One article I read before leaving for India (and, truthfully, the only article about the country that I read before leaving for India) said that "encountering India is like being whirled around inside an unimaginably thrilling kaleidoscope." I didn't understand what this meant. Nausea? Epileptic fits? Did I need to pack more anti-diarrheal? I hoped, deep down, that the journalist was merely trying to be poetic.

My business trip to New Delhi would last for three days, hardly time to appreciate a country where over 1 billion people balanced distant cultural heritage with the arrival of the diesel engine and the Blackberry handheld. But despite being generally aware of India's rising status as a world power, I really didn't understand what was happening over there. My partial Indian heritage was content with the occasional visit to a London curryhouse; India was a convenient part of my identity that added flavour to those "so, where are you from?" conversations. I don't speak Hindi, Kashmiri or even my mom's tribal language. So, approaching 30, it felt appropriate to go India with eyes open wide to what I might learn about the country, and even myself.

As much as my trip began at London-Heathrow, it really didn't start until I arrived at Jawaharlal Nehru International Airport in New Delhi. "When you arrive," my boss had told me on a voicemail just a few hours ago, "hold your wits about you." He was referring to the sea of faces, hands and fast-talking taxi drivers that waited for travelers to exit customs and immigration. "Look for the man holding the little sign with your name on it," he instructed me. Determined to keep my wits where they belonged, my eyes plunged into the crowd as soon as I stepped away from the "Nothing to Declare" desk. And there he was. Dressed in white, wearing a cap, and indeed, holding a sign with my name on it! It was even spelled correctly.

My driver's name was Rim, or at least, that's what it sounded like at 1AM. He loaded me and my bags into an air-conditioned Honda Accord and we honked our way from the terminal chatting about the flight, Indian politics and the weather. A drive through Delhi, no matter what time of day, is a startling reminder of the divide between the haves and the have nots. Huge trucks lumber down the highways, probably carting around the precious GNP cargo of India. Mercedes, Hondas and other foreign cars zip around flashing their lights to let others know they are important. In the median, under trees and in the ditches, people who own only the clothes on their back, sleep, eat and live. Journalists, intellectuals and politicians call these people the "poorest of the poor." They make the unemployed European look like royalty.

Rim swerves sharply to the right, jolting me against the passenger window. A rickshaw just cut us off. Rim honks twice in rapid succession and sprawls the Accord across two lanes of traffic as cars, motorcycles, tuk-tuks and people on bicycles weave around us. It's like an life-size game of Tetris, just with bigger stakes. After a 9 hour flight, I'm still in a daze. It all seems surreal, like a game. And Rim is the Tetris master.

The hotel my company has arranged for me is on the outskirts of the city, near our office. As we pull up, I feel more and more isolated from the India I expected to experience. A 20-story building with sharp, modern features and brick columns spewing out waterfalls. Three doorman run to my car, bow and smile widely as they usher me into the hotel. The front desk staff are dressed in saris and they too smile disingenously. As I walk to my room, I note the large number of Westerners lounging around the bar, drinking Kingfisher beer and sipping martinis. Where am I?

A few minutes later, I find my room on the fifth floor -- a modern suite that seems more downtown Seattle than downtown New Delhi. The din from the nearby expressway is muffled, but I open the window anyway.

So... this is India? Sitting there, looking out at the bustling streets at almost 2 o'clock in the morning, the real India, if there is such a thing, feels very distant. Where would I find the personal epiphany, that deeper understanding of my identity, of my heritage that I expected? Instead I'm sleeping in an air-conditioned room under a white goose-feather duvet and being driven around in a chauffered Japanese car. It's all very strange.

Suddenly, the hotel is plunged into darkness. My first brown-out. I shut the window and sit there in the black waiting for the power to come back on. This seems more like the India I expected. At least it's a start.