Destination of destiny

Dusk was falling as the Greyhound entered the bus terminal in New York after its long run from Minneapolis. I was a young boy of sixteen then, travelling alone to India after completion of my high school studies in the US. I got down and looked around the crowded terminal, trying to spot my father’s friend who was to meet me there. He was staying alone in New York. My father had written to him to pick me up and accommodate me for a couple of days till I boarded a ship to Southampton en route to India. That was the only way in which Mr Vyas could be informed since mobile phones were unheard of at the time.

Buses came and buses went. But of Mr Vyas there was no sign. I didn’t panic as I was used to travelling alone. I waited patiently in the hall with my suitcase. But as evening turned to night, my patience flowed over. The crowd started drifting away. Had Mr Vyas forgotten about me? If he didn’t come to me, I had to go to him.

I went to the enquiry counter and ascertained which bus would take me to the address I had with me.

Then I sat quietly as block after block went past my window. But the journey seemed endless and I felt unnerved again. When I asked the bus conductor, his response threw me into a panic. “You are going in the wrong direction, son,” he told me. “You should have taken a northbound bus.”

There I was, a young boy in a notorious city without any friends. But the conductor assured me. “Don’t worry. I’ll put you on the right bus.” He flagged down a northbound bus and told its driver to drop me off at the correct stop.

It took even longer to travel in the opposite direction. By the time I reached the building where Mr Vyas lived, it was almost midnight. His flat was in darkness. I thought it indecent to disturb him so late in the night.

So I parked my suitcase outside his door and waited for dawn to come. As I was dozing in the lobby, an American couple walked past me. They were obviously returning from a party.

“Why are you sitting here, young fellow?” he asked, thinking me to be a victim of domestic violence. He listened patiently as I explained my predicament. “So what if it’s late?” he said and pressed the bell. The door was opened by a drowsy Mr Vyas. It took him some time to fathom the situation and admit me in. I thanked my Good Samaritan and heaved a big sigh of relief. I was so glad to have a good night’s sleep after a taxing evening on the streets of New York.

What about my father’s letter to Mr Vyas? He did get it, but only the following day.