Olivia Montag questioned her sanity. Anyone she’d shared her plans with had questioned it for months now, some with raised eyebrows, skeptical silence, and shrugs as if to say, “If that’s what you want.” Some had opted for a more straightforward approach and outright bursts of, “Have you lost your mind?” But she’d brushed them all aside, reassuring them—and herself—that she knew what she was doing. She needed this. She’d read Eat, Pray, Love. This was how people found themselves again after their lives fell apart.
Until this moment, she’d remained stubbornly convinced she was right and completely ignored the naysayers. Excitement had buoyed her steps as she’d boarded the plane to leave, Mom giving one last look of concern as she waved goodbye. The thrill of adventure and the certainty she was embarking on a life-empowering trip of a lifetime (and perhaps delirium brought on by lack of sleep) got her through the thirty-six-hour journey, including transfers and layovers, to New Delhi, India.
She’d slept most of several days, enjoying the exotic newness of it all when awake, slowly adjusting her day/night cycle. Watching flocks of green parrots fly overhead as she soaked up tropical sun by the pool of her five-star luxury hotel, she’d breathed deeply and congratulated herself, awash in the knowledge she’d been correct. This was exactly what she’d needed. A fresh start, halfway around the globe, as far from her previous surroundings as she could possibly run.
Now, stepping off the rusted-out, rattletrap bus that brought her from Kochi, Kerala, after a long-delayed, nearly five-hour flight from New Delhi, and clutching her single bag of possessions, she entertained the notion that perhaps she should have listened to the naysayers—at least a little bit.
The crowded bus station, constructed of bare concrete and worn from years of hard use, bustled with people. Most of them appeared to be running hours behind schedule, and the spot she occupied apparently intersected with everyone’s trajectories, judging by the way they all jostled and bumped her.
If her ex-husband could see her now. She could picture the look of disgust and the head shake that had become such a familiar sight the last few years. If she’d done something really stupid, he might also roll his eyes. Yes, this adventure probably would’ve earned an eye roll along with the head shake. And his running commentary about what smart people did and didn’t do. “Smart people don’t just run off to India,” she could hear him say. “Especially with no idea where they’re going or how they’ll get there. That’s just not smart.” The longer she stood there, lost and wondering how long she should stand in the bus station watching more competent people en route to their destinations before seeking help, the more she thought she deserved her ex’s scorn.
Someone was supposed to meet her. She’d received an email promising a ride. But the taxi drivers and rickshaw operators who pressed in on her in an ever-shrinking circle of offers to help—for a very good price—didn’t get that email. Chai wallahs and vendors joined the throng, pushing “refreshing lassis” and snacks and handicrafts toward her.
“No,” she told them. “I don’t need any of this. I have a ride already.”
“Yes, ma’am!” one of the taxi drivers said. “I am your ride! Come!”
“You’re my ride?”
He grabbed her by the arm and gripped the handle of her bag. “Yes, madam.”
She clutched the bag tighter. “I’ll keep my suitcase.”
“No problem, madam. I will carry.” He pulled it from her hands.
“You’re my ride?” she asked again as he steered her toward a waiting taxi. “They sent you to pick me up?”
“Yes, madam.” He opened the taxi door and moved to take her bag to the back.
“I’ll keep that.” She managed to get a good grip and wrest it back into her possession, clutching it on her lap.
He closed her door and climbed into the passenger seat. “Where to, madam?”
She threw the door open and jumped out, her ex’s derisive scoff of disgust echoing in her mind. Smart people don’t get duped by taxi drivers.
He followed. “Madam! What is the problem?”
“My ride would know where I’m going. You’re not my ride. No one sent you to pick me up.” Even as she said it, she wondered if she was correct. What if someone had sent him to pick her up? Was she stupidly walking away from her ride? She shook her head, not sure what to do anymore.
“Yes, madam! I give you good price! Where do you wish to go?”
“I already have a ride, I think. I don’t have the address—”
“Olivia?”
She spun at the sound of her name in a familiar American dialect. A man, probably still in his twenties, waved at her from across the street. Yes. She’d been correct to leave the taxi behind. She clutched her bag and waited for a break in the string of cars zipping past.
“Madam, sixty rupees!” the taxi driver insisted as she started toward the American man.
“Sixty rupees?” She raised her voice and noted with some delight that the man cringed.
“Yes, madam. I carried your bag to the taxi.”
“I told you not to! I’m not giving you money for lying to me and trying to trick me into paying a fare for a ride I don’t need.” Smart people wouldn’t have fallen for it and gotten into the taxi.
