The Big Orange Bus

I’ve made a discovery: I wasn’t cut out for blogging. I philosophize incessantly and write too much to be considered a ‘blogger’ in the true sense of the term.  I wait until I have a lot of profound material and then publish it, like one would publish a detailed article, or a personal reflection piece.  I wrote an entry in my journal a month or so ago in hopes that I would soon transfer it over here – but I keep thinking, ‘What more can I add to make this next entry simply amazing? How can I get people to identify with me and to think along with me?’ My mind consistently runs on such convoluted terms.

I wanted to write in such a manner yet again.  I wanted to share humorous anecdotes about medicine men and spirit ladies, about tranquil elephants and possessive monkeys, about mathematics, poetry and the never-ending paradox that is this wonderful country, India.

So i’ll start with the following scene: You’re on  the big orange bus that takes you to work every day, the Raju Bus they call it;  it is crowded as usual, with school kids, mothers and children, young boys,  and a great many uncles. It’s a terribly bumpy route that zigzags up the mountain, passing a number of small connected villages on its way to the town of Dharamshala.  One would think a ride like this would exemplify the chaos that is India – its population density and its pseudo-development. And yet, there is a serenity to these mornings on the Raju Bus.  Over top the chatter, conductor whistles, and the push and shove, is the smoothness and romance of old Indian film tunes, with their sweet music and profound lyrics.  It’s as if the music turns more sacred as the roads get bumpier;  it’s as if India’s bittersweet centre  is right there, waiting to be tasted and enjoyed.

These were the revolutionary thoughts I had on my journey to the office this morning. I’ll pause here, with this comment that my experience in India is exactly like my daily trip aboard the Raju Bus – a bewildering experience that is adorned by remarkable poetry.