Velvet blue and cloudless skies have accompanied me for the past three weeks. But the day of my departure from Bhutan, the sky was overcast. Maybe it was because of my emotions; I felt sad.

When I travel, my life back home seems like a remote reality. It has been only 17 days since I left Miami, but it feels like it’s been so much longer.

I miss the routine and the comforts of home, but I always miss my life on the road even more, that sense of pure freedom I feel when I travel, an invigorating sensation that permeates every fiber of my being. I have a wonderful life back home, but my adventurous spirit always yearns for the intoxicating liberty of traveling abroad.

The Druk airplane took off. We flew over the heavy gray clouds. I looked through the window, and there they were again: the Himalayas. The clouds beneath their peaks looked like a large, white, cotton carpet. My eyes didn’t leave the window during the entire flight.

“Excuse me, were you on the bridge yesterday? With a video camera?”

Snapping back to reality, I turned. The flight attendant was talking to me.

“Oh, yes. I was doing some videos,” I replied.

“What do you do?” he asked.

“I work in public relations. The video is just for my blog.” I didn’t want to mislead him; he thought I was a reporter.

“Did you enjoy Bhutan?” he continued.

“I love Bhutan. The place is beautiful, but I am especially impressed by the Bhutanese people,” I told him.

“Please come back. You are always welcome.” He shook my hand, then stopped by the seats of other foreign passengers and shook their hands as well. From the moment I first landed until the moment I left, I felt like a VIP guest.

The plane landed at the Kolkata airport.

As soon as I stepped out of the aircraft, the heat and humidity hit me. The air was polluted. Smog covered both the sun and the sky.

My connecting flight to Delhi was at 5:30 pm. I had eight hours in Kolkata before my next plane. I have been in India before, but not in this city. Instead of staying at the terminal, I planned to do some sightseeing.

As the airport authorities recommended, I first approached the “pre-paid taxi counter.” The man working there was rude. He said the taxis were only for one destination at a time, not for the day.

I wasn’t discouraged, though. If I couldn’t have a safe, pre-paid taxi, I would use my negotiating skills with the street taxis. I am always suspicious of taxi drivers and I dislike them, but dealing with them is an unavoidable part of traveling independently.

As soon as I left the terminal, about twenty drivers surrounded me. They were charging 2,000 rupees (nearly $50) for half a day to visit four sights. It was a rip-off. I had to play tough.

“There is no way I will pay that! My limit is 1,000 rupees. I have been in India before. I am not a newcomer. I know that this is enough,” I said to a short, chubby man who was really persistent. Although I had refused his services earlier, he had followed me to the luggage counter.

“Okay, 1,500 rupees,” he said.

I can offer. You take it or leave me alone,” I replied.

“Too little, no one will take you for that much,” he warned me.

“No problem. Let’s see if someone is willing to do it. If not, I’ll go on a bus.”

A thin man with prominent cheeks approached me. He supported the chubby man’s assessment. “Madam, he is right. The places are far. Thousand is too little,” he said.

It was getting hotter. I was out of breath. I raised my offer to 1,200 rupees. I just wanted to get out of the sun.

“Okay,” the chubby man said as we walked to his car. “No stop at Mother’s home or Victoria Memorial, no parking there. Only stop at the temples,” he added.

I agreed, although I was definitely going down at both sights if I felt like it. I would figure it out later on; for the moment, I just needed to get in the car to relieve myself from the heat.

The man pointed to an old, white ambassador car. I was hopeful it had air-conditioning, and I got inside.

“He takes you around Kolkata,” said the chubby man, pointing at the thin man. He was the driver. The chubby one only served as a mediator for the price.

We left the airport. I soon realized the taxi didn’t have air conditioning, but it was much better inside the car.

“What’s your name?” I asked the driver.

“Subrata Binda Kundu,” he responded.

He was 50 years old, but he looked much older. He was so thin that he seemed famished. He had a bony face, and his clothes hung on his fragile figure.

