The Lost Girls

by Jennifer Baggett

  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.

  Chai, 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).

  After a surprisingly accurate hourlong journey, we rumbled up a gravel slope to the entrance of Shraddha. All the noise and congestion of the city had fallen far behind us, replaced by a peaceful, sprawling paradise of lush green forests and tropical flowers. Set above a sparkling lake in the foothills of the western Ghats, the ashram certainly afforded its devotees some pretty spectacular views. Although, as we soon learned, smoking, alcohol, drugs, meat, fish, eggs, garlic, onions, cell phones, sleeveless shirts, and public displays of affection (to name a few) were all strictly prohibited on the premises, so I figured the actual premises had to make up for that somehow.

  As we followed the palm-fringed path in pursuit of the check-in area, a deep “Om” echoed through the treetops like the ominous hum of a battle horn. But rather than an angry militia, we were met by hundreds of serene yogis in drawstring pants and baggy T-shirts who floated up the hill toward an open-air pavilion.

  We arrived at the front desk, and an impish blond waved us over to the end of the counter, where she stood guard over stacks of colored folders. She explained that the students had just finished their second asana (yoga) class of the day and were headed to dinner. Once we finished filling out the mandatory paperwork, we were welcome to join the group or just chill out until evening satsung (silent meditation and chanting).

  After quickly scribbling our signatures on dozens of forms, we headed to our assigned dorm to set up camp with our Shraddha-issued sheets, pillowcases, and mosquito nets. While Holly busied herself with the massive teacher-training manual, Amanda and I reviewed the daily schedule:

  5:30 a.m.: Wake-up bell

  6 a.m.–7:30 a.m.: satsung

  7:30 a.m.: tea time

  8 a.m.–10 a.m.: asana class

  10 a.m.: Brunch

  11 a.m.–12:30 p.m.: Karma yoga/selfless service

  1:30 p.m.: tea time

  2 p.m.–3:30 p.m.: lecture

  4 p.m.–6 p.m.: asana class

  6 p.m.–7 p.m.: dinner

  8 p.m.–9:30 p.m.: satsung

  10:20 p.m.: lights out

  Despite all the rebellious thoughts swimming through my mind (“There’s no way in hell I’m getting up that early! Are two satsung sessions really necessary? Lecture, smecture!”), I was intrigued by ashram culture and genuinely excited about the yoga, brunch, dinner, and tea sections of the itinerary. And thanks to the über-cheap price tag of $11 per day for all meals, classes, and lodging, Amanda and I would shave enough money off our weekly budget to splurge on a scuba dive outing in Goa.

  While I suspected that conforming to such a chaste existence might prove challenging, the first couple days were surprisingly carefree and rewarding. Sure, my foot fell asleep during morning meditation, sending me into an epileptic tailspin, and I was shushed by goody-goody students for disregarding the SILENCE signs during the meals, but I’d held my own in the more advanced of the two yoga classes, almost enjoyed the vegetarian slop, and memorized a few lines from the “Shri Ganesha” chant. Yes, I was well on my way to achieving transcendence.

  You can check out anytime you like, but you can never leave!

  The line from the Eagles song echoed through my head as the gangly, bug-eyed Indian blocked the exit gate, refusing to let Amanda and me pass. Even though the sun had already burned off the early-morning mist, I could feel a Hotel California–twisted haze settle over the sacred grounds. Somehow, an innocent attempt to swap our satsung for a DIY nature hike had landed us in the middle of a hostage crisis.

  “You can’t stop us from leaving,” Amanda sputtered in disbelief. “We’re just going to walk out!”

  “No, no, you must be needing a pass from Swami, permission and then to go,” the bewildered guard replied in fractured “Hindlish”—rapid-fire Hindu with English-sounding words tossed in.

  “Yeah, well, the swami is kind of tied up at the moment leading satsung,” Amanda replied tersely. “And we’d like to go now.”

  “Oh, Christ, it’s barely sunrise and I already need a drink,” I muttered under my breath. At this rate, I was beginning to think a few mimosas might help me reach nirvana faster than chanting and headstands ever could. But now I’d never get to test that theory, as it seemed Amanda and I were trapped here forever, or at least until we were reincarnated as dung beetles and could scurry under the fence undetected. Damn! If only I’d bothered to read the epic list of Shraddha rules, I would have noticed that my personal freedom was in direct violation of its strict moral code.

  “If you leave, it must go forever. And you must to pay,” the guard shouted, maniacally bobbling his head and shaking his nightstick at us in disgust.

  “Are you saying you’re going to kick us out for trying to take a walk?” Amanda asked.

  “You very bad womens! You go!” our captor spewed, rendering us speechless.

  Ordinarily, a comment like that would have rolled right off my backpack-toughened shoulders. After all, this overzealous ashram guard was far from the toughest adversary we’d faced on the road. But as our minor dispute with him escalated into a full-scale Bollywood battle scene, an overwhelming sense of anger and panic began to brew deep within my gut. I had come here to relax, clear my head, and tap into my inner harmony (or something like that), not to be reprimanded by some staff member with a clipboard holding me prisoner against my will.

  All of a sudden, I couldn’t breathe. The cement walls started to close in around me, the neck of my sports top tightened like a noose and the guard’s face twisted and distorted like a clown in a fun house mirror. Despite having lived for half a decade in a city where residents regular
ly popped Paxil and Xanax with their postwork martinis, I’d never personally experienced a bona fide anxiety attack. But in the heat of this bizarre moment, I was beginning to unravel.

  “This is absolutely ridiculous!” I wailed, my shrill voice practically sending a ripple across the placid lake. “We’re just trying to take a freakin’ walk by the water, to connect with nature and find some peace, for crying out loud! You can’t keep us locked in this crazy place! I will not put up with it anymore!” I shouted. Turning my back on the astonished gatekeeper, I immediately fled the scene, my arms flailing like those of a petulant child in the midst of a tantrum.

  As I cut across the meticulously pruned lawn, my chest seized and spasmed as freshly formed tears threatened to spill. I heard Amanda calling after me, but I refused to stop. I stumbled blindly through the Serenity Garden, inadvertently mowing down a few Shiva and Krishna statues in my path. Perfect, another blasphemous deed to heap onto my overflowing bad karma plate. Before a swarm of angry locusts could attack, I sprinted up the stairway to the dank and dingy communal student barracks and collapsed onto my cot.

  To an innocent bystander, my behavior might have appeared a little erratic. Okay, maybe a lot erratic. But it didn’t take a guru (or a shrink) to figure out that my intense overreaction sprang from a much deeper place. After only a few days of spiritual training, even I was enlightened enough to realize that the true source of my emotional outburst was not the shrunken Indian man blocking the ashram exit but rather a taller American one back home.

  Less than twelve hours earlier, I’d made a quick trip to the Internet hut near the ashram check-in desk and found an e-mail from Brian waiting in my inbox. While our exchanges had been understandably strained, we’d still been making an effort to keep in touch, periodically checking in, and trying to come to terms with our breakup as best as we could from such a long distance. Although hearing from him caused my heart to seize and my stomach to sink down to my knees, I was more than willing to endure the pain if it meant getting to keep him in my life in some capacity. But his latest message made it clear that he didn’t feel the same way.