I Think This Monk is Hitting on Me

The bus ride from Dharamsala to Manali makes the non-air conditioned one across the desert in Rajasthan seem heavenly. You need kneepads and a helmet to drive through the mountain roads. I have bruises on my knees and significant knot on my forehead from where I slammed into the window three times. I may have suffered a mild concussion.

About half the passengers were a group of young monks from a monastery in Sikkim on their way to Ladakh. They were all probably in their early twenties and as soon as they got on the bus they shed their robes for jeans, basketball jerseys, and baseball hats cocked to the side. The British girl I was hanging out with commented that if she didn't know better, she would have thought they were "bad boys" from America.

I settled in for the bumpy ride with my new CD player and Indian/Tibetan tunes that I picked up in Dharamsala (I decided not to bring my iPod to India, but after a couple of long bus rides, I decided my trip needed a soundtrack. So I bought a cheap walkman, which might have already bonked out on me. I'm not sure). Anyway, one of the more hyper monks asked the one sitting next to me to switch him seats. He wanted to borrow my CD player, which was fine because I was trying to sleep anyway.

We chatted for a bit about Sikkim and how he had joined the monestary when he was eight-years-old. He was nice, but oddly persistent in the way that he kept insisting that I give him my e-mail address and asking if we were friends. Then he tried to hold my hand. I politely weasled my way out and tried to fall asleep. When I woke up, his hand was on my leg and his head on my shoulder. As if the bus ride weren't uncomfortable enough.