Overnight bus to Delhi.

I got on a bus. Light was already draining from the late, wet afternoon sky. The seats were wooden with no padding and I just knew that the moving slats were going to pinch my butt every time I shifted about on them on the overnight ride down to Delhi. Everything fell dark just as we cleared the outskirts of Amritsar and people started to fall asleep. 

Along the way, maybe around midnight, the bus pulled over by the side of the road. Some of us piled out to stretch and there was a wall the men peed against and I joined them. 

The moon was close and looked ugly when clouds moved away from it, and its light fell on a cluster of houses I hadn't  noticed before. A fire flickered some way away and out of nowhere young boys arrived carrying food and drink and shouting "Chaiwallah". I bought one of those small earthenware cups of tea along with two hot samosas and sat with other men by the fire. The night was cold and full of smoke. 

I could never have guessed then that I was making a memory that would be triggered forty years later in Ireland when a greasy looking moon would appear from behind clouds and shine its light in through my bedroom window.