“Where from?” he asked.

“I am from Venezuela,” I responded.

“Miss World! Beautiful! You, miss?” He smiled, revealing his missing teeth. The few that he had left were blackened.

“No, I am no Miss,” I said.

When I travel to these faraway lands, locals don’t always know where Venezuela is, but they definitely know about the beauty queens as many Miss Universes are from Venezuela. Ironically, I am not very fond of beauty pageants.

“Indian women are very beautiful, Kundu. India has also received crowns,” I said, as if I was interested in beauty contests. His English was so poor, and he seemed so excited about Miss Venezuela, Miss World, and Miss Universe that I didn’t want to disappoint him with my disapproving stance on beauty pageants.

“Latin women are very beautiful,” he said, pointing at me.

“Thank you, Kundu. I am flattered.”

“How old?” Kundu asked again.

“I am 32.”

“Married?” he asked.

I knew the typical questions were going to come eventually: Married? Kids? Family? What do you do?

In India, it’s rare to be a single woman after 30, and locals look at it with concern. So I said I was married. I used the same fake husband story I used three years ago during my first visit to India.

“Children?” His interrogation continued.

“Not yet, Kundu,” I responded.

“Why not?” He seemed mortified.

“My husband and I will try next year,” I replied, trying to cheer him up.

He smiled. “Very good!”

Kundu said he had married late and had a little boy.

“Would you meet my wife? My home is very near the airport. Some lunch?” he offered.

“Thanks, Kundu. Let’ see. If we have time, we’ll stop by your home before you drop me off at the terminal. I would love to meet your family,” I replied.

Kundu turned up the music. The tape recorder played a lively Hindi song. It was loud, but the chaos in the streets of Kolkata was much louder. Outside, the horns of cars, trucks, rickshaws, and carts—not to mention the moos of cows!— were deafening.

The dust was so heavy that everything looked blurry.

Beggars, lepers, people with disabilities, and piles of trash were everywhere. Some filthy Indians were on their knees on either side of the roads, their eyes looking lost. Others who didn’t have limbs—probably due to self-mutilation to cause pity—walked between cars trying to get rupees from the drivers and passengers.

As if they were alone, men stood on the side of the road next to a weak stream, wearing their underwear or a towel around their waists, washing their bony frames and intimate parts.

And amidst this chaos, beautiful Indian women flaunted their bright-colored saris.

“Wait here,” Kundu instructed. “Check parking.” Kundu walked away to find out about parking. Mother Teresa’s House was on the other side of the road.

“Beautiful face.” An Indian woman in her thirties wearing an elaborate pink sari surprised me. She was passing by the car and stopped at my window.

“My name is Rosy. What’s your name?” She smiled. Her English was perfect. Her white pearl teeth contrasted with her glowing brown skin.

“Daniela,” I responded.

“Blessings, Daniela, very beautiful,” she said, then kept on walking.

“No parking here. Only 30 minutes.” Kundu came back to the car. “You go 15 minutes,” he added.

“No problem, Kundu. I will be back soon. Thank you!” I crossed the chaotic street and went inside the building for the “Missionaries of Charity,” the Catholic religious order Mother Teresa of Kolkata belonged to.

Even after her death, the Missionaries of Charity continue her work, taking care of refugees, sick children, lepers, AIDS patients, and other convalescent people.

“Please come, there are three rooms.” A middle-aged nun invited me in.

The first room housed the white marble tomb of Mother Teresa. It had a flame on the top. There was also a humble altar with a portrait of Jesus. With their hair covered and their bodies swathed in white robes with blue stripes, a couple young nuns kneeled on the floor with their eyes closed and prayed. A few sang softly.

The next room was a small museum with some posters that explained Mother Teresa’s remarkable work and traced her life from childhood to death. There were also quotations from Mother Teresa and testimonials from those she helped. I was sort of relieved that I wasn’t the only one with watering eyes. A few other people in the room also shed some tears. Mother Teresa’s compassion and dedication to helping the poorest of the poor were extraordinary.

