It's a beautiful Saturday afternoon, with big black kites soaring in the thermals above the forested ridges across from Mcleodganj, a few rumbles of thunder sounding behind the high peaks, and yellow butterflies flitting among the potted flowers on the balcony of the Green Hotel, where I just had a light lunch. I just returned from a day of hill-walking: I made my way up to the village of Dharamkot, explored some higher trails, then walked across the hillside to the village of Bhagsu, and then walked the road back around to Mcleodganj. All in all, a lovely day out in the sunshine, among flowering fruit trees and new spring growth in the terraced farm fields.

Sometimes, I feel that I'm a temporary resident of Shangra-la. Other times, I'm reminded that even this lovely town is part of the human condition.

On Thursday, Geshe-la, the very wise teacher of my Buddhist philosophy class, quoted a comment by His Holiness to the effect that we typically find it easier to show compassion if the object of that compassion is attractive. I dutifully recorded that comment in my notes.

That evening, while having a late dinner in the Green Hotel, I noticed a disturbance behind me. An old man, white-bearded, sunken-cheeked, and bent over, was fiercely arguing with the taxi driver who had just brought him here from New Delhi. The man, who was quite angry, would not back down during this argument, and the driver eventually gave up and left.

I turned my attention back to my dinner, thinking no more of what I'd seen. Later though, I realized that the old man was still sitting, still bent over, in a restaurant chair behind me. A young German couple joined him to find out whether he needed help. They had to bend very close to his face to hear his weak voice.

I eventually asked the Germans what the situation was. It emerged that the old man has traveled independently for many years in India, and perhaps no longer has a permanent home, though he's originally from New York. The Germans had gotten to know him last year in Goa. He has Parkinson's, the old man explained to me himself, and he came here in search of a cure. As best the Germans and I could make out, he had simply hired the taxi and arrived here alone. He had hoped to get a room in the Green Hotel, which is a popular guesthouse, but they had no rooms and he had no reservation. The proprietress called several other guesthouses to see whether they had rooms. None were available, however, and the hour was now late--the restaurant would soon need to close.

Conversation with the old man revealed that he would much prefer to go home with either the Germans or myself, but the Germans live in Dharamkot--an impossible uphill walk for the old man, especially at night--and I have a small single room in a guesthouse at the lower end of town. I did not want either to share my bed or sleep on my cold floor, and didn't want to spend my night helping the old man, who cannot use a toilet during the night without assistance. I also didn't want to become, overnight, his defacto caregiver. I asked a party of Tibetan monks at a nearby table whether a space in a monastery for the night would be an option, but they had just arrived from South India and did not know. Someone thought that the Tibetan Welfare Office might be able to help, but it was closed for the night.

The German man and I went off to search for a room for the old man in nearby guesthouses, and finally found one, though it was reluctantly offered. We effusively thanked the guesthouse owner, and returned to the Green Hotel to retrieve the old man and his baggage. He was reluctant to leave the Green Hotel--he clearly would have preferred to stay there, plus someone had gotten him a slice of cheesecake that he was very slowly eating--but though the proprietress was sympathetic, the hotel needed to close for the night.

Finally, as the lights were going out in the restaurant, we moved the old man and his baggage to the other guesthouse. The Germans decided to spend the night with him in his double room so that they could help him during the night. I gave them money to cover that night's lodging, and left for my guesthouse. I knew very well that leaving as I did freed me of the responsibility of helping the man find longer-term lodgings and personal assistance the next morning. I felt relieved but also thoroughly guilty about not doing more for him, given how helpless he seemed to be.

I still felt guilty the next morning as I walked down the hill towards the Library of Tibetan Works and Archives for my morning classes. I ruminated about how, yes, it indeed seemed to be easier for me to help more attractive beings, such as my Tibetan English students, than someone old, sick, helpless, and a bit grumpy.

Once at the Library, I found my new Swedish friend E. I recounted my experience to her. "Oh, the old man is back!," she exclaimed happily. She was able to fill in some history details for me. He has spent many months, perhaps years, here over the course of numerous visits, and has an extensive social circle. E remembered that he typically has stayed at the Green Hotel, and that she often saw him in the restaurant there, usually attended by friends helping him with his exercises, or otherwise keeping him company. Her point of view was that I had given the man help when he needed it, and that I should expect that many others would also be helping him out, as they'd done before. She felt that it is very beneficial to the old man to be back here.

My heart felt lighter then, and became lighter still when another friend later confirmed E's observations--she had photos from years ago that included the old man before he had become ill.

After my guilt-filled evening and my following morning conversations, I reflected that so often in life, we encounter situations--including tragic ones like this one--where all we can do is muddle through moment by moment, while trying to keep our hearts as open as possible. Somewhere in another dimension, there may be people who can consistently ride to the rescue like the Lone Ranger, consistently knowing exactly what to do. Not hardly in this dimension. But the good news that I take from my experience is that we probably are not as alone as we may feel in the middle of a difficult and confusing situation, that we may be doing a better job than we give ourselves credit for, and that ordinary people are quite capable of finding their way through the confusion to a good solution, even when the likelihood of such as solution looks especially minute.