Forgoing a Shortcut on the Path to Happiness THE weekend I turned 24, I fell in love with a man I would write home about. I was traveling through India, the kind of trip you take in your early 20s when you are full of questions and have no answers. I was sure that love was a social construct and that the future would remain a question mark. I had convinced myself that if only I could drift along the backwaters of Kerala, all would be well. The plan was to land in Delhi, pass through Mumbai, sally south. Armed with this skeletal itinerary, I spent the first two months traversing the Indian subcontinent: through the throat-searing pollution of Delhi, the bracing mountain air of Dharamsala, the dunes of Jaisalmer. And, after a torturous 16-hour train ride that was more romantic in planning than in practice, I arrived in Mumbai. On my first day there, I found something mad and lovely about the place and decided to stay instead of continuing south. It was the cusp of May. My namesake month has always been a fortuitous one: magical things happen to me in May. And so it was that I headed for a stranger's flat in the leafy suburb of Bandra. The house I was to spend the month in was not available yet, so a friend set me up to stay at another friend's place for the weekend. Within seconds of being in the oppressive humidity of pre-monsoon Mumbai, I was drenched with sweat. Answering my impatient knock, a disheveled man opened the door. Something passed between us then, though we didn't know it just yet. He suggested lunch. We shared childhood antics over Goan curry. Then, tearing off a corner of a three-minute-old naan, he asked me if I had ever been in love. I gathered my fingertips toward my thumb and told him I had not. He said that he wanted to be in love always. That love alone allowed you to feel the whole range of human emotions. That emotional experiences were the best. Next I remember feeling lightheaded. My heart was pounding so fast, I worried others could hear. I thought my knees might give in. I concluded that all this love talk had gone to my head. I went to see a play. A nightcap followed. Later that evening, something still felt amiss. This was more than a few butterflies in my stomach. I called a friend to relay my symptoms. Bombay fever was his diagnosis. "Rest up," he said, promising I would be fine in a day or two. Beached on the couch, drifting in and out of a fevered state, I got to know my host better. First he offered unsolicited advice: "Don't think money will bring you happiness." "I know that already," I said in that uncompromising tone reserved for your early years. He told me about proposing to his high school girlfriend with a plastic ring. And then, "You remind me of my first girlfriend." "Thanks, I get that a lot," I brayed. This became our routine. We felt as if we had only to tell each other everything. We had been up talking well into the night when he told me that he found me beautiful. I was the perfect girl. What a shame I was just passing through. In return, I told him he was the closest to being my dream man, and I meant it. The following morning, in an e-mail to a friend back home, I described what transpired the night before as a "two (wine) bottle situation." A Hindi expression I learned best describes what happened next. It translates as: "Love opened its arms." I felt as if I needed him for air, pollution notwithstanding. Even the weight of groceries felt good in my hands. I felt drunk on Mumbai and drunk on the allure of this much older man. Even the fact that he had been bankrupt twice seemed daring and darling. Despite his many years, he still had a childlike wonder for the world, a trait I value over all else. Instead of focusing on the yawning gulf that separated our lives (along generational, geographical and racial lines - I'm Korean), I chose to focus on his salt-and-pepper stubble, sandpaper hands and broad shoulders.