I suppose having Indian features gives me an advantage, all right. But if anyone on the street starts to follow me around, I ask if they would mind if I interview them, then whip out my college ID card and a camera. That clears out a ten meter radius of space fast, and no one seems to want to have anything to do with me. Works every time. So I tell worried relatives that there's really nothing to it, if you have the right attitude, of course. The thing about India is that it's full. Full of people, full of queries (you travel India alone?), full of sounds, colours, emotions...and full of mishaps. It's just part of the territory. The challenge is to try and keep a perspective on it. No one particular person or thing can ruin your trip if you don't let them.

No, not even that bus that broke down last night somewhere around Jaipur. Or the blaring Hindi pop music they left on the whole time--no, not that either. In Udaipur, a flurry of motorbikes and autorickshaws seem to always be in tearing rushes. Lush clothing stores, laughing children Playing cricket in the street, sounds of the vegetable market, and fresh mango juice make up an atmosphere unmistakably India's own.

Besides, there's something nice about being out on your own. You don't have to worry about someone else, and see what they want to do before making any decisions. You don't have to worry whether or not they're going to be okay with it if you want to just hang out on the rooftop and paint in watercolours. This is how I pass my first day, listening to the hum of women washing their laundry across the way in Lake Pichola. Sunlight splashes over the water, sweet shimmers singing like lullabies. It's nice to be still for a while.

Talking to people has taken a lot out of me, and that's not just since I've been in India. Like every kid just out of college, I had everyone throwing an opinion at me, and I was dealing with it, trying to make sense of advice and miscellaneous conversations. India's got a crazy rush, but at least the noise around me isn't trying to tell me what to do. On the rooftop, things are relaxed. And I have my glass of lassi. People here speak a slant of Hindi that's unfamiliar to my ears. Maybe songs of the desert have melodies like these. My hotel is modest and cheap and seems to be booked in completely. A bunch of people like to talk about ashrams and yoga, and they come up to the rooftop every once in a while. I imagine that backpackers come from the world over for lessons in ayurveda and Indian head massage.

A Dutch couple at another table wears matching 'Om' t-shirts. They notice me looking at them. 'Hiya,' they say. Friendly. 'Have you been to the Monsoon Palace?'

'Monsoon Palace?' Never heard of it.

'It's a very beautiful palace. At the top of a mountain. You should go there, we went yesterday night. The sunset from there is very, very beautiful.'

Palaces and sunsets...sounds like a dream. And I might as well do some sightseeing while I'm out here. After all, I'm just like the others visiting here, except for one thing. I'm kicking around for three winter months without any real aim, and without any idea of exactly why I'm here. Suddenly I almost wish I had something to focus on-miniature painting or whatever--but instead I'm pretty much just daydreaming.

'Daydreaming is good,' says Marja. She seems to have been reading my mind, and winks at me from across our two tables.

The next day I'm at the City Palace, having a Limca. Although it seems overcrowded with here-for-the-day tourists, the palace itself is lovely. They used it in the film Fiza. I'm thinking of this as I lace up my hiking boots, whistling as I circle Fateh Sagar Lake.

The sun is hot and I'm heading home. Jagdish temple is on the way. I just happen to be passing by during Aarti, so I take off my shoes and head up the stairs. The women immediately make space for me, and their heads are covered so I cover mine. Strangely, things become very quiet within this space, very still and calm. And then voices from childhood return to me, prayer songs as familiar to me as the back of my hand.

I head to the Madras Cafe, order a dosa, and flag an autorickshaw for Jaisalmand Lake. Ladies from the villages are dressed in brilliant reds and dangling jewelry. They carry water on their heads and smile as we pass by.

A crescent moon hangs high in the sky, in a place where there may or may not be a falling star tonight.

It starts off a sliver of silver hanging in the sky, against the backdrop of black matte canvas. Then it slips, curving and dipping, falling to the horizon in the last hours of evening like a bowl of dreams unfurled. The crescent first turns golden then orange, and settles into a looming, vivid crimson.

Before you can blink, the moon has set.

I stare out at the space where it was, or where it had been, looking over the trace that still resonates like a stripe of paint against the November sky. Dreaming of palaces, of the just-gone moonset, and of tomorrow, I turn my thoughts to the city ahead.

Paradise of carved sandstone, golden dust, and Rajasthani desert songs--Jaisalmer.

Dipika Kohli refuses to let the sun, or the moon, set on her dreams.

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