Editor's note: The third installment of Sacred Spaces follows 17 ECU travelers during their explorations of India. They are there to study the culture and religions of the land. Learn more about their trip at their blog site. Two stories remain in the series, and will appear here in the coming weeks.

(ENLARGE)

• See photos of the East Carolina University students who are visiting India now. • First in series: East Carolina students hope trip is learning experience | Technology helps "embedded reporter" carry out mission • Second in series: India's beautiful chaos

A group of 16 Americans walking through the streets of India generates a flurry of economic activity, whether goods are exchanged or not. Children seek out pens with outstretched hands, shopkeepers straighten up and begin to gesture toward their wares with a confident "Hallo, sir. Please." Touts, an Indian mix of a traveling salesman and a small-time shyster, sidle up in an effort to cull one of us from the flock to sell us postcards or fans, and offer to take us to one of India's many "best and cheap" restaurants or souvenir shops.

In spite of the interest in the American dollar, one of the lessons learned by our group from East Carolina University is that the exchanges you make with people in India are not purely economic. India is filled with generous people, many of whom are more than pleased to welcome you into their homes and lives. Economic activity does become a context for many connections made here, but the exchange is oftentimes incredibly pleasant. Everywhere we go, e-mail addresses are exchanged and photos taken, and everyone is happy to have made a friend.

Derek Maher, director of the ECU in India study abroad program and professor of religion, said there is a range of ways to interpret the intersection of friendship and business in India.

"Some of the best friendships I have made are ones made while I was abroad," Maher said. "Here's one extreme: When we went to the Tibetan monastery (in Varanasi), nobody was hawking anything. The commercial exchange was not even there. And the other extreme is someone trying to take you to their shop. Then there are a hundred gradations between that."

The friendliness that abounds in India does give one pause. I would venture to say that Southerners' hospitality has got nothing on the Indians.

How many of us would meet a random person walking down Fifth Street in Greenville, strike up a conversation, and then invite that person back to our homes — on the spot — for tea? Or a quick tour of Greenville? Or dinner?

And yet it has happened to all of us during our two weeks in India.

In Agra, ECU student Lynda Bridges and I had been welcomed into two homes of local families in one day. Walking through the Agra marketplace, we eventually came upon a simple, hand-lettered sign on the side of a cantaloupe-colored house that read: "Mendhi-Home Henna."

"It was a really cool coincidence," Lynda said. "When we first saw the henna sign we were looking for mosquito nets."

As the search for mosquito nets proved fruitless, we decided to return to the house with the mendhi sign. Mendhi is a red henna paste applied like intricate cake frosting to the hands and feet of women, traditionally during times of celebration (such as a wedding). We knocked on the door and were greeted by the Siddiqi family.

As we looked through booklets of designs, we accepted chai tea and praised Nabiya on her artistic skills. We left with our right hands covered in paste. Shortly afterward, we saw Bob Ebendorf and Aleta Braun, part of our travel group, on the street, and they pointed us in the direction of a pharmacy. My arm had been grazed by a donkey cart earlier in the day and I had wanted to get a bandage to protect it from the dust.

"Ask for Ram," they said. "Tell them we sent you."

We approached the small shop and asked the young man, "Are you Ram?" He was amazed that these two Western women knew his name.

"I must be getting very famous," he said, laughing.

When we showed him my scrape, he suggested that I not cover it, because the hot weather would cause it to sweat and possibly become infected.

"It was cool that Ram knew to recommend for you to do nothing to your arm, even thought it's bad for business," Lynda said. "I don't think that would have happened in America. He would have sold you a box of Band-Aids."

Ram saw our henna, and mentioned that his sister teaches henna at a local school. He asked if we would like to meet her and soon we were invited into the small but comfortable home of the Gupta family.

"What we were searching for, we didn't find. We never got a mosquito net and you never got a Band-Aid," Lynda said. "I almost liked seeing (the Gupta's home) better than the Taj Mahal because it felt more real to me. Even though they live in a house with three rooms, and sleep on the floor, they go to college and have aspirations to go to the United States."

Lynda noted that at both homes, taking tea was an important aspect of acceptance.

