But this morning, I climbed into a cab looking forward to a peaceful ride through Mumbai—and by peaceful I mean I was hoping for time to think as I stared out of my window into the chaos outside. I was in for a disappointment.

From the moment we pulled away from the curb there was non-stop questioning. And then the album came out. Only, it wasn’t just Oprah he had met--he had encountered Madonna, a 70s rock star and the guy from Labor Day.

The driver insisted that I call him Jetu. He said he lives in a slum and caters to curious foreigners with tours in his taxi. Throughout my drive he offered excursions to his home for my group of friends. “When you have free time,” he said, “I will show you and your friends around my slum, it’s very nice.”

With every question I rolled my eyes and looked out the window, longing for a moment of quiet introversion. Jetu looked back and apologized for the inquiries. “It’s good practice for me to speak,” he said. My face flushed with shame. I wasn’t sure if he had caught my moment of brattiness in the rearview mirror, or had a sudden stab of self-awareness. In any case, I began contributing to the conversation. After all, how often do I get to travel through Mumbai?

I sat back and absorbed the interchange unfolding. The more Jetu shared of his beliefs and experiences the more I appreciated what had begun as a forced conversation. Things aren't what they seem in Mumbai. Once you chip beneath the surface of anything or anyone here, there is so much life within it.