Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
I went inside and saw a handful of people meditating in a garden, lush green foliage
hanging down over them as they sat in silence.
Off to the side was a small bookstore, which appeared open. A bookstore? Why not?
Inside, there was an older man with a long white beard sitting at the register. He was
reading a book with an even older man on its cover.
He looked up at me and asked quietly, “How can I help you, son?”
I breathed a sigh of relief. After feeling powerless to help anyone outside this quiet sanc-
tuary, I was so grateful to feel that there was someone I could share this burden with. I told
him everything about my journey around the world on kindness, about all the ups and all
the downs. I told him that though I intended to offer people gifts along the way, I didn't
know what to do about asking his people for help. How could I do that? How could I come
here with empty pockets?
He lay down his book and smiled, “My child, money is not inside the pocket. Many In-
dians have no pockets and no money. But what do they have is biggest hearts. Remember
that God is inside us all. A man will only help you if he can. And if he cannot, he will not
help. This is not your concern. Let it be.”
I felt in awe of this man. He had calmed my spirit,
and
he had quoted The Beatles.
I thanked him profusely.
“If there was something I could give the ashram, I would . . .” I began, but he shook his
head.
“You can go meet India. Love her. That will be your gift.”
I walked back out onto the street, my faith restored. And you know what happened next?
Nothing. Well nothing good anyway. First, I stepped in cow shit. Yes you heard that right,
literally two minutes after I left the holy man, I stepped in cow shit. Second, no one would
help me. No one. In fact they all wanted
my
help. Third, I was beginning to think that the
man who I had spoken to only forty-five minutes earlier might have actually been a mirage
brought on by the stifling heat.
I was about to give up hope when I bumped into a chap standing next to a motorcycle
rickshaw. Dheeru was well dressed and spoke only broken English, but we were still able
to understand one another.
I told him of my journey, “I left Los Angeles in America, and I got all the way to Delhi
completely on the kindness of other people.”
At first, I wasn't sure how much he understood me, but then a big smile broke out across
his face, “That's my culture!”