"Once you cross the threshold, everything changes. You're in a different boundary," she said. "It changed from business into something else. We weren't strangers anymore."

Many connections we have made with people here are instant friendships that spark from common interests. But a few students in our group, like JT Pitt, have experienced the more ambiguous, and painful, aspects of these relationships. Touts are everywhere tourists are. They oftentimes can be discouraged with a carefully phrased "No, thank you." Other people approach you and fall into step with you, whereupon the questions commence; they ask where you are from, where you are going, how long you are staying, and so forth.

"The touts are easy to recognize because they're so in your face," JT said. "You can ignore them, but it takes 10 minutes to get rid of them. But then there are people who act like they are your friends and it takes three days to figure it out. They have perfected the art of touting. When you invest in something emotionally, it's hard to get out of it."

JT told a story about Sati, a friend he had made in Khajuraho. For three days, JT and Sati hung out, walking around the city, drinking tea and meeting people. But as our time in Khajuraho came to a close, Sati had changed his tune.

"When it came time for me to go home, he asked for 30,000 rupees to pay for his education," JT said. "When I said no, he acted very upset that I had taken up his time. He said, 'I have been your tour guide for the past three days, and you're not going to pay me.'"

JT said he was surprised and insulted by Sati's demand for payment and walked out of the room. A mutual friend, Vijay, followed JT to talk with him about it.

"He followed me out into the street after I left and said he was sorry for his friend," JT said. "This is what he said to me, one of wisest things, and it was hard for me to hear it at the time: Don't assume all Indian people are the same as that because it would rob me of opportunities to make more friendships."

One evening a few of us had been invited to one of the homes of a family in Khajuraho. There a feast awaited us. Satya's wife Mumta dressed Lynda and me up in saris. Mumta played drums and attempted to teach us a few traditional songs. Her three sons, Nicky, Lovey and Lucky helped with translation and we enjoyed one of the best meals any of us have had in a long time. At the end of the night, Satya "offered" Lynda and me one of Mumta's saris.

"For the memories," he had said. "When you go to U.S., you will have this sari and remember my family."

Even though I find saris beautiful, I have never really wanted one. We refused the gift. Satya conveyed that they had paid only 340 rupees for the sari, and that I would always have these memories.

It felt like the kind of offer I could not refuse.

The sari posed an interesting dilemma for me. Part of me had no interest in cleaning out my cash flow for something I did not want. But then, another part of me considered the dynamic on another level: This family, in spite of their relative need, gave me a great evening at their home. In the United States, 350 rupees amounts to about $7. If someone had asked me to give $7 to this family, I would, without question.

Lynda and I each gave Mumta our last few hundred rupees and left with five meters of colorful, plastic-wrapped cloth.

Thinking back to that night, it is true I had a great experience and had made new friends. So why did this exchange seem disappointing to me in the end? I still grapple with it.

Derek offered the perspective that the connection made with the family is what matters most.

"My initial connection with Lucky and his family was through Lucky himself, and I think that's pure. I don't see anything other than that," he said. "But even if some part of this relationship ultimately was opportunistic and just economic, there is still a dimension of it that was a real connection. So why not just tap into that part of it?"

Without a doubt, the lessons we are learning about the dynamics of friendship and commerce in India could not be learned in textbooks. In the end, I think what matters most is how these exchanges help to broaden our understanding of Indian and American notions of business and friendship.

The bottom line is that a sincere desire to make those connections exists.

On the train from Varanasi to Gaya, ECU students Nabeel Arastu and his roommate Geoff Handsfield had struck up a conversation with a man and his daughter. They were on their way home from touring Benares Hindu University.

"We were talking about food and the vendors on the train platform, and he was explaining to Geoff what the different fruits on the platform were," Nabeel said. "He ran out at one of the train stops and came back with a bag of fruit, a few bananas and some lychees."

After a while, Geoff went to sleep and Nabeel continued talking to the man late into the evening.

"At one point I asked him, 'Isn't your stop a few hours from here? Why don't you get some sleep?'" Nabeel said.

"He said to me, 'I can sleep any day, but I'll only meet you once.'"