The Lost Girls (27 page)

We continually snapped our cameras to capture the play of light caused by the setting sun as the sandstone shifted from lotus white to buttercup yellow to marigold orange. Then a shadow fell over my lens, and I looked up to see a group of Indian tourists standing in front of us.

“Can we have a picture, madam?” asked an Indian Ashton Kutcher in aviator sunglasses.

“Of course,” I replied, reaching for his camera. But he pulled the camera away, handed it to his friend, and gestured for Jen and Amanda to come closer.

“I think he wants a picture of
us
,” said Amanda, surprised. We stood awkwardly next to the guy, who casually threw his arm around my shoulders. His friend clicked the shutter and thanked us. Not knowing what to say, we flashed him a smile before walking away.

“That was strange,” said Jen.

The same thing happened at least half a dozen more times. Parents wanted a shot of us holding their charcoal-eyelined infant, groups of teenage girls with bindis fanned around us to pose with the reflecting pool in the backdrop, a family of six arranged themselves next to us according to height.

“Now I know what it feels like to be a D-list celebrity,” Amanda joked. When we asked Sunil why so many Indians wanted pictures with us, he gave a vague explanation that getting shots with Westerners at famous landmarks was a prized souvenir they could show their friends, sort of like a status symbol. Funny, we felt the same way about having our pictures taken next to them.

Sunil eventually played the role of bodyguard, denying any more photo requests. “We will never finish this tour if you keep stopping for pictures!” he scolded, as if we were his kids instead of clients.

 

T
he woman in a red sari bent over to remove her shoes, and the part in her hair was a matching shade of blood red. Much like Westerners wearing wedding rings, some Indian women apply a vermilion paste to symbolize that they're married. I smiled shyly at her and glanced down at my own $2 rubber sandals, slipping them off my feet, as was customary before entering a temple.

Jen and Amanda slid out of their black flip-flops. They were both dressed in ankle-length skirts purchased in the labyrinth of shops lining the streets of Delhi. The three of us stood on the threshold of the lotus-flower-shaped sanctuary called the Baha'i House of Worship, adjusting our shawls to make sure our shoulders were covered.

The silence inside was thick as we followed the woman's lead to sit on a cool marble bench. I can't say how long we stayed there in that airy space, savoring the stillness that wrapped around us after so many days being immersed in honking horns, Bollywood beats, and vocal vendors.

Sunil had taken us to the temple after I bombarded him with questions about the difference between the Hindu deities I'd seen the last time I was in India, such as Ganesh with his elephant head and Shiva with his necklace of snakes. I'd been drawn to the country's hodgepodge of temples, mosques, shrines, and churches and felt like I'd stepped into an otherworldly, spiritual mecca whenever I spotted a sign of everyday devotion, such as fruit placed inside a household shrine or a street stall overflowing with flower garlands for prayer offerings.

Seeing those connections to a higher power all throughout India had made me want to cling to it like a safety blanket the first time I'd visited. The way many Indians practice little acts of faith in the middle of, say, going to the market reminded me that just being alive is sacred in and of itself. As I experienced more of how people everywhere found comfort in faith, moments stuck in my mind like a collage: the knickknacks left by the porters on the Inca Trail as offerings to the gods; Sister Freda clutching the cross around her neck; my own grandmother, fingering the rosary she always took with her to Mass.

Echoing the message of Gandhi, Sunil refused to be pinned down to any one religion. “I am Hindi, Muslim, and Buddhist—God is found in all beliefs,” he said. So it was fitting that he took us to the Baha'i House of Worship, which welcomes all regardless of what religion they align with. Most Indians are Hindus, and Hinduism's umbrella of different deities struck me as one big rainbow of gods and goddesses that each represented a different wavelength of a single universal Being. Hindus believe God is everywhere and have lived next to the Christians, Muslims, Buddhists, Sikhs, Jains, and Jews of the subcontinent for centuries.

Once we'd risen to our feet and tiptoed back outside, the white petal-shaped temple suddenly reminded me of Disney's Epcot Center. We scanned the central walkway for a food cart. Beads of sweat broke out on my nose as the sun beat down on our heads. “Ice cream would be really good now!” I said, knowing we were more apt to encounter savory treats such as
bhaja
(vegetable fritters) and
vadai
(spicy doughnuts).

“That guy is selling mangoes on sticks!” Jen pointed toward a cart stationed near the parking lot, and we practically skipped down the concrete path. Amanda handed the vendor a few rupees, which reminded me of colorful Monopoly money except that each note was stamped with Gandhi's face. The vendor
handed back three mangoes on a stick, and as we hunted for a spot to sit and enjoy them, we dodged others touting bracelets or curried cashews.

