the back of motorbikes. It frightened me to see it and I wasn't surprised to learn that during the week one 8-month pregnant woman was reported to have died in an accident when her sari was caught in the wheel of the bike. 

A Bollywood movie was being filmed while we visited the Mehrauli Archaelogical Park which houses the Quth Minar, what they claim is the world’s highest single tower (and here we thought it might be the Eiffel Tower!). The entry fee was 10 times the price for foreigners and seemed expensive at 250 rupees, but in fact, about $5.70.

Under the domed arches of the ancient temples, while visitors strolled among the ruins, businessmen talked on cell phones – almost everyone has one. They allow them to ring anywhere, anytime and don't think a thing of disturbing anything going on around them (we discovered this during the religious parts of the wedding ceremonies when the father of the bride would stop the ceremony to take a call!).

The advertising along the roads and on the buildings would make Madison Avenue shutter – tag lines such as “Adding Colour to Your Life is a Good Idea” (for what product I don’t remember) and “Hi, I’m Pooja. I am buying a home in Gaur Grandeur because it is very special”-- I loved this one best of all. It didn’t take long before realizing that India-speak is exactly in this manner – Hindi translated to English sounding a bit primitive and over simplified.

Our first meal in Delhi was only after a preparatory dose of Pepto Bismal to coat our virgin stomachs at a traditional Indian restaurant along Connaught Place, named Volga’s. It was filled by businessmen drinking large bottles of beer and was appointed in dark red velvet chairs with back cushions in the shape of hearts. For 500 rupees, about $11, we savored four vegetarian dishes, garlic naan, mineral water and chai tea. At the large circular town center designed and built by Robert Tor Russel to honor the British Empire, we spied a man relieving himself in the Ladies latrine, guards standing watch at the automatic tellers and hawkers promoting free maps of the city if you’d just step inside their travel agency doors.

On the grass surrounding the India Gate, the children are taught to defecate while a flutist charmed a cobra right out of his basket. When he didn’t perform on cue, the well-trained snake got a smack on the head. Dogs were kicked when misbehaving, yet we found the people of India extremely friendly, polite, soft spoken and particularly gentle.

Shoes must be removed to enter the lotus flower shaped Baha’i House of Worship, which are housed in an underground depository in exchange for a metal token into which a number is etched. We were reluctant to expose our clean socks to the dusty stones, but our only other choice was to decline – we hadn’t come this far to worry about dirty socks, so we stood in line waiting for entry to take a seat, listen to a short prayer and head out the door again. The interior is less lotus-shaped than the stunning exterior, but is still a serene and sobering temple worth a visit.

At the INA market on the south side of Delhi are hundreds of stalls crammed under a ramshackle roof in a maze of alleys offering everything from spices and foods to clothing and frivolities. The merchants are assertive about getting you in their “doors,” but are willing to bargain for less than half of their starting price. For 400 rupees, less than $10, we purchased two three-piece outfits, embroidered with gold threads and equipped with sew-on sleeves. Bangle bracelets are sold in lots of 12 in every color known to man. Spice shops sell large bags of spices, beans, rice and pastas. Live and butchered animals were offered in stalls next to fresh produce. Grocery stores resembling mini-markets sell cleaning and personal products. Others sell pots, pans and cooking equipment. The shopkeepers were ready and willing to be photographed, smiling broadly for my daughter’s camera and anxious to see the results on the tiny screen. Not for a moment did it feel dangerous, although we were warned about pickpockets. I joked to our host that we were quite familiar with pickpockets in Paris – about the best in the world. Delhi wouldn’t seem too threatening and it didn’t.

Before heading back to the guesthouse, we stopped at the Intercontinental Hotel for a coffee, a French pastry and a clean bathroom. The contrast between the poverty on the streets and the wealth inside the four-star hotel was striking. Already starved for something familiar, logical and pristine, we wondered what the next few days would bring. Incessantly we talked throughout the trip about the lack of logic anything made. So unlike La Vie Française, where every detail is so precise and every landscape so perfectly manicured, nothing seems to follow a sense of order of any kind. 

Sensory overload is a good way to describe the intense and overwhelming reaction a Westerner might have experiencing the Indian culture for the first time as we did. It is non-stop highs and lows, brights and darks, happiness and sadness, calm and chaos, silence and noise, kindness and maliciousness, timidity and aggressiveness, tenderness and violence, colorfulness and grimness. There aren’t enough words to describe the sensations. The contrasts are striking and nothing computes. Not at least, to our eyes and Western default modes -- a blend of American and French, two worlds light years apart from this one.

