Yitzchak, a businessman in his fifties, parked his car in the
parking lot at the city's outskirts and began walking to the
bus stop.
For several long months, or perhaps it was years, he hadn't
used public transportation. But today he had to participate
in an extremely important business meeting and felt himself
unprepared. In a last minute decision, he decided to arrive
by bus and utilize the traveling time to peruse various
documents.
After several minutes, the bus drew up to the stop. Yitzchak
got on and extended a bill to the driver. The driver
hesitated, and, giving Yitzchak a quick look, asked, "Senior
citizen or regular?"
In the first sliver of a second, Yitzchak didn't understand
what the driver wanted of him. Nu, give the ticket and the
change already! But then, suddenly, lightning hit him!
The driver was in doubt whether I'm already 65!
To check his guess, he asked the driver, "You're asking if
I'm sixty-five or older?" The driver nodded. In a voice not
his, Yitzchak replied, "I'm far from that age! You're the
first person to ever ask me that!"
He took his change and the ticket, and sat down pensively on
an empty seat. Thoughts began to assault him: How could it be
that someone like him, brimming with youthful energy, whose
manner is quick and resolute, who travels distances every
day, could be mistaken as a senior citizen? He was
sufficiently aware of the fact that the black and white in
his groomed beard had commanded the upper hand for some time.
But to conclude from that he was a "senior citizen," as the
driver had intimated, was a long shot! Had old age crept up
on him on one of the turns on his path through life?
He tried to concentrate on his documents and prepare for the
important meeting, but he was too disturbed to concentrate
for long. He realized with some chagrin that he had never
devoted a thought to old age. Now, the thoughts of old age
wouldn't leave him alone. The driver's innocent question had
completely thrown him off.
Even during the business meeting, he keep sinking into his
pensive thoughts. The participants, who were used to seeing
him determined, clear and confidently expressing himself,
asked themselves, "What's with Yitzchak?" One of them even
gathered his courage and asked him candidly, "Yitzchak, did
something happen? Do you need some assistance? It looks like
a heavy problem is weighing down on you!"
Trying to shake off his thoughts, Yitzchak replied, "Tell me,
how old do I look?" His friend didn't understand the
connection between his question and Yitzchak's answer, and
decided to leave him alone.
The meeting finished, he traveled back home. Yitzchak knocked
on the door of his house, said a hasty "Hello", and quickly
walked over to the bookcase. He drew near to the deluxe Shas
situated in the middle of the cabinet, and eyed it at length.
The Shas had been given to him by his father-in-law when he
was a chosson 30 years ago.
An examination of the Shas volumes revealed everything! The
story of his spiritual life was capsulized in these volumes.
Twenty large volumes told the sad story. Even his financial
success couldn't eclipse this story.
There were a few volumes, the ones containing yeshivish
mesechtos, that appeared used. The cracks and the color
that had peeled off at the edges of these volumes bespoke,
like a hundred witnesses, that he had studied these volumes.
They told a tale that went back to those years when he had
learned in Kollel after his wedding. He had learned for a few
years only. He well remembered his hasty decision to turn to
the business world. At the time, it was obvious to him that a
serious part of his day would still remain devoted to Torah
study. But reality was stronger than he was. Very quickly he
was sucked into the business world, and the Shas remained
lonely and unattended on the shelf.
Yitzchak tried to comfort himself. Several other volumes also
testified that they had seen some use, although not as much
as the first ones. Other volumes appeared new, as if a human
hand hadn't touched them.
Never before had he perused his Shas so conscientiously, but
now it was different. And all because of that bus driver!
True, he was considered by his friends to be a learned man.
Frequently he came up with ideas on the weekly parsha.
At family celebrations, he could stun the crowd with well-
built droshos. He was well versed in halacha
too. But regular gemora study hadn't been part of his
life for years now!
Now the Shas stared him in the face, demanding restitution
for its dishonor. "You're not a child! The bus driver may
have erred, but you've reached an age about which people do
err! When will you finally get to know Shas?"
In Adar, he had celebrated the Siyum HaShas with everyone. He
had also participated in one of the rallies. At the time, he
had almost decided to join those learning Shas, but his rapid
pace of life and the unrelenting pressure, had silenced his
pangs of conscience. The days began to gallop ahead. He
continued to turn one page after another — in the book
of his life, not the Shas!
Now things were going to change! He couldn't explain to
himself why an innocent question by a bus driver was
effecting such a turnover in him. What did the man say, after
all? So what if he had made a mistake? He found it difficult
explaining what exactly had caused the strange shake-up.
*
The Daf Yomi regulars had already finished Brochos in
the cycle that had just begun. They had covered a
considerable amount of Meseches Shabbos. Yitzchak
decided, "I'm beginning today!"
The participants of the shiur in the neighborhood
shul, who were used to seeing Yitzchak disappear
immediately after maariv, were surprised to see him
sit down serenely next to the gemora and look intently
at the page before him.
He decided to hold on to the ticket from that fateful bus
ride in a plastic holder as if it were a treasure. From now
on, that bus ticket would be his bookmark between the pages
of the gemora. The ticket would advance, with the help
of Hashem, according to the page dictated by the Daf Yomi
schedule.
In the world above, a credit point was written under the name
of that anonymous bus driver. Although he hadn't intended it,
the credit was due him for helping a Jew form an eternal
civenant with the pages of the gemora.
