Before I'd even touched down in the bustling capital, home to roughly 16.7 million people, making Canberra's 420,000 seem measly by comparison, I'd already felt the urge to hop on the next plane home.

The comments I'd been enduring since the moment I started telling people I was going to India were rattling around my head. I was a solo female traveller, you see. My partner couldn't take the time off work, and I've always been drawn to this country, so the next minute my impulsiveness got the best of me, and here I am.

"I hope you don't come back in a box," was one of the concerning comments I received.

"You'll get groped," was another.

"They will take advantage of you," said another well-wisher.

I'm by myself in the country ranked the world's most dangerous for women (ahead of Afghanistan, Syria and Saudi Arabia, in a contentious survey by the Thomas Reuters Foundation in 2018).

I've wanted to visit India for so long, but by the time I get off the plane I've worked myself up so much that I've suddenly transformed into a toddler having a tantrum about having to stay with the grandparents.

I've pre-paid for the taxi to my hotel, and now it's time to face what's outside of the terminal. My feet are officially on Indian soil: one small step for Jamila, one giant leap for my anxiety.

The line of cars are waiting, the sky is pitch black, and the 47-degree temperatures hits me.

I avoid the swarm of drivers trying to get my money and follow a man who takes me to his car... where another man is waiting.

He grabs my itinerary and doesn't give it back. I panic. I'm in a taxi with two strangers and everything I've read has told me this is a dangerous situation.

I'm doomed, I think. My brain goes even more wild with irrational thoughts. How do I know they're actually taking me to my hotel? I cling onto my bags, ready to make an escape. But to where? What is worse, getting taken somewhere by the men driving the car or being on the street, homeless for the night? I've been in India for a whole 20 minutes and I'm convinced I've already found myself in trouble.

My mind is racing as the taxi drops me off, safely, at my accommodation.

Fingers crossed this is the first and last of my dramas.

I make my way to the airport to board my domestic flight to Dehradun, en route to the yoga capital of the world, Rishikesh.

At the terminal, I learn that one of India's most popular airlines, Jet Airways, has suspended all flight operations due to debt. After a mad dash I book a flight with a functional airline and I'm back in the sky.

In Rishikesh, searching for my backpackers hostel, it feels as if all the locals are staring at me. I assume my bright dyed red hair is not in my favour. I'm a walking sore thumb.

Checking into my room, I have another moment of weakness. I'm totally defeated, and I can't bear the thought of going back outside.

After an arduous self-pep talk I eventually work up the courage to spend the day in the city, immersing myself in retail therapy - the one thing I know I'm good at doing.

Ornaments, clothes, wall prints, you name it, I buy it, and soon enough I've overcome being intimidated to realise the locals are lovely, and all my fears were nonsense. Who would have thought, retail therapy cured me!

The following day I arrive at my safe-haven where I spend the next week. It's a secluded yoga and meditation Ashram nicely placed amongst the hills, facing the flourishing Ganges River.

Ashram life quickly transforms me from a disquieted sore thumb into a tranquil yogi. Everything is very basic, there is no air-con (it's still 47 degrees), and there are constant electricity outages.

And every day is the same; I wake up to a morning bell at 5:30am, meditate, walk to the garden for neti pot cleansing, followed by an hour and a half of pranayama and yoga. Then there's breakfast and cleaning, we then leave the ashram for a meditative walk, and when we get back it's finally lunch time.

Oh, and did I mention this has all been done in silence?

The silence is more challenging than I expect. I'm a pretty social person and I find it hard to keep my mouth shut. But over time it gets easier, and I soon realise my head has also become silent.

Maybe it's because I have nothing else to focus on except for what I'm doing at this moment, but I have never experienced this internal silence before. It feels safe and warm. I'm not worrying about the future, nothing matters except where I am.

I wish I was exaggerating, but one day feels like three, and this is repeated for seven days. It's exactly what I need.