Our second day in India we bravely ventured into Old Delhi, parking across from the most famous monument, the Red Fort. Another Bollywood movie was in full filming, so there was no way to enter or even get past the crowds watching from outside the gates. My daughter stood atop a rickshaw to get a glimpse. The driver didn’t seem to mind – he was doing the same thing.

Armed with the Rough Guide list of acceptable restaurants, we worked our way down the Chandi Chowk, the main boulevard, wearing an invisible bubble to protect ourselves from the extreme poverty that begged at our feet, avoid the splattering of human spit and witness the scene of hectic commerce emerging from the vendors hawking you into the shops, make-shift stalls and street side carts. The fresh coconut and pineapple looks tempting, but we know better than to taste its sweet meat, filled with bacteria our virgin systems won’t digest.

Until now, we’ve had few dietary issues and have enjoyed every authentic vegetarian morsel, both north and south Indian style. We stick to lightly spiced dishes, but taste everything – I refuse to miss a single cooked dish of freshly prepared cuisine. Most of the Indian restaurants in Paris are actually run by Pakistanis, just as most of the Japanese restaurants are run by Chinese, and furthermore adjusted to the bland French palette – so how authentic can it possibly be? We’re discovering they are a poor substitute for the real thing.

Two days of acclimation only barely prepared us for the four days of traditional wedding events. Our Hindu host is father to both a groom and a bride, brother and sister. Their two weddings take place one after another, each two days long. His son’s wedding which began on a Monday was arranged with a young woman from South India, having known each other about one year. His daughter’s wedding started the following Wednesday with a series of similar ceremonies. It was “déjà vu” – all over again, but the second time with some experience. She married an Indian man also from the south, but whom she met living in Seattle five years ago. The entire family speaks very good English, is of the highest caste (Gujarati Brahmin), is well educated (primarily in the U.S.) and are the most gracious of hosts.

The son’s wedding was consecrated during a final gala event at a garden where all the guests were wearing their finest garb. The garden is an area designed just for events of this kind. When traveling down the road you might not suspect what lies inside the fence, but once darkness falls and the lights of the grounds go on, you enter a world in complete contrast to the marble yard across the street and garbage dump just down the road where sacred cows graze. 

Seats made of burgundy and gold fabrics surround large round tables set under tents draped with the same fabrics, with stand after stand of exotic foods, drinks and games for the children – a virtual private carnival on a large expansive terrain of grass and dirt. 

I sampled from 20 different vegetarian dishes, several different kinds of rice, noodles and breads. The lucky couple and the immediate family held court on a large elaborate stage while guests came to greet them and hand them the traditional envelope of gifted money. Then we danced on an open platform to modern Indian music and we laughed until we cried from exhaustion and exhilaration.

It would be difficult in less than a tome to correctly or fully describe the experience of attending a traditional Indian wedding except to give you a glimpse of some of the high points and perhaps witness some of the less personal images my daughter had taken as one of the official photographers. From the beginning, however, there has been a constant smile on our faces – as in every aspect, there is both tradition, meaning, and a whole lot of celebratory fun.

We are more than “guests” as we are part of the party itself – Erica must be present at every event, not to miss a single important moment. She has not stopped taking photos – to the tune of about 1500 per day. This has been the most challenging task of her short photographic career, of which she is sure to have many rewarding images, both mental and digital. Over the four days, the family and friends had come to know us as we have of them. 

We were the only Westerners and were well taken care of by our host and their family and friends. We are outsiders, yet they took us in, invited us to visit them, shared with us their thoughts, asked questions and gave us physical affection. It was heartwarming, comforting and reassuring. They seem so enamored of us as Westerners that they have asked to have their photos taken with us and made us promise to send them quickly handing over their business cards and asking for ours. 

Nothing starts on time and nothing lasts as short as we are told. They call it “Indian Stretchable Time,” a joke taken from “Indian Standard Time.” One ceremony leads to another, having first to do with chastity before marriage and then the vows to one another for a lifetime of devotion. A variety of simple implements are used symbolically – herbs, flowers, burning incense, altars, statues, foods and fabrics. Family is of utmost importance and in many rituals, they must hold one another with loving hands.

They chant and they sing, quite naturally. In fact, singing is quite normal for anyone, anytime, anywhere. We realized that never do we hear anyone in France singing idly – almost always in concert or on the Métro, but here, it as commonplace as carrying a bagette on the street is in Paris. 