By this point, we'd developed a highly effective strategy for escaping the clutches of aggressive vendors. After reading that guides often scored commissions for delivering tourists to shops, we weren't shocked when Sunil pulled up to a street lined with stores so we could “meet his friends.” Knowing it was part of the tour-guide/client transaction, we politely sat through demonstrations on how to make mosaics and silk saris before being draped in fabrics and jewels in not-so-subtle sales pitches.

That didn't mean we had to buy anything, however. The girls and I tried many unsuccessful attempts to deter them with put-offs. Amanda's “These shirts just aren't my style” was met with “No
problem
, madam! We can sew whatever style you like!”
Damn!
“Unfortunately, I don't have any more room in my backpack,” Jen said, trying another angle. “That is why we offer international shipping at cheap price for you, madam!” the expert salesman shot back. Thwarted again!

Through trial and error, I'd finally discovered the one excuse that actually worked: “This fluorescent orange sari is, um, stunning, but I'll have to ask my husband before I can buy anything.” That stopped the vendors' onslaught instantly, and they responded only by pressing a business card firmly into my hand and ordering me to bring my husband back.

But the same novelty I found so exciting also kept me feeling like a child learning how to act in the world. Even the most mundane interactions were grounds for a communication breakdown: at first I thought Indians wobbling their head from side to side were shaking it no when they actually meant yes. And sitting next to a man in a rickshaw quickly turned into a version of musical chairs as he moved to the other side to take a seat further away, then repeated the process again when Amanda
hopped in beside him. Apparently, it's too intimate for an unmarried woman to sit so close to a man.

So I was happy to take a little rest and simply sit cross-legged in some spongy grass near the temple, sucking sweet juice from the mangoes.

“Excuse me, madam?” I squinted up through the midday sun to see the woman in the red sari standing above us, this time with a man at her side. “Could we get a photograph?”

“Of course!” I said, holding out my hand for her camera. She quickly offered it to the man before plopping down beside us. There I went again, forgetting my social skills.

Amanda retrieved her Olympus from the tiny fabric purse she'd haggled for earlier that day, and jumped up. “Can you get one with ours too?”

SOUTHERN INDIA/SHRADDHA ASHRAM
NOVEMBER

D
on't move,” I instructed, as a band of cockroaches scurried across the train car wall, straight toward Amanda's head. She sat rooted in place on the sticky seat cushion, squeezing her eyes shut and bracing for my attack.

Clutching our
Lonely Planet: Southern India
, I moved in for the kill. In one fluid kung fu motion, I propelled the book past Amanda's face, adding more carcasses to our growing collection. At the same time, Holly leapt up and splattered a few culprits en route to our stash of assorted snacks, while Amanda pulled a flip-flop from her own foot to pick off newcomers streaming in from the windowsill.

By this point in the trip, the girls and I had grown fairly accustomed to third-world conditions, learning to tolerate a vast assortment of creepy crawlies and less-than-desirable accommodations. But nothing could have prepared us for this, our first overnight train ride through the sun-scorched subcontinent of India.

We'd arrived in Bangalore a few days earlier, and, for the first time since leaving New York City, we were racing to meet a deadline. Our assignment: we had less than twenty-four hours
to get Holly to Trivandrum for the first day of her monthlong yoga teacher training program.

With nearly five hundred miles of ground to cover, we'd planned to hop a domestic flight to save time, but after hearing news reports that terrorists were targeting southern Indian airports, we'd decided that riding the rails would be safer. Not to mention an infinitely cheaper and more authentic way to travel. If only we'd known that the 6526 Bangalore-Kanyakumari Express was not only competing for the Guinness World Record as the slowest express train in the world but was also in serious need of an exterminator.

Since we'd booked our passage at the last minute, all the first- and second-class tickets had been sold out, so we had to settle for the third-class sleeper car. For ten bucks, we figured the compartment wouldn't have air-conditioning, but we didn't count on the complimentary army of cockroaches. No sooner had we slid into our assigned seats than a river of six-legged critters poured down the walls and over the benches.

“I feel like we're playing that game they used to have at Chuck E. Cheese's. You know? The one where you bash the fuzzy purple moles that pop out of their holes?” I said, wildly scanning the area, ready to pounce at the first sign of movement.

“Umm, thanks for tarnishing the image of one of my favorite childhood pastimes,” Holly joked, inspecting our coveted food bag for stowaways. “Uh, this is seriously gross.”

“It's our cockroach curse. They've followed us from Kenya, I swear,” Amanda said, shrieking and wildly shaking out her curls to eliminate the chance of hangers-on. “And yet again, it seems like we're the only ones on this train who are concerned about sleeping with a million bugs.”

Many times in India, Amanda, Holly, and I had felt like a three-ring circus, constantly on display to amuse and bewilder the locals. This train ride proved no different. As floods of ex
tended families spilled on board, they'd stop dead in their tracks in front of our bench seats, mouths agape at the sight of three white women in mass hysterics over a few tiny insects.

