Last day in india – 13h on the bus minus sleeping in the airport

So off to sleep, up at half past 5, 10.06.2012, think – buy Tibetan bread… for the bus, for my hosts in sofia (yeah sure, it turned to stone by then). Forgot I don’t take milk, damn, bus stand coffee not an option. Bus – revelation - goes all the way to Delhi – no need to stop in Chandigarh. However crappy bus even to Indian standards, get steamed, baked n fried on board, try sleeping, reading, meditating – semi-successfully, ballet at random longer stops at in-the-middle-of-nowhere food venues, half-showers with clothes on.

Ah, amazing, snapshot moment: In one of these random ghost town like restaurants I converse with a Punjabi moslem bus passenger in his late 20s. I head towards the toilet and get stopped by another guy – ‘are you Catalina’ ‘yes’ ‘from Romania?’ ‘yes?!?!’ (in my head ‘I’m either followed or famous’). ‘Do you remember me?’ ‘Ahm-ahmmm/am/a!_!?!_?’ ‘From Chandigarh bus station I stayed with you that night’. Yeah sure, the kid who helped me get on a bus to Kangra from Chandigarh at 5 in the morning – after the confused conductors had deceived me about the scheduled departures and offered me chai – and I ended up like ‘proasta-n porumbar’ waiting for a bus that wasn’t coming.

I stall the bus departure talking to him – the driver would soon get used to waiting on me as 1h later in Chandigarh I almost miss getting on completely. After the rural spirit of Bir and the chaos and dirt of McLeod and the 8h on the bus, the main bus station in Chandigarh, with its English speaking police, numbered kiosks, veg-mayo sandwiches, machine coffee and variety fruit juice stand (no 17 I think) seemed cosmopolite to the core. And I feel too delighted to keep track of time.

Back on the bus, as we near up to Delhi I start warming up my wrists, ankles, I stand up to move my knees, offer my seat to a kid, start singing Imagine by John Lennon and Disney songs (the last two actions are completely unrelated), and get lucky once again. An seemingly random but educated Indian guy who had earlier accompanied me for eating a closest-thing-to-healthy veg burger and gifted me a cigarette - willing to help – talks to the conductor about how I can get to the airport. I explain that I documented this section of the trip thoroughly and I know there’s an underground express that goes to Delhi International. Not very eager to be schooled about logistics after 12h on a bus, I even mention how many stations I take in which directions and where I need to change. Unimpressed, he furthers his inquiries on how to get there from Kashmere gate, calls some friends, checks whether the underground is functional, and confirms my plans to be correct. He says he also needs to get off where I do. ‘fabulous’, I sigh, more annoyed than comforted by this news and a circle of steam rolls out of my lungs. ‘I hope he won’t be sticking too much to me. I’m sticky enough by myself right now. The last thing I need is some sweet talk and drool over me right now. But if he wants to help, I might as well let him’. I ask him whether there is a facility at Kashmere gate – the final bus stand – where I could shower. He undertakes another full-on research into the matter. We discuss health food and some more issues. He concedes ‘We’ll’ first get off the bus, look for the shower facilities, get some food, then get on the metro, I’ll drop you off where you need to take the airport express then get on my metro. I’m too exhausted to get bothered by the ‘we’ in his statement, so I just find it amusing. Once out of the bus, he actually proves to be of real help – with luggage. Naturally there’s no shower item and no fruit stands – just a thick blanket of dark hot smog, heaps of trash, people with indistinguishable intentions and the proverbial cow. He hurries me towards the metro asking here and there for directions. Passing by some drunk/antisocial individuals I feel grateful that I’m not struggling with my luggage, with the Delhi atmosphere, flora and fauna by myself. This guy actually turned to be a blessing. I tell him. Later on, after getting through underground and getting me to the airport express he just says bye and wishes me good luck on my journey – no facebook, no email, no phone number requests. Probably those of you who have never visited India won’t perceive the element of surprise in all its might. The vast majority of men meet you there and ask for your email after a few minutes worth of questioning you on your matrimonial and social status, origins and the sort. But for someone to spend 2-3 h helping you – as a white woman who sings alone in a bus – and not expect any kind of recognition for it – that’s some Buddha nature right there – along with some beautiful human qualities, both building on a strong common sense – cheers to that.