The driver held out a hand. “Sixty rupees, madam.”
“Hi!” The American man who knew her name joined them, somehow having crossed that endless sea of traffic. “Olivia, I presume?”
“Yes! You’re my ride?”
“Sure am. Shall we?”
The taxi driver didn’t relent, even as they tried to cross the road.
“Sir! She owes me money.”
Embarrassment warmed her cheeks. Why had she been so gullible? She never should have listened to him. “I don’t owe him a thing. He’s demanding sixty rupees for carrying my bag after I explicitly told him not to when he said he was my ride and tricked me into his taxi.”
“Ah.” The fellow American thrust a hand into his pocket and palmed the driver some coins.
“Hey!” she objected. “Don’t—”
He grabbed her by the elbow and steered her away from the appeased driver, who thanked them profusely. “It’s not even a dollar. Those rupees will feed his children.”
“But he lied!”
“Surely you’re aware of the severe poverty some of the people in this country grapple with. And the number who go hungry every day. Haven’t you seen it?”
She squirmed, remembering the squalor she’d seen from the bus windows on the way here. How she’d stared, horror-struck at the bare-chested women scrubbing clothing against rocks in a putrid, gray-brown river. She’d even seen a dead carcass float by at one point. “I’ve only been here three days. I didn’t leave the hotel much.”
Still clutching her elbow, he dashed across the street, hopping between oncoming cars, the drivers blowing horns. She sucked in a breath, thinking her ex-husband would love to hear how she’d idiotically dashed in front of on-coming traffic.
But the man guided her safely across. She let out the breath she’d been holding.
“Well, trust me on this. Besides, it’s my dollar and I can help feed that man’s kids if I want to.” He opened the door to an ancient car and gestured her in.
Irritation percolated and a witty barb fought its way to her lips. But seeing the bright smile on his face, she bit the harsh words back. “I don’t want his kids to go hungry, obviously.” She settled in while he climbed into the driver’s seat and maneuvered into traffic.
“The jet lag sucks, doesn’t it?” he asked as the rattling car shuddered to a stop at an intersection.
“It’s awful. I slept so hard on the bus, I’m lucky I didn’t sleep right through my stop.”
“I hear that. It’s the middle of the night back home. Your body is running on its internal clock. Give it a couple weeks to reset.”
He threw another cute little grin at her. She glanced at his left hand. No ring. Hopefully he wasn’t getting any ideas. Dating was not on her agenda. At all. Her thumb ran over the ring finger of her left hand, still disturbed by the bare skin no longer covered by a gold band.
“I’ve been emailing someone named Vanya,” she said. “I thought she would pick me up.”
“Ms. Vanya, yes! She oversees our housing complex, but she can’t drive. She’ll be waiting for you there though. And she’ll help you settle in.”
“Why can’t she drive?”
“Not many women drive in India. The housing complex has this car to use but can’t afford a staff driver. They operate primarily with volunteers, like us. We’re able to borrow it whenever we like.” Another grin.
He seemed to be making a serious effort to connect. She didn’t come to India to connect with a guy. And if he got to know her, he wouldn’t be interested anyway.
“How long did it take you to get used to driving on the wrong side of the road? It seems a little daunting.” She hadn’t thought about how she would get around here.
He waved a hand. “It’s a little weird, but I got it. No worries. You can just hop in a rickshaw once you’ve learned your way around and feel more comfortable. If you’d prefer.”
She stared out the window at the crowds of people, congested streets thick with battered vehicles, air heavy with smog. Doubt formed a hard knot in her stomach, congealing with disappointment and fear. “That might take a while.”
“You’ll adjust. Trust me. Until then, holler if you need anything at all. I’m glad to help. Although, rule of thumb is you don’t want to go out alone anyway. At least take one of the other female teachers with you.”
Whoa. That didn’t sound good. Everything she’d read indicated India was safe. “Why?”
“Women are better off together or accompanied by a man. Didn’t anyone tell you that?”
“I thought India was safe.”
“It is safe. But you want to take certain precautions. Just like you would anywhere. Even back home, ya know?”
She remembered her mom asking repeatedly, though gently, “Are you sure this is a good idea, sweetie?” She’d been so sure it was, but maybe she hadn’t thought through it well enough. Maybe she hadn’t done enough research. Smart people would know what they were getting themselves into. She wanted to tell her ex-husband’s residual presence, still lodged firmly in her brain, to shut it. The divorce was finalized, but even halfway around the world she couldn’t leave him behind.
