CHAPTER 9

LEARNING TO CATCH THE BUS

Waiting for perfection will get you nowhere.

There are many times in our lives when we suffer from the waiting problem. We wait for the perfect moment, the right time. We wait until there’s enough in the bank. We wait until the kids get older. We wait until retirement. We wait for the right circumstance, the right person, the right thing to say, the right job, or the right situation. We wait until things are the way we expect them to be, until things fit into our narrative of perfection. We wait for the time when we have full control.

But that time never comes, and we waste all those moments.

Waiting for perfection gets us nowhere, and it only breeds more worry, anxiety, and stress, because we are waiting for something that does not exist. There is no perfect job, no perfect partner, no perfect career, and no perfect moment. There are only people, jobs, and moments. And if we try to force our “ideal” situation on life, we’ll be waiting, stressed and worried, for a long time.

I found myself engaging in this kind of thinking one day as I attempted to do what Indian locals do—catch a bus.

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” my cousin Vivek said, when I asked him to show me what it’s like to take the public bus system around New Delhi. I was excited to be in India for a visit with my family and I wanted to reimmerse myself in the chaos-filled culture I was increasingly learning to enjoy. I wanted to learn all aspects of daily living. Rather than just being a tourist, I wanted to experience life as anyone else in India would. After all, I worked in the toughest city in the world, New York, and I could take anything—or so I thought.

With a serious look, such as a father might give to a child who wanted to drive the car, my cousin responded, “Maybe next time.”

I insisted, persisted, and pleaded with him to take me on the bus that he takes to work every day. He finally relented.

We walked through the construction site of an adjacent building, on a back road for about a quarter mile, and then stood patiently at the bus stop with twenty or so other people, waiting for one of the famous Delhi Transport Corporation buses to arrive.

About fifteen minutes later, Vivek said, “OK, start running.”

Puzzled, I looked at him and asked why.

“The bus is coming,” he said.

So?

“Come on. Start running,” he insisted.

Turning my head, I noticed the bus approaching, kicking up dirt in its wake. It was completely full, stuffed with people like a tin of sardines, overflowing even, with people hanging on to the sides, their curled fingers clutching the steel window frames. The area by the door held another handful of young men, who were standing one on top of another.

Self-doubt began percolating in my head, a voice saying, “You are not getting on that bus! It is too full. It’s too dangerous. You’ll fall off and hurt yourself. Seriously, you didn’t come here to get killed. You’re not from around here, Bob. You’re soft. What do you know about catching this crazy bus? This is not your cup of tea. You’re slow. You’re not one of them anymore. This is so uncivilized. You’ve lost your groove. You know what? You’re beyond this bus thing. You get the idea. Why bother? Just call a cab.”

I couldn’t really see the driver’s face through the dirty windshield, but I suspected he had no intention of actually stopping. Instead, he slowed down a bit on his approach to our stop—and then he started picking up speed! All twenty or so people waiting, including the heavier folks, had started running. They ran, reached out, and grabbed on tight to one of the many windows or pieces of metal—anywhere on the bus that could hold them.

“You gotta be kidding me!” I said aloud, in spite of myself. I was paralyzed by this freak show. I froze. I wondered if this was a joke. It wasn’t rush hour. Where were all these people going?

“It’s not safe,” I said. “Someone is going to get hurt. There’s absolutely no way I am getting on that bus.”

Vivek stopped running when he realized that his New Yorker cousin wasn’t going through with it.

“Can’t we wait for the next one?” I asked innocently. “There’s got to be another bus with some seats on it, right? Surely, it’s not this way every time? How are older people supposed to fit inside? Doesn’t anyone get hurt trying to chase these buses? There has to be a bus that is not as full.”

“All the buses will be this full.”

Vivek suggested that we head back and look for a taxi. I insisted on waiting to see if the next bus wasn’t so full. Smiling, he agreed.

The next one was just as full. It came and went, leaving me to inhale the cloud of dirt that it left behind as a reminder of my inability to take action.

I was a little scared of getting hurt, but after I started to get angry with myself for not being able to muster up the courage to grab on, I became determined. Suddenly, I had one clear, singular goal in mind: to get on that bus.

“Enough is enough,” I said to myself as the third bus approached. “I’m done waiting.”

I broke free from that nagging voice of self-doubt the moment I put one foot forward to start the run. It really didn’t matter if the bus was full or not; I was determined to get on it.

Once again, lots of people crowded the spot where the door was supposed to be. I ran for it and found a spot on the pole where I could get a sturdy hold. I almost slipped, but then I felt a couple of hands reaching to help me. I set my footing and got a position on the pole full of hands.

Just as I was about to smile and celebrate my success, I noticed the man standing next to me in the doorway. He released one of his hands to reach out and help a guy running behind get on the bus. After that man was securely on, he in turn reached out and helped someone else get on.

Firmly gripping the pole on that overcrowded bus, I realized I had silenced the voice of self-doubt in my head. It was such an incredibly uplifting feeling. I wanted more.

My cousin had also gotten on the bus, after making sure I got on securely. Smiling at me and giving a thumbs-up, he went into the sardine can and signaled me to do the same. I managed to squeeze my way through and we stood somewhere in the middle, standing shoulder to shoulder with countless others. I was smiling quietly, celebrating the tiny success of jumping aboard.

The real beauty of that bus ride was a joy that I was headed somewhere . . . anywhere. I was not waiting anymore and thinking about taking action; I had actually taken action.

I also was liberated from thoughts about the way things ought to be and had embraced things as they were. There is real joy and freedom in seeing something coming and, no matter how imperfect it seems, reaching out to take action, and in having some assurance that, once we do start running and grab on tight, helping hands will often help those who help themselves.