Towers of marigold shine in the morning light like chests of gold, vendors perched on top, shouting to each other with a rhythm that feels both chaotic and precise.

Their gaze does not falter as their quick fingers neatly spin flowers into intricate coils that snake beneath them into perfect thrones. Petals stick to the dirt below, crushed underfoot as bodies press in from either side.

The air hums thick with the sweet scent of jasmine, bartering voices rising through in sharp bursts.

Rohit doesn’t hesitate. He glances back, checking we are still close, then steers us through the maze of the KR Flower Market, where the crowds thin just enough to breathe.

We follow without question.

Rohit is the tuktuk driver for our first day in Bengaluru. He picked us up earlier, my mother, sister Mia and I, squeezed in the back as he threads us through the tight gaps of early morning traffic.

Still heavy with jet lag from the previous night’s flight, it is our first real waking moment in the city.

The tuktuk jolts forward, weaving between buses and motorbikes, the streets blurring past in colourful fragments. Our hands clutch the rusted handrails, our laughter muted by the erratic symphony of traffic.

Rohit drives with total ease, as if the chaos is a systematic map he has memorised.

He speaks calmly, saying that he grew up in the city and now works driving while his wife takes care of their baby.

“I am warning you, I am not a tour guide,” he smiles to us in the rear-view mirror. “But I will show you the Bengaluru I know.”

We emerge from the flower market onto the streets of Chickpet, one of the oldest neighbourhoods and busiest local trading areas.

The marketplace sprawls endlessly to the horizon, the illusion of its endpoint blocked by a sea of people, tuktuks and cows competing for territory on the narrow road.

We have now entered the competition. The three of us slip behind Rohit, manoeuvring to keep up, while entranced by the buzz of people and colour that drape around us in curtains of spices, silk and sound.

He breaks his stride without warning, turning as if struck by a memory.

“That one,” he says, nodding toward a pale turquoise temple roof rising between buildings. “I go there sometimes with my family.”

We follow his gaze. Just as quickly, he is moving again, his hand disappearing into a sack brimming with earthy green seeds.

“Cardamom,” he says, rolling a pod between his fingers. “My wife puts it in everything.”

Shop entryways are only a few feet wide, so incense, clothing, stationary, silver goods and watches gush out onto the pavement in streams, carefully guarded by pensive shop owners.

Glimpses in as we pass prove that the shops are, indeed, only slight in their width, but behind each unassuming doorway are river-like distributaries, stretching deep into dark troves that glint with trinkets.

We pause at a display of silver jewellery, and Rohit’s head nods, ushering us forward. He diverts us off the main strip and down into a darker level below the street where the noise and rush echo faintly behind us.

Our eyes adjust and flecks of silver gleam from every direction. A replica of the cramped streets above is mirrored in this underground bazaar — alleyways of silver shops cascade before us.

Rohit guides us to a storefront big enough to fit only a glass case, with an older gentleman sitting behind it polishing jewellery. He peers up slowly, gesturing us towards the short leather stools in front of him, simultaneously pulling stacks of velvet boxes from underneath him.

We spend the next hour excitedly perusing, each box holding new silver treasures he tells us he has sourced from all over India.

As I sit learning about the origins of the emerald stone in my most recent purchase, I feel a gentle tap on my shoulder. I turn to face a smiling woman clutching a silver pot in one hand and a stack of tiny paper cups in the other.

“Masala chai?” she offers, swiftly pouring little thimbles for each of us.

The cup is hot in my fingers, a delicate steam dancing above it, sashaying scents of cinnamon, ginger and clove. The thick brown liquid burns my lips slightly, then slowly glazes my mouth in a rich, syrupy sensation.

Drained in only a few sips, we are suddenly starving. We farewell our jeweller and disappear behind our trusted leader down another single-file alley towards the back of a queue that we wouldn’t think to join otherwise.

At the end of this quickly-moving line filtering into a “hotel” (which in India also describes a casual eatery), a simple sign features options of dosa or parotta (flatbread). We order and collapse on long steel benches among the other women who have finished a long day at the market, as we see from the hordes of shopping bags that crowd their feet.

Our food arrives and we inhale the pillowy, crepe-like delicacy, which Rohit explains is usually eaten for breakfast but also works as an easy afternoon pick-me-up. We are stuffed to the brim — equally on buttery pastry and our day of cultural feasting.

As we wind back through the saffron-lit streets towards a tuktuk parked miles away, I feel nothing but gratitude.

For a place alive with its own rhythm.

For markets that will churn on without us.

And for the man in the rear-view mirror, who never claimed to be a guide, but just let us breathe in his city for a day.

We met Lilliana through the travel writing course at University of Notre Dame, where she is studying under Mignon Shardlow. We are pleased to bring her work to our readers.