My India romance ironically does not begin in India, but in Ocala, Fl, possibly one of the most non-romantic places on this Earth. Actually, it technically started in cyberspace, but does that really count? A lot of people would strongly disagree with me on that, but suffice it to say the real romance began after that. I had recently recovered from an extremely messy divorce, not because we had any property to speak of, but the emotional toll had been heavy. I was living with my aunt and trying to finish up my Master's in journalism and I found it very difficult to meet new people of any quality. I was done with classes and the nightclub scene yielded less-than-desirable relationships. So I joined a dating site, the epitome of modern, mediated human contact. Entering the world of chat, emoticons, acronyms, texting language - linguistics majors must have a field day pondering this level of communication.

Anyway, I met Abhinav from New Delhi, India, who was in Florida on business, on one of these sites. Looking for any sort of companionship on his trip, we connected over a mutual love of Kafka and other absurd and existentialist literature. I knew at that point that he was not the typical guy on the web, not to say that he wasn't interested in the same things, but there was more to him than that.

What started as a simple lunch date and a canoe trip down the Silver River became a whirlwind romance. It was a sensory overload of food, music, and passion. I discovered that the Indian culture not only appealed to me, but moved something deep within my soul. My romance could be summed up in three things: love, cardamom, and Punjabi bhangra music. Curry was involved as well, naturally, and I would taste some of the best I had ever had, but that love goes way back. Cardamom has an indescribable, sweet, intoxicating flavor that I had never tasted in all my foodie experiences. And the bhangra is so wonderfully tribal and festive, I don't see how anyone could dislike it, although I know many who do. I'm convinced I was a Punjabi in a past life, maybe even a Sikh warrior, who knows.

I compare Indian men to sirens in Greek mythology, without the half-bird bodies. They are these beautiful (in my opinion, some of the most attractive men in the world) creatures, so captivated with the exoticism of foreign women, that they lure them in only to be dashed on the jagged rocks when they reach the shore. In this, I refer to the system of arranged marriages in India, which makes marrying or even having a meaningful relationship with a foreign woman extremely difficult, even for Indians living abroad. My situation (divorced and 2 year older than him) did not make the situation any easier. My intense respect for the culture makes dealing with my personal feelings even more difficult. The fact that I was previously unaware of this fact made it even worse when I learned about it because I had already allowed the torrential waters of love to crash into me and seep into my soul.

It has been intensely difficult to deal with, even worse considering Aby's mutual feelings for me. I eventually after much contemplation, took comfort in the words of Kahlil Gibran on Love and I felt as if he was speaking to me personally, as will the readers of the words of any great prophet.

He tells me:
"When love beckons to you, follow him,
Though his ways are hard and steep.
And when his wings enfold you yield to him,
Though the sword hidden among his pinions may wound you.
And when he speaks to you believe in him,
Though his voice may shatter your dreams
as the north wind lays waste the garden."

This was when I decided, against all advice, to proceed full force into this relationship, even if the outcome will not be what I want. Because what is the point of living if not to love and feel, but maintain the knowledge that every perigee must have it's apogee as well. So I made the decision to love as long as I am allowed, which is yet to be determined.

Any traveler's first thoughts of India will most likely be summed up by one single word: "hectic."
And I am one of the ones lucky enough to get picked up and taken to a friend's house rather than having to take a taxi to a hotel. Yet, I still ended up wandering the airport with a look like a sparrow in the shadow of a cobra's hood. Well, I may exaggerate just a bit, but because of security reasons, Abhinav was not able to meet me inside the airport, and of course I chose the one of two exits where he was not. As I wrestle my suitcases through the doors, past the guards, it's like a red-carpet experience. Men in turbans line the walkway, holding signs for their expected guests, but of course, my name would not appear on any of those signs. After convincing the guards to let me back in, seeing that no one was there for me, I paid 80 rupees (almost $2) for 15 second phone call, not unusual for a tourist with no other option.

But our meeting was classic, just like in one of those cheesy chick flicks, ,my lover materializes from the crowd and everyone else disappears, like a blurred photograph. For that moment, we are alone in a sea of faces. He embraces me for what feels like forever then lightly kisses my lips, serious public display for India. Then it's time to go and I'm already drenched in sweat.

The heat in thisy part of India is comparable to Florida, where I'm from. The difference, however, is in Florida, you can walk around practically nude, no kidding, they do it on campus. In India, however, this is not only disrespectful to the culture, it is dangerous. Not only is eve-teasing, basically a legal term for hassling women, a problem, but there are stories of women being groped on public transport, and even in their cars while stopped at red lights. And, naturally, I have come at the hottest time of year, the middle of August.

The first thing I notice as we walk to the car are giant ants crossing the sidewalk as casually as pedestrians. Little did I know at the time that I would be co-habitating with these guys for the rest of my stay. Not that they bother me at all, but they are everywhere, apparently as a result of the monsoon: marching single file up and down the wall next to the kitchen sink, in the sugar, even crawling on my ear as I sleep. The drive home is comparable to a ride on Space Mountain at Disney World: fast and bumpy, but lacking the loops of more modern roller coasters. Then streets are relatively quiet at this time of night, with only multitudes of stray dogs roaming around. I see my first cow lounging on the side of the highway.