Carolyn Belle Osborn arrived in Bombay on an ocean liner after three months of travel from Kokomo, Indiana. As she walked the streets and alleys of the Indian city, I imagine that she must have had thoughts like these:
"Oh God, how am I going to manage to live in this sprawling, disheveled, filthy, stinking place…?"
“How in the world can I relate to these people worshiping 'Kali' and 'Lakshmi' and all these peculiar types of Hindu Gods?"
"Thanks to my travel-mate, Edna Bradley, I guess I can handle my loneliness in this completely strange and different culture. I wonder if I will be able to find anyone who begins to feel like my cherished mother who died here?"
"Maybe I will be able to relate to these Bengali women who all seem to be 'Mashimas' and 'Kakimas'" – the meaning of these words “aunties” and “friends” she had remembered from her early childhood years in India.
"What’s the matter with these men who urinate openly on the sidewalk, and then spit the red saliva from their chewing on 'pan' on the walls alongside the street?"
"How will I deal with these rickshaw pullers who always plead for 'more'? Will I ever learn to enjoy the smell and taste of the Indian food?”