Dancing is also very much a part of the culture and tradition. At an evening ceremony the second night, various people performed traditional Indian dances before a seated audience, including the soon to be bride, her friends and children of the family. Their saris glittered and swirled showing off their henna-designed feet and hands.

At a ritual gathering, mehendi (the Indian word for henna) artists came to decorate any hands wanting it. The brides? hands, forearms and feet were each elaborately adorned. I was encouraged to having at least the backs of my hands painted with flowers and spiral motifs by a beautiful young woman with medium brown hair and light green eyes from Mumbai (Bombay) who professed to be a better artist than the hired ones. And so she was quite talented. She wore a golden voile embroidered and beaded sari both elegant and stunning.

We are told that one can tell which women come from the south vs the north just by the way their saris are worn and their colors. One woman, however, just to please the other family, wore hers draped over her right shoulder instead of her left. The saris are stunningly colorful, glittery and elaborate. I have yet to understand how they manage daily life wearing so many yards of fabric perfectly folded and draped without it falling down, being tripped on or torn or how on earth they maneuver a trip to the ladies room!

We will also likely never understand their toilet habits, even though I’ve read all there is on the subject and carry both toilet paper and handy wipes with me at all times. We take every opportunity to visit the toilets at the hotels or private homes – even at the wedding event hall you wouldn’t want to venture in. . .it’s not the most pleasant of experiences. I’ve learned to hold my breath, not look too hard, roll up my pants, hold up any shawls or draped fabrics as best as possible, aim and pray like hell!

I joked with one well-informed young woman who works for GE in Mumbai about black being the primary color of dress in Paris – such a contrast to the carnival-like colors of the silk saris. How strange the streets of Paris would look if this well-dressed wedding party had been dropped miraculously into a smoky-toned Paris scene. And there is no shortage of bedazzling jewelry of gold. . .earrings, necklaces, bangle bracelets, rings and adornments of which we have never dreamed. The women seem to become overweight as they mature, and their hair is often hennaed to cover the gray, but they are stunning at every age. They embarrass me by my simple clothing and lack of Indian style. Thank goodness for having purchased the Punjabis at the market our first day – I felt much less out of place among these beautiful women.

The cook serving every meal at the event hall was so proud that we liked his food that we were the first he asked if he could prepare anything special. All the dishes were vegetarian, of course, and he was careful not to heavily spice. . .just for us. One gentleman living in London was so pleased that we were “neighbors” and warned us to stay away from drinking the lassi, a yogurt-based beverage, as its bacteria might not agree with us. 

We witnessed the “kitchen” staff prepare lunch for the wedding party and guests outdoors on concrete under a tin roof in large woks and pots on an open propane flame propped on a stack of bricks. Women sat on the ground making rounds of dough and patting them flat while a man fried the parantha in oil. They washed the pots and pans under an open spigot. I couldn’t help but be reminded of the kitchen of award-winning French chef Christian Constant where I once took instruction and where every copper pot is hung in a particular kind of order over the big gas stainless steel stoves. How our lives differ!

To be continued next month in Escape Artist Travel Magazine issue number eight

About the Author Adrian Leeds grew up in New Orleans, Louisiana, attended the Fashion Institute of Technology in New York City, spent a year on a kibbutz in Israel before settling into a career and family life, first in Knoxville, Tennessee then in Los Angeles, California. In 1994, she brought with her to Paris more than 21 years of experience in marketing and public relations, first with Levi Strauss & Company, then with television station promotion, broadcast advertising sales, media purchasing and advertising agency account management for her own firm, opening in 1981, as well as for others, not to mention a daughter. She is author and editor of the Parler Paris Newsletter, editor of the French Property Insider, producer and editor of Insider Paris Guides electronic guides to Paris and the author of The Insider Paris Guide to Good Value Restaurants. She and her French Property Consultation team provides complete property consultation services and produces several conferences and seminars each year in both the U.S. and France under the name of Living and Investing in France. Her site, Parler Paris Apartments, provides reservations and booking services for a select group of property owners in Paris and France. She also co-hosts her own brainchild, the popular Parler Parlor French/English Conversation Group in Paris where members from 50 different countries meet to practice speaking French and English. Adrian Leeds Group, LLC, her U.S. based and her France-based company, Parler-France EURL, provides Web-based relationship marketing, public relations consultation and event coordination targeting to "francophiles" living in North America and France. Adrian Leeds® is a registered trademark in France. INPI : March 10, 2006, #063416238.