There are three things working against us while we bargain our way across Mumbai, Delhi, and northern Goa: we don't speak Hindi, we're white, and my hair is bleach blonde and cut short with a shaved undercut.

One young man asked me why I cut my hair like a man and proceeds to call me ‘gentleman’ every time we visit his shop, which is often – his wares are good and his personality endearing. He has become, in my memory, a gem of a man in a long list of vendors.

But he is only one of many people I barter, share with, and learn from during my trip: A street vendor, a 13-year-old girl, and a surprisingly-wise schoolboy, in particular, are among those who graciously shared their India with me during my two week stay.

• • •

It’s hard to break yourself of a 22-year habit. Despite travelling frequently, I still get caught up on the exchange rate. Numbers were never my forte. I once paid 50 bucks for a 15-minute cab ride in Hungary. Vendors see me coming from a mile away, and this puts me on the defensive...

Early one morning, on the way to the beach, I stop to pick up a few packets of bangles. Vendors are only just opening their stalls and this man is setting out armfuls. I pick up two packs, “how much?”. He hesitates for a moment too long, looking me over, and replies, “for you? 250 rupees.” Determined to get a better deal, I begin haggling over price, and this is where my travel buddy, an Australian who has been backpacking India for the better part of three months, finds me debating with the man over 75 rupees. She interjects to remind me, “that’s five dollars”.

I look over at her, doing the math quickly in my head. “Right,” I reply. I look over at the vendor I can only assume I’ve offended by now. I offer him 300 rupees if he throws in an extra pack of bracelets. He explains that to make a sale this early is a sign that he will be granted a prosperous day and he blesses the table with the money I’ve just handed him. A deal for me and more money for him. I wish him a good day and we continue on our way.

The currency itself is tricky, generally worth 0.02 dollars, it's easier to think of rupees in bulk terms i.e 50 rupees equals roughly one dollar Canadian. A coke, for example, runs for 20 rupees, less than 50 cents. Where it gets tricky is when the prices start to rise. A domestic flight cost 8,200 rupees - 150 dollars. Still not expensive, but much harder to calculate en-tete.

• • •

Back out on the beach we are immediately swarmed by a group of young girls selling anklets. These little girls spend their days dodging police who shoo them away from tourists and are then made to give up their hard day’s work to whichever man they are working for. I want to help, the urge to give these little girls two dollars that I won’t even miss is overwhelming, but is accompanied by an unfortunate truth: Gifts of money or even food are met with the open palms of fifteen more. You couldn’t possibly feed them all. When sticking to a travel budget, resisting the urge to help becomes crucial.

I buy ten anklets off a 13-year-old girl named Usha. She tells me she is hoping to return to school soon as she delicately lays out every single one of her anklets for me. She calls me ‘white lollipop’ and asks me if I will give her my towel. I tell her that if she comes back to find me tomorrow I will gift it to her as I am leaving Goa the day after that. I give her 60 rupees more than our agreed upon price. The Australian raises an eyebrow at me and I shrug my shoulders, “I like her”. I hope she is allowed to keep the 60 rupees and that she will not have to turn in the towel to her manager.

• • •

“Money is what makes the world go round,” says a schoolboy to me wisely on the train leaving Goa. Unsure of how to maneuver the hectic Indian train system, we stumbled onto the first car we came across and squish in next to a boy’s school group.

“In India, money can buy you anything. It can get you out of anything – hey! We only paid 5 rupees for that!” he cuts off a man trying to sell us chai tea for 10 rupees a cup. He barters with the man in Hindi before turning back to us and shrugging: the man won’t budge. We hand over 10 rupee coins and take our teas. He waves the man on, clearly annoyed he could not reason with him, “Just because you are not Indian…”.

The language and colour barrier is palpable here as the man selling chai turns his back on us to offer our neighbours tea for 5 rupees cheaper. I am suddenly acutely aware of the lingual canyon that separates me from him.

A ticket collector comes next, checks our tickets and starts speaking quickly to us. The boys jump to our defense as torrents of Hindi fly over our heads. They gesture to us and then back at the tickets. One of the boys is translating between fighting with the ticket collector, “You are in the wrong seats... But how are you supposed to know?.. He says you owe an extra 300 rupees...” They explain we are tourists and they do not mind sharing their bench with us. The collector nods and leaves us be. I am immensely grateful to the boys and tell them I am impressed with their English, which is flawless. They brush off the compliments and continue quizzing us about our home countries, our information and stories fair exchange for their help.

• • •

I’m reminded of my vendor friend who quizzed me on my hair that day in his shop. Why would I want to look like a gentleman? Do all woman where I come from look like this? I tell him about Canada and he tells me about where he gets his clothes made in Delhi. Like the boys on the train, he is eager to hear my story, and wants to share his own. This patience and curiosity comes to define India’s people.

Two weeks of wrestling with exchange rates and I’ve finally boiled down the simple math. I’ve managed to come to terms with the fact that despite wanting to help, I can’t rid the country with the second largest population in the world of its poverty problems. And, despite not learning any Hindi in 2 weeks, I’ve learned that a smile, patience, and a good story will take me further than anything, except for maybe an extra 50 rupees.