CHAPTER 10
After their two day respite from their flights it was time for the bus ride to Dharmsala—north India—the land of the Tibetan refugees and the Dalai Lama.
Andre and Brother Francis careened through the streets of Delhi in a taxi. Vehicles of every size, some motorized and some pedaled, swirled all around them. They could do nothing but laugh and pray for a safe landing at the bus station.
In the midst of this vehicular chaos they whizzed by a small Hindu street shrine. The taxi driver, to the amazement of the two friends, took his hands completely off the steering wheel and clasped them in a prayer position, palm to palm above his head, for a few seconds while closing his eyes! Perhaps it was the prayer that saved them from the many possible collisions which could have easily taken place.
They made it to the bus station in one piece, paid the driver, and breathed a sigh of relief. There appeared to be monkeys everywhere. They were larger and less cuddly than one sees in the movies or on the television. Having survived Delhi traffic and a gaggle of monkeys, the pair flopped down on chairs inside the bus station to wait for the bus which just about everyone on the planet told them not to take.
A Tibetan Buddhist nun, clearly a Westerner, smiled at them. The three began to chat. She was from Australia originally but had lived in a monastery in Dharmsala for about twenty years at this point.
She helped her fellow travelers solve the riddle of the many cautions about the bus to Dharmsala.
“You see, it’s just that it takes much longer than the train and the springs on the bus are not always very good. Also, it requires an overnight trip through some very dark and desolate places.”
“Permit me to ask,” questioned Andre, “why you didn’t take the train then.”
She smiled understandingly. “You see, one has to get off the train at a very dark station late at night and transfer to a bus for the last leg of the journey. If I were traveling with others I would be on the train, not the bus. Anyway, I’m glad for the opportunity the bus has given me to speak with you fine folks.”
It was time to board. They managed to purchase three ice cream cones on the way to the bus, which was parked up the street about a block or so away from the station, on a larger road. In they piled, Brother Francis and Andre taking whatever seats seemed appealing, only to be moved later because there were assigned seats.
It was five in the afternoon by now and it would be seven or eight in the morning by the time they reached that part of the world where the Dalai Lama maintains his headquarters in exile.
Andre tried to tilt his seat back a little. It didn’t budge. He fooled with it. He started to mumble. All at once the back of his seat flew backwards into the lap of the Tibetan lady behind him. She smiled sweetly but must have been in pain. One could imagine her praying to the Medicine Buddha for a healing.
Brother Francis put on his headphones. Here at what is known as the “Top of the World,” the songs of Anne Murray gave him comfort. His knees banged against the seat in front of him periodically. Which would go first, his knees, the “shocks” on the bus, or his morale? “None of the above” was the answer he chose while drawing upon all the Salesian optimism he could muster.
All things considered, the ride was fine. The two travelers were a grateful pair and happy for the opportunity to be on this adventure. A beautiful Tibetan baby boy slept peacefully next to his mother on the seats in front of them. Darkness descended—totally.
The bus stopped for their first real break at about midnight. There was an area illuminated by strings of clear light bulbs supported on poles around the perimeter of what looked like a large parking lot. At the far end was a long counter with people making all sorts of tasty dishes.
Brother Francis could eat the Tibetan food, not the Indian, and this open air establishment had some of both. All of the travelers on the bus seemed to enjoy the break and ate heartily. The ride stirred up their appetites and the night air stimulated their taste buds as well.
Back in the “bus from hell,” as Andre had dubbed it, most of the riders fell into a light sleep. The baby in front never stirred.
After several hours it was time for a bathroom break. The bus stopped and it was anyone’s guess where the bathrooms were. It turned out that the ‘ladies room’ was on one side of the bus and the ‘men’s room’ was on the other side of the bus.
As they were re-entering the bus a large truck pulled up and stopped by the side of the road. There was a lot of yelling and a young man was swatted with a stick several times by the driver of the truck while his assistant watched. It appeared that someone had stowed away in the truck for a ride but was caught.
No lawyers, no media, no fine—just being chased away with a stick. The scene was painful to see and to hear. Brother Francis prayed for world peace, and for human rights for all, and renewed his vow to serve God and humanity as best he could, knowing that his small offering was far from perfect but was nonetheless blessed by God.
They rode on in a dark stupor. At one point, like a vision in the night, there appeared a brilliantly lighted white temple on their right. It was so large that they could see it coming long before they were along side it. The “vision” lasted for about five minutes. It seem to remind them that even in the darkness, a miracle of light awaits.
Andre broke the silence a while later. “This is getting old, Bro.”
“So am I, mon ami.”
“Tres bien. That’s ‘very good’ in case that part of your old college French has not made its way back to the top of your memory.
“Voila, Andre. There is a hint of pink seeping through the inky blue sky. Can you see it?”
“Just about. I appreciate it when the people in my life point out the beauty around me.
“There is a little silver glint somewhere below, Brother, like a piece of Christmas tinsel. Can you see that?”
“Now that you mention it, Andre, I can just make it out. This reminds me a little of the process of spiritual direction--one person helping another to see the sacred in his or her life.”
“Nice analogy my friend. Soon it will be dawn.”
The pair drifted into a contemplative silence. The pink in the sky grew more and more all encompassing. Green valleys decorated with silver slivers of water abounded under, over, around and through them. They had made it through the night!
The bus stopped.
“We must be here, Brother.”
“Not yet,” the lady in the seat behind them said. “Our stop is the end of the line, about another hour from here.”
The two friends tried to let go of their attachment to wanting the ride to be over.
Before they knew it, it was.