We tried to catch the first bus, but the pushing and
shoving, arms hanging out of the windows and prospect
of standing up for 6 hours pressed between sweaty
bodies was more than a little discouraging. It was
down right annoying.

The southern Indian sun was searing. It was only late
February, but in Tamil Nadu, there are only two
seasons, wet and hot. Today was a little bit of both.
Not to mention noisy and polluted.

Truth be told, we had no idea which bus was going to
Bangalore. We asked many of those standing around
waiting with boxes and baggage, and in classic indian
style, everyone gave us a different yet definite
answer, "Oh, its just here, next bus." or "Not until,
2 o'clock." "Tonight." "Tomorrow."

As I said, annoying.

The bus stand office was completely and utterly
un-manned. Of course, there were people inside, but at
this time,
for some important unknown reason, no questions were
being answered. The sun continued its early spring
roast.

From time to time a bus, diesel dirt-covered and smoke
pluming would pull into the slot where
we were camped with our, what now seemed copious
amounts of sound/film gear, musical instruments, food,
water, etc., etc. The woman next to me shook her head
and
said, "No, no. Next bus."

And on cue someone else cried, " No. This is it!
Your bus to Bangalore!"

We gave it a shot.

By the time we had gathered our "things" and chased
the crowd halfway across the burning asphalt we
realized there was absolutely no room in the
seam-burst bus for us and our luggage. Not even on
top.

In fact, this crowd chasing followed by the syndrome I
call MTR (Mass Transit Rejection), was repeated
several times before the luggage ended up in a heap in
the middle of the parking lot.

"Hey, what's that western couple arguing about?"
Mouths were agape as we bore the looks from the indian
spectators.

It was futility that pushed Jillian over the edge. The
futility of attempting to control an all but
controllable situation. Shortly after the third bus to
Bangalore pulled away with passengers hanging out the
windows and doors, arms and legs flying, something
shifted. A path of events was set in motion.
Irrevocable. Unalterable. The taste in my dry mouth
became acrid and sharp like...something was about to
happen...

We were completely at a loss when little Lord Shiva
appeared. He was 3 feet tall, with blue skin and
matted orange hair, glinting eyes, a leopard loincloth
and a brass trident. In his other hand was a wooden
bowl. He made his way through the crowd, heading right
for us. As I turned to Jill, fascinated, as if to
say,"we see the darndest things, don't we?" I noticed
that her eyes were not fixed on Little Shiva but at a
point about 2 feet above and behind his head. Her lips
clenched. A crazed psychopathic look of reproach in
her eye.

There in tow, actually prodding the little god along,
was his mother...or rather, someone pretending to be.
She was pushing him through the crowd holding a
nursing, scraggle-haired baby. They parked right in
front of us, she pushed the little shiva forward like
a stage mother pushing her child into the spotlight,
or a pirate shoving a British officer onto the plank.
With her bangled pushing hand she pointed to little
Shiva and then to her her mouth and with a defiant
gold toothed smile said. "Ma!" (Food...or in this
case, money).

"No." That's the usual response.

"Ma!" Guess she didn't get it.

Again, "No."

This volley went on for several rounds.

In the next instant, I sensed a pot was boiling over
in my darling's brain. Eyes red, lips a-tremble she
moaned,

"Where do you get off pushing a little kid
around like that to do your dirty work! If you want
some money to feed your family, why don't you sell
your solid gold earrings and nose rings! Look
at those gold bracelets!..."

I think that everyone has a threshold. There are
different capacities for different issues.

The issue here was the indian mafia.

In India, I had learned that children are sold to the
mafia and put to work on the streets begging. In most
cases their hair is kept matted, their feet bare, and
their clothes ragged and dirty to fit the part. In
this case it was a combination of that and whacky
child costuming. Jillian, with her keen wisdom, had
surmised the details of this tactless trio. The sight
was simply too much. What came forth from my princess,
was an issuance of such severe obscenities that any
one within hearing radius would have been urged to
right action for life by such a divinely profane
reprimand. Unfortunately, neither the "mother," the
baby, or little shiva understood a word of english.
The blue faced boy lifted his bowl again, his eyes
filled with puppy dog tears and said, "Ma."

It was a screech which will live in infamy.

A "Shot heard round the bus stand."

The heat from the explosion must have burned my shadow
onto the brick wall against which I was standing.

I was surprised that such a sound could come from
someones lips, the lips of my beloved. The shock wave
expanded through the crowded bus stand causing people
to become silent and turn towards the epicenter: a
bug-eyed, fist clenched, disheveled, but beautiful
young western woman, face to face
with little Lord Shiva, his mother and a suckling
infant.

Like Bruce Lee in the moment before the wild nun-chuck
scene where he battles 3 of the evil emporer's dark
servants, She sussed them and prepared for a fight. A
spiritual Battle Royale.

Little Shiva, the gold-toothed woman and her baby held
their ground.

It was a deadlock. Jillian and the Mother held one
another's gaze with an intensity that I liken to two
Hell's Angels arm wrestling over a 12-pack of beer.

"Ma!" shouted little Shiva. "Ma!" shouted the mother.
"Ma! Ma!" They weilded there words like a ninja blade.

Jillian shrieked again and pulled off her shawl. She
held the shawl in front of her as if it were a cloak
of invisibility. No good. Little Shiva did not budge.
His mother poked him. He poked me. "Ma! Ma!" they
cried.

In an unprecedented last ditch effort to retain honor
and not actually kill her opponent, my spiritual
warrioress threw her shawl into the air and before it
hit the ground Jillian had picked up her luggage and
was off once again to the burning asphalt...

I smiled apologetically to the large group of
onlookers which had gathered. To Shiva's mother I cast
a baleful stare. I picked up the shawl and dusted it,
hurled the rest of the luggage over my shoulder and
indignantly followed my love to God knows where.

Luckily, she was tired and we found a shady spot just
across the parking lot. She collapsed into tears. It
had been a cosmic battle between good and evil. She
had given it her best.

It seemed after all, that there were in fact, despite
the rumours, many buses going to Bangalore. In a
miraculous instant of mercy, we had boarded a bus with
a few vacant seats. The bus driver scowled as he
charged us extra for our bags (any opportunity to make
money off two weary tourists). Too tired to fight any
more and still shivering with adrenaline, we settled
in for the 6 hour grueling ride.

I mumbled to myself as the other passengers piled in
next to us like so many sardines, "You haven't seen
the last of me, little Shiva..."

Next week: Anger issues and the theraputic effects of
world travel. Getting in touch with your inner child.