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.
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