InkSpired Magazine Issue No. 43 | Page 29

traveled here for the first time, and are slightly lost in their lives, seeking inspiration, refuge, and renewal. India and Nepal attract people like us, and just about anyone who is seeking something. When I got back to the U.S., I was diagnosed with possible walking pneumonia. And while I felt lucky and happy to be back as I was exhausted, sick, and somewhat traumatized, deep down I missed the two countries that had taken care of me so well, even in some ways more than my own. I know I am not finished though, that someday I will go back, as I now have two homes, two surrogate families whom I can visit anytime and hopefully, one day welcome to the United States. Who knows, I may end up living there someday, if the guru was in fact correct with everything he said. While my story is unique and I am quite lucky, I am not the first, nor the last traveler to be treated with such kindness by the Indian and Nepalese people. I trusted my instinct and urge to travel to where I had never been, and opened my heart to having a profound and life altering experience. If you are yearning to have one such as mine, there is a reason for it, and my story should be more than enough encouragement for you to do it, and that you deserve the good things that will inevitably happen. I am not, nor will I ever be the same after my journey. The light in me honors the light in you. Namaste, Lauren Lindsey was suspicious and appalling, as well as that of the embassy. They tell me I should stay overnight with them, and the next day they will take me back to the embassy. When I begin sobbing on Kurta’s bed about my ridiculous situation and how completely lost and incapable I feel, Kurta, Ama, her older sister Chrita, her niece, and her mother huddle around me and embrace me. There are no words for the kindness of these people. And yet it doesn’t stop there. Over the next few days, the utter incompetency of the American embassy becomes glaringly obvious. Kurta’s family insists I stay with them to stay safe and until I get my debit card. Kurta’s brother, Kirtan, takes me back to the embassy on his motorcycle to simply inform them of my situation. There I am met with surprising hostility and from the Americans working there, who tell me they can’t help me and that I just need to go home. At one point, a worker even calls Kurta’s sister, Chrita, a strong, spritely, and intelligent woman, who yells at them when they ask if I am bothering them and if I have left yet. Over the ne