The car wound through the streets. Outside the massive, congested cities of India, the countryside unfurled into open fields, stretching to the horizon, dotted with smaller communities. They turned down several more streets, each narrower and bumpier than the last, until they pulled off the road and parked in front of a crumbling concrete wall.
“Here we are,” he said.
“Here we are?” she asked, scrutinizing his face for signs of a joke.
He hopped out and opened her door. “This is it.”
Ignoring his offered hand, she stepped out, clutching her bag, searching for signs of a guest house.
He led the way to a rusted gate, which allowed passage through the concrete wall, opened it, and gestured her through.
The concrete walls enclosed a rather large compound. What she presumed to be the school buildings formed a U directly in front of her and to the sides. The center courtyard sat quiet and empty. She tried to envision it full of squealing, playing children, but saw only dirt and dismally worn buildings. Though the buildings had been painted white, gray streaks dripped down the concrete structures and mud splatters ringed the bases. She hovered in the gateway, not sure she wanted to go inside.
The man—had he shared his name?—latched the gate and encouraged her. “That’s the school. The housing is back this way. Come on. Ms. Vanya will be excited to meet you.”
She followed him along a worn dirt path. What choice did she have? This would be her home for the next six months. Tropical trees surrounded the school on all sides, fronds and leaves waving above the roofline as if greeting her. “Welcome to the Jungle” ran through her mind. Better than her ex-husband’s contempt.
The path wound to another, smaller compound with another smaller courtyard. These buildings had been painted a pale yellow, though the blistering heat of the summer and the annual monsoons appeared to have taken their toll. Faded, streaked, and dingy, the watery color struck her as an ironic mockery. Nothing bright or sunny anywhere. Her mood diminished another notch.
Rock and concrete planters dotted the courtyard. But pieces had chipped off and fallen away and no flowers burst forth with frothy petals to cheer passersby. Nothing but bare dirt greeted her, mutely witnessing her somber march to her new home.
“So that building”—he pointed to the right—“is the women’s housing. And this one is the guys’ housing plus the dining hall. We all share meals together, which is nice. We’ll see each other every day. Come on. Ms. Vanya is always in the kitchen.”
The door seemed ready to fall off its hinges when he pulled the handle. It scraped along a well-worn rut in the concrete. Stairs rose up directly in front of the entryway. A large room with tables and chairs sat to her left.
“The stairs lead up to the guys’ rooms. And no girls allowed so don’t get any ideas.”
She knew severe jet lag and shock currently skewed her emotions, but this guy really knew how to push her buttons. Who said things like that? And at their age? They may have logged a similar number of years, but she felt ages older than he acted. She forced her facial features into a bland countenance, willing her eyebrows to relax and her mouth to smile. “What was your name?”
“Oh, sorry!” He held out a hand. “I’m Chris.”
She shook to be polite. “Thank you for the ride, Chris. I promise I will not attempt to sneak into the men’s housing.” Especially not into your room.
“I’m just kiddin’ ya. You probably have a boyfriend back home anyway.”
She ignored the blatant fishing and looked around the dining hall. Peeling paint, worn table and chairs. Decaying, like the exterior of the buildings. Like so much of the country she’d seen so far. Her research had not prepared her for this. She doubted any amount of research could have.
Remembering the taxi driver desperate for a dollar’s worth of rupees, she wished she’d handed him something. And was glad Chris had.
An older, heavyset woman bustled from a door on the opposite side of the dining hall. “Hello, dear! Is this her, Chris?”
“Yes, ma’am. Olivia, this is Ms. Vanya.”
The woman wiped the flour from her hands on an apron and pushed gray strands of hair that had escaped the long braid hanging down her back behind an ear. “So happy to meet you! I will take you to your room.”
“See you tonight at dinner!” Chris called after them.
“Yes, you will take your meals here every day,” Ms. Vanya told her as she trundled out the door.
Olivia adjusted the grip on her suitcase and fell in step beside her. The glaring sun blinded her as they crossed the dry, cooked dirt and cracked concrete of the courtyard to the women’s housing. A plume of smoke twisted skyward from a pile of smoldering garbage on the side of the building, joining hundreds of similar plumes and the exhaust from millions of vehicles to form a perpetual haze of grimy pollution that blanketed the country. Ms. Vanya opened the outer door of the building and waddled down the hall.
Oppressive heat slammed against her before her eyes could adjust to the dim lighting. She opened her eyes wide and blinked rapidly, trying to expedite pupil dilation.