Unable to repress our cockroach-slaying instincts, we ignored the obvious stares—at least at first. But eventually, embarrassment and the sheer exhaustion from jumping up and down every two seconds forced us into silent submission. If we were going to survive the remainder of the claustrophobic seventeen-hour journey, we'd have to sit down, remain calm, and pretend that we hadn't stepped into an episode of
Fear Factor: India
.

For once the utter lack of personal space in this part of the world worked to our advantage. As hundreds of passengers wedged themselves into every available square inch of the locomotive—unhinging foldaway beds from the walls to stockpile bundles of fabric, oversized trunks, and picnic baskets—our unwelcome bug mates scattered for cover. Our skin no longer crawling (at least not as much), we hunkered down in our booths, falling into rhythm with the train as it rattled along the tracks.

As night fell, Holly settled into one of the coffinlike sleep compartments, face mask and earplugs firmly in place. Along with the majority of other passengers, she soon dozed off, leaving Amanda and me to indulge our night-owl tendencies. Headlamps at the ready, we holed up across from one another on bottom bunks to savor reading the rare glossy magazines we'd managed to pilfer from a guesthouse lobby.

“Hey, listen to this,” I whispered. “Dear
Marie Claire India
: I have been in an arranged marriage for almost five years and while I respect my husband, I greatly dislike having sex with him. Most nights, I feel physically ill when we have intercourse. I have considered leaving him, but this would destroy my family. Is there anything I can do to learn to like sex with my husband more?”

“Wow, does it really say that?” Amanda asked, pulling the
page down to look. “That's terrible. She must feel so trapped. I guess that sort of puts our petty troubles with men in perspective. At the very least we get to have a physical connection before we walk down the aisle.”

“True. Although statistically I think arranged marriages work out more often than love matches, so maybe we're no better off in some ways. Hey, you should totally pitch a story about that. It could be something like ‘Dating Around the World: Would you have better luck in someone else's country?'”

“Good call, but no thanks,” Amanda replied with an odd seriousness to her tone.

“Oh, c'mon. It's an awesome idea. I mean, I would totally read that article,” I whispered between the vociferous snores and guttural coughs that filled the car.

“While I don't dispute its awesomeness”—she paused and took a breath—“I meant that I've decided that I'm not going to pitch stories anymore.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, brushing an imaginary bug off my neck.

“I've actually been planning to talk to you about this. I think I'm finally ready to shelve the idea of being an international journalist. At least for a little while anyway.”

“Okay, am I on
Candid Camera
or something?” I said, hoping to joke my way out of another potentially tense conversation.

“No, I'm serious. I've been thinking a lot about this over the past few days, and I'm just not sure it's the right thing for me to do anymore. I mean, I've sent out dozens of idea memos and query letters and pitches. And spent about a jillion hours holed up in Internet cafés. For what? None of my editors are even getting back to me anymore, so lately I've felt like it's all been for nothing,” she replied, sifting through the pile of magazines in front of her.

“Look, I really shouldn't have snapped at you the way I did
that day at Pathfinder,” I said, thinking back to the argument we'd had in Kenya. “At least you have something you want to accomplish, unlike me. I'm just running away from real life altogether. I mean, who am I to tell you what's best?”

“I know, but I honestly think it
would
be best for me to give up working for a while and just try to enjoy traveling without some sort of mission or purpose attached. Seriously, for the next couple weeks, I've decided: we're doing the trip
your
way.”

Scanning Amanda's face with the beam of my headlamp, I could see that she genuinely meant what she was saying. As much as I hadn't wanted to guilt her into abandoning her on-the-road career goals, I couldn't help but feel relieved. I knew that a week later, we were going to part ways with Holly and travel as a duo for nearly a month, and I didn't want to have any unresolved tension between us.

“All right, you win,” I said, holding up one of my hands in surrender. “And hey, you never know. You might love backpacker life so much, you'll want to give up working for the rest of the trip.”

“Don't push it, Baggett,” she replied, throwing me a mockevil scowl.

“Never.” I grinned before turning my attention back to the joys and woes of other women that danced across the moonlit pages of
Marie Claire India
.

 

C
hai, chai, chai…coffee, coffee, coffee, chai, chai,” ricocheted off the metal walls, piercing my seemingly ephemeral slumber.

I cracked one eye open and peered out of my protective silk sleep sack to see what on earth was making such a racket. A rail-thin man, draped in white linen from headdress to toe, maneuvered a pushcart with a tall silver kettle and plastic cups through the cramped corridor. Every few feet he'd pause to
swap a steaming libation for 5 rupees (about 10 cents), all the while projecting the same nasally sales pitch into the muggy, cardamom-scented air.

Across the aisle, I spotted a fresh-faced Holly cheerfully making conversation with a family of eight. She glanced over at me and grinned.