By the end of the week, I'm so filled with confidence that I find myself hitchhiking my way back to town with two other girls from the ashram. We get a ride almost instantly and I quickly learn that everything is about money, negotiating, and executing the bluff by acting fearless.

A bumpy 13-hour bus ride later and I'm in Dharamshala, home to the Dalai Lama and the Tibetan government-in-exile.

Located on the edge of the Himalayas, it's a summer escape for Indian tourists, reaching only in the high 30's.

Buzzing around the streets in a rickshaw, with my hair flowing in the wind, I'm just too cool.

I reach two towns, Dharamkot and Bhagsu, which feel like a mountainous Byron Bay, surrounded by vegan cafes and shops selling everything hippie-related, all run by ex-pats. Apparently, Tibetans aren't the only ones who live here in exile.

I'm staying at McLeod Ganj, amongst the locals, and with my room views of the Dalai Lama's modest temple, colourful buildings, and Tibetan flags. Despite the stark contrast to the ashram, I couldn't love this place any more than I do right now.

I'm feeling great, and I even start to pull out my camera, something I felt too intimidated to do elsewhere.

Just as I'm feeling on top of the world, a mother with a baby comes up to me, telling me she wants food for her baby. She leads me into a shop and expects me to buy her two huge bags of baby milk formula, detergent and a 10kg bag of rice.

People push me into the store, and the shopkeeper rounds it up to 50 dollars. My gut is telling me this isn't right, and I start putting back some of the items. Suddenly, both the items and the woman are gone, and I'm stuck with the bill.

I walk out of the shop, and immediately another lady comes up to me begging, "My baby, my baby".

I feel burned; I thought I was doing the right thing, until I learn it's a tourist trap.

In the space of a short 90-minute flight, I go from sipping a smoking hot soy chai masala at the foot of the Himalayas, right back in to the thick of the big smoke itself, New Delhi.

But where are all the women?

According to the 2011 census, the city's sex ratio of females is 821 to 1000 males, but all I see are men, and my fearlessness is already wearing thin.

With much deliberation, I book a tour and spend my last seven days being safely ushered around on a private bus around Delhi, Agra and Jaipur. I definitely feel disconnected from the street life, but I also know that this is the smart option here as a solo female traveller.

The poverty and litter in all these cities are overwhelming.

I see men dripping in sweat carrying concrete slabs on their backs, and children not much older than four camping out at toll stops desperately tapping on the windows of my bus begging that I buy their souvenirs.

The country has 61 million children under the age of five who are chronically malnourished, and under the new poverty line the country has 17.5 percent of the total of the world's population.

It's in stark contrast to the experience of admiring the magnificence of the Taj Mahal.

India is also the world's sixth wealthiest country with total wealth of $8,239 billion in 2018.

With slums within throwing distance of the Taj, this land of great contradictions leaves me not knowing what to think or how to feel about the economic and social disparity all around me.

I'm left wondering, where are all these wealthy people?

I visit Jaipur's cinema Rajmandir to watch the premiere of the Bollywood film Bharat, and quickly realise I've finally stumbled across middle and upper-class locals.

Many are dressed in extravagant traditional gowns, and I feel like I'm at a black-tie event. The hall has chandeliers, and I feel like I'm in a royal palace.

The excitement is in the air, and once the cinema doors open people screech and run into the theatre. Is this a Bollywood premiere or a Beyonce concert?

I take my seat, the movie starts rolling and the cheering continues; claps, screams and whistling are all I can hear, and this continues throughout the film. Woah, they love their Bollywood.

Back at Delhi Airport, I wait an hour and a half in line to check in my baggage. India very quickly teaches you to be incredibly patient, and you oblige, because it's all worth it.

Arriving back to Australia I'm greeted outside the plane by a staff member, and the sound of his twangy Australian accent leaves me weak at the knees, as I realise I've finally made it back in one piece, and I proved everyone wrong.