Dilation. The word stopped her where she stood.
Nine centimeters dilated! Almost there. Push! Push!
In the vivid memory—were daymares a thing?—a hand squeezed hers and she squeezed back as she labored through the most intense, excruciating pain she’d ever experienced. Physically. Worse pain had awaited her, but she didn’t know it then and remained blissfully unaware, focused on the impending birth. The coming pain had not been physical, but it had torn her apart and left her scarred as nothing else could.
“Miss Olivia?” Ms. Vanya’s voice pulled her back to the present.
Olivia shook off her stupor and rubbed at her eyes, drying the tears before they could wet her cheeks. “Sorry. My eyes are slow to adjust,” she lied.
“Not to worry. This is your room.” Ms. Vanya’s brilliant smile couldn’t be missed, regardless of dim light and watery eyes.
She stepped into the doorway and swept her eyes over the room, fighting to keep the shock trembling through her from showing on her face. “This is great,” she lied again.
Ms. Vanya crossed the room to the window, where an air conditioning unit perched, and pressed a button. The unit whirred to life, and Ms. Vanya raised her voice to be heard over the noise. “It is easy to use. This switch turns it on, and this dial controls the temperature. Here is your key. I will let you settle. I will prepare dinner. See you then.”
She nodded, murmured thanks, and closed the door before turning to face the room she would call home for the next six months. A sagging twin mattress rested on a rudimentary metal frame in one corner, its counterpart against the opposite wall. Would she share this room with someone else? No one had mentioned the possibility of a roommate.
She dropped her lone bag on the bed farthest from the door and nearest the air conditioning unit. Standing directly in front of the vents, she lifted her limp ponytail and allowed the cool air to blow across the rivulets of sweat dripping from her neck. That was such a welcome relief, she shed her shirt to expose her damp back. Her skin prickled at the sudden change.
Faded, threadbare carpet sort of cushioned her feet as she crossed the room to see the bathroom. She passed a rod to hang clothes on inside an indention in the wall—a makeshift closet with no door. A little dresser sat against the wall, presumably to store clothing.
In the tiny bare-concrete bathroom, she discovered a toilet (blessedly Western style), a sink, and a showerhead above an open drain in the cement floor. A green bucket rested in one corner. That was it. Not a single cabinet or shelf. Nothing to store toiletries on.
She turned and plodded across the room. She sat on the bed, shoved her bag to the floor, and flopped onto her back.
The heavy whir of the window unit fighting to overcome the heat outside wasn’t enough noise to drown out the tiny, high-pitched buzzing of a mosquito in her ear.
Mosquito. Hadn’t she read something about malaria somewhere? Was it rampant here? This time of year? She couldn’t remember the specifics.
She slapped the side of her head. Crumpled legs and wings along with a smear of blood confirmed she’d killed the potentially diseased little beast.
She fell backward again. She wasn’t a diva. God knew she’d grown up with only the barest basics. Mom had kept the roof over their heads and food on the table—it wasn’t a huge house in the best neighborhood and the food was simple and minimal. But they had a home and never went hungry. She never had name-brand clothes and often what she did have was acquired at a second-hand store or discovered on clearance. No gadgets or devices or vacations or game systems. She was accustomed to going without.
Her ex hadn’t been one for lavish purchases either. He always asked her, “Do we really need that?” whenever she felt tempted to buy something. If she’d spotted a pair of shoes she adored and the soles weren’t falling off her current shoes, she really couldn’t justify the expense. Her mom called him a miser, and coming from the self-dubbed Clearance Queen, that was saying something. “Skimping and stretching due to necessity is one thing,” Mom told her. “Making you do without so he can pad his bank account for no apparent reason is completely different.” Still, they’d lived comfortably, their salaries affording a perfectly fine life.
She didn’t need much. She’d learned to manage on a shoe-string budget, selecting “gently worn” furniture and clothing at second-hand shops. She hadn’t expected anything lavish or extravagant from India. But she hadn’t expected this either. What exactly had she expected? Looking back, she realized she really hadn’t thought much at all once she’d seen the opportunity to volunteer and applied for the program. The notice she’d been accepted had been so exciting—distracting, a welcome diversion. Preparing to leave on her adventure had likewise kept her mind occupied. And she’d been in dire need of something else to focus her attention on. Otherwise, she feared she would have sunk into a debilitating depression and never recovered. She’d been well on her way. Friends had tried to reach out. Mom encouraged her to find a new normal. Instead, she’d flown to India.
What had she gotten herself into?