“So do you know if chai is available on this train?” I asked sarcastically, groaning as I stripped the sweat-soaked fabric from the top half of my body.

“You're awake—finally! You and Amanda have been dead to the world for hours. I was starting to get worried.”

“We didn't go to bed until nearly three in the morning. What time is it now?”

“I think almost ten a.m., but I'm not sure. My watch is still on Kenya time. How many hours are we ahead now?”

“I don't know. Three? Four? What time do we get to Trivandrum?”

“Not till two p.m.,” she said.

“Well in that case, I'm going back to bed,” I replied, fumbling through my daypack-turned-pillow to locate my iPod.

“What? No way. You have to keep me company,” Holly protested.

“Sorry, can't hear you,” I replied sweetly before cramming my earbuds in and rolling over.

I was just on the verge of drifting off when I felt a hand on my back. Startled, I flew up and hit my head on the bunk above me. A little girl with a mop of raven curls and an armful of sparkly pink bangles jumped back and giggled. Cajoling her baby brother to join her, the two tag-teamed me, pulling at the cord running into my ears. Oh well, it's too hot and noisy to sleep anyway, I thought, sitting up.

“You want to listen?” I asked, pulling out my right earbud and holding it out to them.

Awestruck by the realization that music could flow out of such a tiny machine, they squealed and leaned in, pressing their heads against each other. At first they were content to share the speaker, but before long, sibling rivalry reared its ugly head and an all-out tug-of-war ensued. Across the aisle, mom, dad, grandparents, and cousins sat chuckling at their feisty brood's attempts to play with the Westerner's toy.

I'm sure any child psychologist would have scolded me for indulging their bad behavior, but rather than risk destroying my main form of on-the-road entertainment, I decided it was easier to surrender it, giving them each one earbud to listen to. With the delinquent little duo tucked safely in the corner of the bench, quietly jamming to
Monster Ballads, Volume 2
, I felt free to roam about the cabin with Amanda, who was finally awake.

As we slowly edged our way down the aisles, we were swept up in a montage of strange and exotic scenes. Men sporting polyester bell-bottoms and disco jackets from the
Saturday Night Fever
era smoked hand-rolled cigarettes in the vestibules between cars. Mothers cloaked in Day-Glo saris pressed chunks of buttery naan into outstretched hands. Babies with kohl-smudged eyes howled in time with the screeching brakes.

Although I would've gladly accepted a space in first class, I doubted it would have been even a tenth as interesting as the third-class end of the train. And as much as I hadn't relished bunking with cockroaches (or cared to repeat the act), I felt a twinge of pride: we'd toughed it out, done as the locals had, and earned ourselves one very important backpacker merit badge in the process.

Maybe it was the soft rays of sunlight casting warm shadows on the walls or the absence of any obvious bugs, but our compartment felt considerably more inviting during the day. Finding a seat near an open window, I settled in for the remainder of the journey. As the train drifted through Kerala, the glossy
photos I'd seen of the picturesque region boasting vast mangrove forests, golden sand beaches, jade green backwaters, and fields of coconut trees materialized before my eyes. The cleanest and best-educated state in India (literacy rates top 90 percent here), Kerala is a renowned tourist destination and one we were eager to explore.

Three hours (and one dead iPod battery) later, our train finally arrived in Trivandrum. Tucked among verdant hillsides at the southern tip of the country, the state's capital city—reputed to be a hub of art, literature, and politics—was the jumping-off point for our Kerala tour. Our first stop: the Shraddha Ashram, one of the subcontinent's innumerable spiritual centers, which, according to its Web site, was an easy sixty-minute drive from the station.

Staggering through the thick crowd of tourists, food vendors, and ticket touts, we emerged from the train station into the chaotic city streets. Heaving our packs onto our shoulders, we began the sluggish swim through a sea of residents, shopkeepers, stray dogs, auto-rickshaws, and taxi drivers waiting to pounce on us. In less than a minute, sweat poured from our foreheads, down our bodies to our filthy toes. An excitable young man, assuring us that he knew the way to “the very sacred, very special Shraddha place,” squished our stuff into the trunk of his cab and we set off down a bumpy dirt path—hopefully toward enlightenment.

Prior to planning our trip, I didn't really know much at all about ashrams, let alone considered living in one. But with all the enthusiasm of a spartan cheerleader, Holly had educated us on the bountiful physical and spiritual benefits that the yoga/meditation center provided. While the rigorous thirty-day teacher training program Holly signed up for sounded like a form of cruel and unusual punishment to Amanda and me, we were inspired enough to commit to a more moderate-sounding
weeklong vacation package. Why not, right? Where else could we mingle with serpentine cerulean Gods? This was India—land of powerful Hindu deities, birthplace of yoga, religious epicenter of the world (plus, a little exercise and healthy eating couldn't hurt before we headed north to the beaches in Goa to pursue more earthly pleasures).