“Good woman, good heart,” I heard someone whisper in my ear. It was Kundu. He placed his hands over his heart.

“Yes, Kundu. She was.” No matter your religion, it is impossible not to admire Mother Teresa’s humanitarian work.

We climbed some stairs to see her tiny room, which included just a small metal bed and a wooden table.

Kundu and I went back to the car. We passed some sports fields, where young guys played football and hockey. Kundu excitedly explained it to me. I usually make an effort to understand what locals say to me in broken English, but I couldn’t make any sense of what Kundu was saying. Maybe it was the boiling heat? The heavy, polluted air? The deafening horns? I felt dizzy and exhausted. I only said “wow,” and nodded at Kundu’s remarks.

Suddenly, a gigantic, white marble building appeared in the distance. It was the Victoria Memorial. A mix of Italian Renaissance and Mughal architecture, this massive building is now a museum. With its lush gardens, the pompous complex contrasted drastically with the poverty surrounding it.

“No parking, but you want to go in? I find way,” said Kundu. I was moved by the fact that Kundu was willing to look for parking so I could get off at all the sites, despite the chubby man saying we couldn’t stop.

Part of me wanted to get off, but I felt lightheaded and weak. I was afraid that if I got off, I would faint.

“It is okay, Kundu; we can go,” I said.

My eyes itched. I wondered if it was because of the dust or the pollution. It was hard to keep my eyes open.

This was not my first time in India. I was familiar with its chaos. I wondered what was wrong with me. Maybe it was just a shock to my body after three weeks of nature and pure air.

The traffic congestion was so severe that sometimes cars would turn off their engines.

We finally made it out of the traffic jam and crossed a bridge over the brownish Hooghly River.

It took us a bit more than an hour to get to the next sight: the Delur Math, a Ramakrishna Mission and one of the most important organizations of Kolkata.

“Shoes not allowed. Keep in the car,” indicated Kundu.

We walked barefoot on the dirty road toward the entrance of the temples dedicated to Ramakrishna, a famous spiritual Hindu figure whose movement had spread worldwide.

In the crowd, barefoot devotees mixed with head-shaven monks swathed in orange robes.

We came across a stunning building that is hard to describe; its architecture is a blend of different religions, and it is said it was built that way because this spiritual movement believes in a “universal faith.” It has three domes in the Moghul style, but it also resembles a church and a mosque, with Buddhist elements as well.

“Come,” said Kundu.

He took me to the Swami Vivekananda Temple. Swami Vivekanada was a disciple of Ramakrishna. We also saw the Holy Mother’s Temple, which is dedicated to Sarada Devi—Ramakrishna’s wife.

Although his poor English didn’t allow Kundu to explain much, he proudly said, “Mother’s Temple, important!” or “Swami Vivenkananda, good, very good.” He put his palms together and kneeled at each temple.

Kundu asked me to follow him to what seemed like a house. We had to wait in line. A security monk opened and closed the door to a room. Only a few people were allowed in at a time. Finally, it was our turn. I expected to see a statue; instead, a chubby monk in an orange robe sat in the middle of an altar. He had to be an important spiritual master.

With a grave look, he made a gesture with his hand to the devotees, ordering them to sit down.

Kundu kneeled and touched the floor with his forehead. I did the same. We received blessings from the master.

As we left the room, I cast a quick glance at the man. For some reason, his features made me think of a frog. Of course, I wouldn’t mention this to Kundu.

At the exit, a smiling monk gave us what looked like small cookies. He gave three to me, and only one to Kundu. I gave one of mine to Kundu so we were even. They tasted like hard sugar. Kundu returned the one I had given him. “Good for you,” he said, encouraging me to eat it.

We walked into the big impressive temple we first saw at the entrance. Dozens of devotees gathered inside, cross-legged.

“Good blessing from Krishna! Come, come.” Kundu passed through all the crowds until we were at the very front.

