Tonight, a quick story about an early and memorable period day I had in India before I relax with a movie. This period was a difficult one, but because I remember it so vividly, because it precipitated some significant spiritual moments and still transports me to a few mystical places, I remember it with great fondness.

My mom, sister, and I arrived in New Delhi from Hyderabad, India during a record-breaking heatwave. This kind of thing made headlines in 2002. Now it happens everyday and everyone’s like, meh. It was hot, and my cousin’s house had no air-conditioning other than in the master bedroom. I had just started my period and was writhing on the guest bed I had to share with my mom and sister for the next few weeks.

The long journey, confined quarters, and pain vaulted me into despair and I cried uncontrollably, missing my dad and home. My cousin wheeled the AC unit into our room so I could sleep through the night because we had another long journey the next day. I will forever be grateful to him for that kind gesture.

I didn’t feel like going on the tour, but I knew I’d regret it if I stayed back. We were taking a bus journey from New Delhi to Agra to see the Taj Mahal, and then to Mathura-Vrindavan, the birthplace of Krishna and the primeval mystical forest he is believed to inhabit. Both holy “once in a lifetime” places. And so my period was a problem. Not to my family, but technically according to religious customs. Menstruating women are not supposed to enter temples and mosques, but I broke these rules that day.

This is a big topic I’m going to write more about. For now I’ll just say I did feel guilty about this at the time, and both my aunt and mom had to talk me through it and assure me I wasn’t committing some grave sin.

I felt immense downward pelvic pressure that morning, like I was carrying a bowling ball between my legs. The bus was not nice. It didn’t have seat cushions or air conditioning, not even windows. Just bars. It was full, and every time we drove over a rock, I was mid-air and would land THWACK on my butt over and over again. It was miserable. The first stop was at a dhaba tea stall place about an hour outside of the city. Bathroom break. My sister outright refused to go. And we’re not even divas. We loved our trips to India growing up. We fit right in after a week of adjusting. I could see myself living there in the future. This was just a really rough ride through some old parts of town.

I didn’t have to go at first, but just as we were about to get back on the bus, I had to go bad. My mom pleaded with the bus driver for just five extra minutes, and we ran off to the bathroom, which was a tiny shack on a busy street corner. Unisex. Just there for anyone to use. I walked in and saw a filthy porcelain floor toilet with a lota (washing vessel) to the side. I couldn’t fathom touching it. I was in so much pain, but I had to go. I did, I somehow managed to change, I washed, it was the longest minute of my life. My mom banged on the door, the bus driver was honking. In that moment, I wanted to die. But I finally made it out and we got back on the bus.

Our first stop was the Taj. The sun hung high in the sky by the time we arrived, and our bus jockeyed with a hundred others to park. Our guide shuffled us in through the massive darwaaza to the complex. The Taj is enormous, even compared to the huge structure you have in your mind. However big you think it is, 10X it. It’s situated on the banks of the Jamuna, which despite being one of the most polluted rivers in the world, is still a sight to be seen glistening behind the bright white dome. Next to it is the mosque, a stunning red sandstone prayer hall that was cordoned off. From the second I entered the complex, this place called to me and I knew I had to go inside.

We left our shoes under the watch of a boy who accompanied our tour guide (shoes are often stolen there) and climbed the steps to the mausoleum in a line, like ants waiting their turn to get to a sugar cube. We entered the crypt and paid our respects to the beautiful woman for whom this imarat was built, and wandered around the grounds studying the marble inlay work. I stuck my cheek on the cold marble like the guide told me to.

We exited and gathered next to a grassy area, across which stood the mosque. Everyone was taking pictures and I knew it would be a while, so I made a run for it when no one was looking right into the foyer of the prayer hall. I had the place to myself. I stood there quietly and could hear voices from outside bounce off the walls and hollowed out dome. A breeze swept through the place and blew through my salwar kameez. I thought about the thousands of people who worshipped there for hundreds of years, whispering a thousand prayers, duas still hanging in the air like incense. I savored a few more seconds and then left to find my family. They were all in hysterics and I got yelled at pretty good. But I didn’t even care.

There were a few more stops between Agra and Mathura. Various shops where we bought trinkets and souvenirs, snack stands where we ate salty chips and Limca. My mom for the first time ever let me have adult Tylenol. That was magical.

We almost didn’t make it Mathura because of bus trouble. By the time we did, it was dark and the main temple was closed. My mom and aunt were so disappointed because it would have been the culminating moment of our interfaith pilgrimage. I was sad, but also relieved that I wouldn’t have to feel guilty about entering another holy place on my period. When I say this stuff is complex and heavy, I’m not kidding. It’s a lot to reckon with, feeling impure. It’s less exhausting to accept it rather than interrogate.

We drove around through Vrindavan, stopping at various temple stalls and shops, and soaking in the atmosphere, which is what you’d imagine for a “Krishna town.” Devotional music and the sounds of instruments piped out of every corner as we found our way to lesser shrines. Here too, I felt close to a playful God I imagined hiding behind every tree and pillar, watching over me. It filled me with joy to think I was being visited. I said a prayer as I touched trunks of trees, rang odd bells, and touched a cow wandering by. I thought of my dad and tried to transmit the vibes, which is something I still do when I visit places.

It was getting late and we filed into the bus to start the hours long journey home, stopping at a dhaba for a late dinner, and then speeding on now empty streets and highways leading back to New Delhi. I hung my head out of the window bars and felt a strange calm. The day had run me ragged, but also wrung out my pain and I lost awareness of my period.

I think about this moment often now as when the whole period purity stigma thing cracked in my mind. I was in the presence of an ever-loving God and nothing ever felt so pure.