In fact I had little idea of what that life was really like.
But as I watched the rice-paddied landscape, randomly ripped through by small waterways and inevitably interrupted by villages, congregations of the people who work and live off the land, I grew in my conviction that their traditions needed protecting against destructive western influences, the front line of which was represented by the Christian missionaries, one of whom I was to investigate and expose.
But how exactly did we come to be on a bus to Baripada?
I had recently completed my studies in Journalism and it was my desire for paid journalism work, mostly, that had brought me to Orissa. Earlier, while Shanti had waited at the bus station, I had been sitting in the office of one Roshan Mishra, a newspaper editor.
He was a round little man. I don't mean that in an insulting way; he just was. He was also critically important to me. I sat in his office, separated from him by an ocean- sized desk, varnished with a dark stain, the desk inundated with waves of papers.
I waited as calmly as I could while he looked again at my portfolio of articles and viewed recent photos I had taken of a clash between Hindu and Christian believers. The Christians had gathered in the centre of the village before marching to their church, singing and proselytizing. The offence was met by resistance. By the time they reached their church, men had gathered.
I had waited, hoping, as all journalists do.
And I was rewarded. The Christians tried to push through the group and a clash ensued. I got some good photos. Until they started beating the kids as well. I know a journalist is supposed to be impartial and simply observe, but the kids... perhaps something in my background, perhaps some innate personality twist - something in me baulks at blaming children for their parents’ folly. I tried to stop the men. I had a sore head for days afterwards.
I also had sore emotions. The fools. I ask you - how did they think photos of them beating children was going to help their cause? And then beating the journalist who was helping them? If I had already been a paid journalist my writing would have punished them the very next day. As it was, I had time to calm down and realise that my hurt had to give way to the cause, especially the cause of securing a paid position.
I already had some good photos to support that cause and these were now spread across the desk, floating on the waves of paper, all my hope contained in Mishra's eyes as they darted between photos, his fat little hands - I mean no disrespect - snatching photos from the fleet and sliding them upside down into a pile at the point where his belly met the desk, apparently unsalvageable for the anticipated article.
I needed this job, badly. Competition for this kind of work is stiff in India - it's probably the same anywhere in the world. One needs family connections and money to keep you going while you build your portfolio and reputation. I had neither.
To be honest, I was taking the greatest risk of my life. We desperately needed money now. Our supply had run out, but rather than seek menial employment I had risked everything on Roshan Mishra coming through with the job he had promised in his letter.
'Promised' is perhaps too strong as the wording was vague, but that's what I told Shanti. He was certainly interested in employing me and had invited me to an interview, which he implied, was a mere formality. After all, I did have certain advantages. The newspaper he ran was state-based, but a large regional paper, printed in the Oriya language. Big enough to be a great start for a young journalist like myself. I had grown up with Oriya as a second language and good writing is good writing. I was proficient enough to reduce the competition in this region.
So there I was, having spent almost the last of our supply to get there, trying not to fidget or let on just how desperate I was. In India one needs bargaining power, and when bargaining, desperation is deadly. I was very conscious of my hands - I was all but sitting on them to keep them still. Be calm!
All the while the other hands, the god-like hands, with apparent arbitrary apathy snatched photos from the ocean desk. Would there be any left, I wondered?
The hands stilled above the few remaining scraps of hope, a stop in the storm. He looked up from the photos to me. I smiled, pretending confidence. His face was inscrutable, but I held my nerve... well, no, maybe not. The false smile was probably fastened to my face, revealing all.
The hands descended from the heavens once more, swooping up one of the last remaining... he flipped the photo around for me to see.
"This one."
My heart leapt. I think I held my breath, not sure whether he was asking a question or maybe, just maybe, thinking of actually using it and printing a story!
The photo was of a moment at the beginning of the clash where a man had grabbed the stick of his opponent with both hands and a struggle had followed. You couldn't tell who the attacker was.
"Christians defy Council ban," he stated.
And then, unbelievably, I lost my focus. Clearly he was implying that he could use the photo and I would write the article - I should have complimented him on a good choice and offered to write the article immediately, irrespective. Instead I sat with that foolish grin on my face, nodding my head, but at a complete loss as to how I would write such an article.
You see, in my panic I could not make the connection between the facts, being Christmas day and the Christians going to church, and the story about a Council ban that Mishra was apparently asking me to write.
They obviously did a better job of training me at Journalism School than I thought: 'objective journalist' was the catch cry.
"Well?" Mishra asked.
"Yes Sir," I answered pathetically. "How do you suggest I bring the Council ban in, Sir?
He was impatient.
"They were in a group?"
"Yes, Sir."
"Then they were marching without Council permission. That is enough. The violence that erupted was a direct result of this defiant action of theirs."
He spoke fast, watching me closely as he continued. I tried to look impressed at his logic as well as amused at how I could not have made such a logical connection myself. I am smart enough to know he was watching for body language, trying to come to a decision, perhaps even reconsidering a decision he had previously made.
My awareness that I had made a foolish mistake, that I had sailed my little boat called Hope straight back into the storm, did not help my confidence.
"We have a duty, as journalists," he continued, "to inform the public of what is really going on. What we see is not everything."
I was fully attentive now - the obedient student, in full agreement. I had to at least try to turn the impression of foolishness I had created.
"We have to delve," he continued, warming to his cause, "uncover the real motives behind the actions. American and European missionaries come over here, fly into a poor area in a helicopter, make great promises to the illiterate untouchables, promising gifts if they convert. And what does a conversion cost them?"
"Twelve dollars."
He nodded, I think a little pleased that I knew.
"Twelve dollars. And when they go back to America, having washed their hands with disinfectant, they tell their people they had thousands of converts. And the people are so impressed they give them money, hundreds, thousands for each conversion. It's very good business."
He paused, turning to the window now and staring out over the sea of building block houses typical of Indian cities, as if he