This video secured me a spot as one of three guinea pigs to be taken on a trip through India. 

The questions that got us answers were few and far between. Jose, Candice, and I were to fly into New Delhi and two weeks later return home via Mumbai. And that's pretty much how the trip went.

We would be told to pack our bags, that we would be "leaving for the train in 10 minutes." We'd catch as many z's as we could from the triple decker bunks of the night trains, between the wails of Chai Wallahs and making sure our shoes hadn't been stolen by fellow passengers. We were usually roused around 4AM to jump the still-moving train car onto a platform where we would have to figure out where in India we had landed. 

I feel I have a deeper understanding of India after those two weeks than I did of Brazil after four months. Visiting India is like cutting into an onion. She doesn't expose her layers in succession, but all at once, launching an assault on senses you didn't even know you had...until you visited India. She's beautiful, filthy, vibrant, loud, polluted, and dense with people, and beckons the patience of a monk from all visitors. If you give it to her, you'll never be the same.    

What happens when you accidentally crash a baraat?

You dance. 

“Hear that music?”

We were lead around yet another town whose name was unknown to the three of us. A Hindi vibrato echoed through the earthen streets, booming off the thick walls of Rajasthani Havelis. 

“Follow it.” 

Following instruction without protest as we had agreed, Jose, Candace and I walked in the direction of the wails. Finding ourselves at the mouth of one of the monstrous ghosts of the Silk Road, we took note of the white stallion outside the Haveli's gate. It was just before sundown when we stepped into the massive courtyard. 

Two hundred men, women, and children stood, sat, and scurried around the inner square of the Haveli, a sharply dressed man dead center. 

The second I realized what we had invited ourselves into was a wedding, a man began shouting at us, flapping his hand in the universal sign for “leave, NOW.” 

The three of us turned on our heals, hyperaware of the 50 liters we carried on our backs. Before I completed my 180, I was grabbed by the forearm and pulled into the middle of the scene. I was standing in front of the groom. 

I wondered whether or not I would be allowed to leave the country if I accidentally wed during my stay. 

My summoner motioned for a man to get up from his seat and offered it—two hands palms-up—to me. I felt another stranger removing my pack and yet another insisted I take a seat. After multiple refusals, I took the front row seat and wondered if the middle-aged man sitting cross-legged under a velvet umbrella was my future husband. 

A silver tray of Chai emerged from the chaos and I politely took one of the disposable cups. No one I had encountered thus far spoke any English, but friendliness transcends language barriers. I relaxed over my cup of tea and took in their excitement. Women appeared as a blurred swirl of fluorescent saris and most of the men had a certain kind of pep found only at the bottom of a bottle. 

My comrades joined the crowd and we agreed to stay so long as we were welcome. We followed the velvet and silk that made its way outside to the narrow (and clean, for India) streets. The brass band geared up as our group began to move between a lane of mobile, larger-than-life candelabras.

We spun and bounced our feet and threw our hands above our heads, following the lead of our new family. Paper Rupees floated in the air, hennaed hands darting through the whirls of saris to catch them. The joy of the moment was palpable and contagious. 

Just as soon as it had started, the end of the street came and the white stallion took the groom away. We thanked our generous hosts, collected our belongings and embraced hands in a farewell, never catching a glimpse of the bride.