Norbulinka or bus(t)

The new Loseling Monestary, near the Norbulinka

Yesterday I wrenched my left shoulder and sprained my right hand. I don’t usually fall out of buses, but when getting off a little local bone-shaker on the way to the Norbulinka, I missed the step completely and would have fallen badly if I hadn’t been holding on to the door.

The Norbulinka is a small oasis of calm back in India Proper. Meaning precious garden the complex is named after the Dalai Lama’s summer palace in Tibet, and comprises a garden, temple, museum, craft centre and shop. It also helps to provide refugees with skills and a livelihood. Getting there is a bit of a mission, involving being shaken about on the bus to lower Dharamsala and then switching to another to be shaken around again, but it’s well worth the trip. It’s just the return journey that seems to be worse…

After a very long wait for a bus to get back to Lower Dharamsala we were finally seated on a vehicle that had filled to bursting point; with a local mela (fair) going on, large swathes of locals were also trying to get home. And as everybody squeezed on, the bus driver soon lost his patience with a man who was leaning too far forward. Of course the man had no choice - he had barely room to breathe. But the driver wasn’t having it and after shouting at him for a bit, suddenly stopped the bus and hit the man hard two or three times. From our seats we could see that emotions were now running high at the front of the bus. Having seen so many punch-ups in India, I wasn’t completely surprised. Simita was shocked that the driver had hit a customer, and said that the man should have him charged with assault. But from what I have seen in India, a big man hitting a little man, in size or social status, is part of the status quo. I did sympathise with the victim but began to worry more that we would never get back to Dharamsala because even after being hit so hard, the man began ceaselessly badgering the driver, tapping him on the shoulder and demanding to know why he had hit him. If anything, he was resilient.

Then after that ride ended we had to get into a staging of Pamplona’s running of the bull to get on the next bus. As the bus to McLeod pulled up next to an open sewer, the hoards of people waiting surged forward in a desperate attempt to get onboard. In a free-for-all Simita ran around to the front of the bus, I was pushed out of the way by a very small but exceedingly determined child, and several of us were held up by a small cow (with horns) that got caught up in the excitement and was also running in the middle of the crowd towards the bus. Eventually with a laugh, Tsewang pushed the cow out of the way so we could get closer to the bus. I finally crossed over the open sewer and managed to get on at the front. By now the bus was full but one seat was empty except for a bag. A Tibetan man in the next seat moved the bag and I sat down gratefully until an Indian man came along insisting that it was his bag and his seat. Miffed, I looked out for a ‘ladies only’ sign so that I could point at it and go ‘Ha!’ at him, but what were the chances that I was on the only bus in India not to have gender-specific seating. Bah. I moved, but then a young man kindly gave up his seat for me. I did refuse at first but he insisted - something I was later grateful for as the bus weaved uncertainly back up the hill.

By the time we got back to McLeod it was dark and we were exhausted. The beauty of the Norbulinka and the new Loseling Monastery, which the Dalai Lama had inaugurated that morning, were distant memories. But I was happy. In my shopping bag I had a silk, hand-made cushion cover bought from the Norbulinka. Each time I have visited the Norbulinka over the past seven years I have come close to buying one but could never justify the expense. But yesterday I did not care and bought it. £23.00 for a cushion cover. Yet it must have unleashed something in me because last night, I had a very happy dream in which I had bought a Ferrarri; an odd coincidence because at the moment I am reading The monk who sold his Ferrarri. Perhaps I’m missing the point of its message…