Last Day in Dharamsala

But back to pre-european times: After attending the last set of His Holiness’s (the Dalai Lama) teachings in Dharamsala (an emotional fiasco of a sort as the pressure of homecoming weighted far more in my head than –well, anything at that time), I had the luck of a more mindful gift-shopping experience and found the \perfect\ Buddha statue, tune bowl, necklace and prayer flags for my friends. I resonated with their vibration and even with the salesman- who unlike many others didn’t look at me all funny and fuzzed-out when I told him that I don’t care about the color , size or symbols present on the bowl, but I need to play it to see ‘if I connect with it’.  Another victory came on the OM MANI PADME HUM field where I convinced a Tibetan seller who was out of such flags to untie the sample copy adorning his stand and sell it to me – and he charged me a second-hand prize. After this amazing offer I felt more than compelled to hang out with the seller, his sister and one of his friends putting ‘special’ wooden carved beads on ‘malas’ (Hindu rosaries). The result being that now hanging from my window frame in my Bucharest flat I have a 40 Eurocents flag ‘sirag’ with a story.

Once home, the celebratory mood led to a packaged UPMA luau with my lovely host Julie (Julie deserves a whole novel done on her – but I’m sure she’ll do a better job at it than me; but as a summary - one-of-a-kind American Polish Irish living in India Capricorn Buddhist fiction writer time-efficient traveler perfectionist kapha pitta needs more adornment items – get her books here).

And naturally, there was no way I could leave India w/o a bye-bye party with some of the Deerpark family. One thing led to another and I ended up crashing a birthday party – indulgent chocolate cake, pizza with lots of cheese, 2 fingers’ level of red wine, cigarettes behind corners and slippery discussions with the girls – 2 girls started smoking, then I joined then slowly the other two pitched in as well – we felt like such outlaws after all that time of pursuing austerity – and not to forget Owen’s and Vimesh’s humor. As much as I care for these people in ‘near-convent’ conditions, allthemore I adore them in the ‘real world’, conventional or relative reality aside or not.

Oh did I mention I forgot to ask about bus times to Chandigarh and then to Delhi and realize at 19.00 when it’s already dark outside and all bus stand offices are closed? Mindfulness at its best J To my best of luck, I ran into some taxi drivers which had taken care of me when I had sprained my ankle 1 month before (again glorious awareness of self and of rock) and they were more than well-informed. Who says that ‘–‘ and ‘–‘ don’t  even out?!?!

back from india

5 days ago, I arrived at my Bucharest flat – finally after 5 days worth of travelling. A logistics affair to remember and my excuse for not having done my usual round of ‘Honey, I’m home’ calls to the few friends here who still manage to put up with me – in spite of the mental bamboozle that I am each time I land on Romanian pastures, the society-conditioned ignorance characteristic to so many of their inhabitants, the long silences in between take off and landing– oh, God-Allah , Buddha and all 33 million Hindu gods bless their souls.

Anyhow, as I notice I’m spreading myself too thing as always, I’m happy to announce that now, after a 9month trip into Turkish delights, Indian Delhigts, Thai Curry-lights and the sort, there’s a lot more of me to spread J even more irony lies in the fact that I have – at the beginning of this trip – turned from a vegetarian wanna-be (still ate fish n the lot that can sing underwater) to a fully fledged Veg for 6 months and then to an almost entirely devout vegan for the latter 3 (Ariel would be proud). My father’s response to this paradox has been that hippos are also mostly vegetarian (well at least the ones in the zoo). And furthermore, I’ve been doing yoga, dancing, climbing the south-Himachalian preamble to the Himalayan chain of snowy peaks. My only explanation is that my mind has been so deeply entrenched in Buddhist practices that some synapse overlooked to tell my metabolism about the dietary revolution going on.