“Please sit,” he invited me. Devotees opened space so I could sit among them. Within a few minutes, dozens of eager pilgrims packed the hall. There was a heavy security presence. I wondered what kind of ritual this was going to be.

A tall Indian man followed by a woman wearing a delicate white and aquamarine embroidered sari walked to the altar. The monks greeted them with reverence.

“Gopalkrishna Gandhi. Governor of the state and wife. Good man, very good man,” Kundu whispered in my ear.

Suddenly the doors of the altar opened, revealing a statue of Sri Ramakrishna seated on a lotus. Devotees tried to see the holy figure. Their ohs of amazement permeated the temple.

“Okay, we can go now,” Kundu said.

He wanted to show me the back of the temple, where he explained some symbols. I had no idea what he meant, but I nodded.

We suddenly ran into the governor of West Bengal and wife. Kundu bowed to the governor. I had no idea what the proper formal greeting was, so I put my hands in the prayer position and bowed my head.

The governor hardly paid attention to Kundu; but his wife looked at us, smiled, returned the bow, and said something in Hindi.

“Very, very good man, good governor,” said Kundu again.

“She is a very classy, beautiful lady, Kundu,” I said.

“Is the governor pretty?” he asked, smiling.

“Yes, he’s a very handsome man.” Actually, I didn’t find him attractive at all.

We drove to the Kaligat Temple, where Kundu suddenly stopped in the middle of the bridge. “Quick, good picture of Kali Temple. You get off?” asked Kundu.

It seemed dangerous to stop in the middle of the bridge. “Don’t worry, Kundu. I can take the pictures from the car.”

A vibrant bazaar lined each side of the road. We made it through the hectic street into the parking lot.

Situated on the banks of the Hooghly River, this beautiful Hindu temple is dedicated to the Goddess Kali of eternal energy. The main shrine, where the holy figure of Kali is, had several domes. Along the river were smaller temples with domes. The soft yellow and dark red painting of the temples contrasted with the brownish river and the greenery of tropical trees.

The walk from the car to the entrance of the temple was intense due to the pressure of the beggars.

The beggars in India were overwhelming, especially after being in Bhutan. Beggars, people with disabilities, starving children, and Indians of all ages without limbs were everywhere.

We passed through the crowd and made it inside the temple, where hundreds of pilgrims from all over India tried to get a glimpse of Kali and pray for her blessings. Whatever your problem is, this Goddess can help you! It could be health related, love or money issues.

Kundu showed me around. I was the only foreigner in the temple, and the harassment was overwhelming. Kundu seemed annoyed that people were approaching me for money. “Too many handicap,” he pronounced.

On the way to the car, some kids followed us.

“Mama, please, mama, bebe, hungry, mama,” cried a filthy girl who was probably not older than eight. She was carrying a baby on her bony back.

My heart shrank. I thought of Isabella, my niece, and her good life back home. I wanted to help this girl, but I knew the money would not fill her starving belly; it would go into an adult’s hand.

“Can I buy her some food, Kundu?” I asked.

“Walk fast,” he recommended.

He rushed me into the car and locked it. He went to pay for the parking.

The kids knocked on my window and kept on moaning.

I felt awful.

“Are you okay, madam?” asked Kundu as he got back inside the car and drove away.

I could only nod.

Kundu stopped on the side of the road. “Some tea, biscuit, madam?” he asked.

“I’ll have some tea, Kundu,” I responded.

He brought sweet milk tea and a small bag with fried food in it.

“Vegetarian.” He pronounced the word with effort.

It was very salty, and it tasted like french fries. After we finished, Kundu continued to drive.

“Home very close. Good Krishna temple! You will see,” he said.

We drove closer to the airport, making a turn onto a dirty road. We drove through a slum. But it wasn’t as bad as the shantytown I got lost in in Delhi three years ago.

We parked the car in an empty lot next to a temple.

