CHAPTER 7
Brother Francis was overwhelmed. India is enormous and can literally assault every sense organ.
How about that lady at the bus station in Delaware Water Gap asking if I was a member of AARP! The truth be told, I am certainly old enough to be a card-carrying member but I have not joined.
People are so kind. The ticket seller in the next booth made me laugh when she poked her head around the dividing wall and gave a stage whisper to her colleague: “He’s clergy.” Technically I am a “Religious,” one publicly bound to God by vows and a rule of life, including the celebration of the Liturgy of the Hours daily in the name of the Church
At any rate, I don’t know how she knew I was a monk but I think I got an even bigger discount for that than for an AARP membership. I did have to hand the bus driver that ticket with “CHARITY” computer printed in large bold type, however.
The Abbot of the Salesian Monastery had taken a bus from Pennsylvania, and then another bus from Port Authority in Manhattan to get to JFK airport in New York. Since he never flew out of JFK before, Brother Francis gave himself a large time allowance to get to the airport. The cleaning staff must have thought that the monk was having a crisis of faith. Every once in a while a cleaner would push his or her cart past one of the four small houses of worship entered through large glass doors inside the JFK terminal and Brother Francis would be in yet another prayer space.
He started out in the All Faiths Chapel. It had white walls and splashes of rose here and there on the white. The stained glass windows in the front of the square room portrayed no particular picture or event but their pastel shades were conducive to meditation and an oasis of calm from the frenetic activity of the airport proper.
The monk next made his way to the Catholic Chapel. The Word of God and the Blessed Sacrament were there to welcome him. He celebrated Daytime Prayer alone there from his Office Book.
Brother Francis excitedly waited in line at the ticket counter. The signs were vague and it was a little difficult to see just where the snaking queue of travelers ended up. Eventually a ground attendant came along and Francis found out that he was in a line for Tokyo. The ticket counter for Air India and his flight would open in a few hours, he was told.
His travel arrangements from Delhi to Dharmsala in northern India was made by a friend of a friend in India and consisted of an overnight bus ride. Several people said: “Don’t take the bus.” It was too late; arrangements were made. It would be fine he told himself unconvincingly.
The monk wandered the huge halls of JFK Airport keeping an eye out for his traveling companion. Andre was a mix of laughter and seriousness, quietness and assertiveness. A naturopathic medical student, he hailed from Montreal and had a slight French Canadian lilt to his soft voice.
Brother Francis had a natural tonsure and the rest of his scalp was ringed in a wide band of silvery brown. He laughed at himself for telling Andre that he coveted the jet black hair which the mid-thirties man pulled back in a pony tail. Armenian genes gave Andre an air of dark mystery and a spirit of adventure.
Above the din, Francis heard his name being called softly, as if in a simpler and quieter key than the cacophony swirling around him. It was Andre. He turned his head to the right and there was the smiling protégé of the monk.
“Andre mon frere, comment allez vous?”
“Je vais bien, Frere Francois,” Andre responded with a bright smile. “See, you haven’t forgotten your college French. We will talk more en France during our Indian pilgrimage of medicine and spirituality.”
“Not if I can help it,” the monk playfully responded. “I’m still being treated for Post Traumatic Stress Disorder from having studied that language. I spent three times as much time on French than on any other subject in college—or grad school for that matter. Yet, I’m glad that I do know a little French. It is the language of our founders, Saint Francis de Sales and Saint Jane de Chantal.”
“So I remember, Brother. By the way, where are we going?”
“To India of course,” Brother Francis answered, a bit confused.
“No, I mean now. We are walking through these cavernous halls with no particular destination. Great travelers we are. Not even out of the States yet and we are walking in circles. I’m glad I had that seminar here in the States so we can fly over together, otherwise I would have had to meet you there since I’d be flying from Montreal.”
“You are right, Andre. I haven’t the slightest idea where we are walking to. How about something to eat? That always helps when we are lost—forget trying to apply logic to that statement. I do know where the food is and it will at least give us a destination.”
“Sounds like a plan, Bro.”
The lower level of their terminal held an enormous food court. They decided on Italian with Krispy Kremes for dessert. There would be few doughnuts in India. With Italian food, the vegetarian monk and the carnivorous naturopathic doctor to be could both eat to their heart’s content.
“You know, Brother, everyone who heard that we were traveling from Delhi to Dharmsala by bus said: ‘Don’t take the bus.’ I wonder what that was all about.”
“Same here, Andre. I suppose we will find out soon enough.”
After dinner the pair made their way companionably to the Air India ticket counter. The process of obtaining their boarding passes and checking their bags with security went surprisingly well.
The transition from the terminal building to the aircraft felt like a transition from America to India and they had not even left the ground yet. Indian folks with Indian snacks and Indian chatter surrounded them. A very nice man in a seat in front of them stood up and turned around to greet the two travelers. When he heard that they were taking a bus from Delhi to Dharmsala the two said in unison: “We know, don’t take the bus.”
The Indian man broke into a broad smile. “Sounds like others have given you some words of wisdom too. Don’t worry. You will be fine. It’s just that it takes a long time, the road is bumpy, and it’s dark and cold.”
“We can handle that—can’t we Andre?”
“Of course. It’s very—how you say—ascetical.”
Most people, especially East Indians, would say that the food on the plane was delicious. Brother Francis, unfortunately, had what he referred to as a “curry problem.” He just couldn’t get it down. His monastic Rule encouraged him to eat what was set before him in a spirit of gratitude. This guideline did not apply if it would make someone sick. Francis was grateful for this common sense dispensation. Common sense was a hallmark of Salesian spirituality in his opinion. But what would he eat in India?