“Oh, closed. Sorry, madam,” said Kundu. He seemed sad he couldn’t show me the famous Krishna of his “neighborhood.”

We walked inside the slum. Trash was everywhere. Flies wandered over a stinky green tank on the side of the road. It was full of rubbish and dirt. Crumbling cement blocks lined each side of the road.

We entered into a house through a dark door. There were two rooms. Kundu invited me to pass into one of the rooms. “Welcome home,” he said.

It turned out that each of room was a home itself.

Kundu’s home was just one dark room with a large metal bed and a rock-hard mattress. There were some cooking utensils, a chair, an old closet, and an altar with a photo of Kundu’s dead father, who looked just like him. There was no electricity.

“My wife,” Kundu said. A slim, pretty Indian woman with white teeth, glowing dark skin, and a perfect smile walked into the room. She wore a baggy, printed yellow dress.

Kundu was a man with a big heart, but I couldn’t help but wonder what she was doing with a man almost twice her age. She definitely hadn’t married Kundu for money . . .

Kundu also introduced his mother. She was 73 years old, but she looked younger than him. She had gray hair, but her teeth were perfect. She touched my face and said something in Hindu to Kundu.

“She said you beautiful,” translated Kundu.

“Thank you. Kundu, I think you are a very lucky man; you have a beautiful mom and a beautiful wife,” I said.

“Yes, lucky man.” He smiled, leaving the room with his mom.

A woman was checking on me through a small window. When she realized I had seen her, she smiled. She came into the room and introduced herself. She didn’t speak English, but she seemed very excited to see me there.

She was heavy, with crooked teeth. Her black hair was pulled back. She couldn’t stop smiling.

Kundu came in and explained that she was his brother’s wife. He also brought some pictures of his son, who was a handsome boy, and a photo of some roses.

“He is precious, Kundu,” I said.

“Omelet?” asked Kundu.

“Thank you, Kundu, that is fine. I’ll eat what you guys eat.”

He returned with a tasteless omelet. It was probably made with the only eggs they had. They didn’t eat, but watched me. I ate it all.

“It was delicious. Thank you so much,” I told them. They looked pleased.

I am always moved by the kindness of the people I meet on the road. They have so little, yet are willing to give so much. Meeting these kind and unselfish people is not only a humbling experience, but also a learning one. Sometimes the people with the most money are the greediest, while the poorest are the most giving.

“If more time, bigger food,” said Kundu. We needed to rush to the airport for my flight. “Next time with husband and baby, come home, we make a big meal for you,” he said.

I thanked Kundu’s mother, wife, and sister-in-law, and walked to the car with Kundu. When I looked back, they were still at the door, smiling and waving at us.

We drove a few meters, and then we were already at the airport.

“Kundu, here is 1,300 rupees. I would give you more if I could. You have been more than just a driver today. But as you can see, I only have 20 rupees left, and I need it to pay the luggage counter. Otherwise, I would give you all I have,” I said, showing him my empty wallet. I really wished I had more rupees to give to him.

“No, no, no money. You friend. Next time, you come with family to my home,” said Kundu. “You need food? I buy you food.” Kundu seemed worried that I only had 20 rupees left.

“Don’t worry, Kundu. I will be fine.” Kundu’s body needed more food than mine.

He wrote his phone number on my diary so I could call him if I ever returned to Kolkata.

“Good trip, Daniela,” he said.

I walked to the luggage counter to pick up my backpack. When I turned, Kundu was standing at the door.

“You okay, money?” He had come to the counter to make sure I had enough money to take my luggage. It cost me exactly the 20 rupees I had left.

“I am okay, Kundu.” I smiled.

Kundu walked me to the departure entrance.

“Now, going home with family. Home walking distance, only 10 minutes,” he said.

“Go to your family, Kundu. Thank you so much for a special day in Kolkata,” I said.

Kundu disappeared amidst the crowd and the cars. I walked inside the terminal.

Another adventure has come to an end. In a few hours I’ll be home again.