From Delhi to Rishikesh. Well, almost.

*N.B.: The following six articles are part of a series written about
experiences in Rishikesh. They loosely follow one another...they are
best read in descending order.

I arrived in Rishikesh, so called "Yoga Capital of the World," about a
week ago and nearly left immediately. The place didn't match the
descriptions I had heard from other travelers, who described it as a
magical place: a mini and more manageable Varanasi. I had expected it
to be charming, a place with spiritual energy, but without the grit of
Varanasi. I was so sure I would like it, I booked a place to stay for
two weeks on the internet, a well-known ashram, and I was excited
about experiencing that kind of atmosphere. But, what I imagined I'd
find—a holy, unostentatious place of quietude and solace—was actually
a bit off, like taking a swig of cold creamy milk, only to find that
it's sour.

Everything looked okay, but the atmosphere was peculiar. Rishikesh
was filled with sadhus and cows, like Varanasi, but it felt like a
poor imitation, like its soul was made of wax. Admittedly, the ashram
was beautiful, with large treed courtyards, slippery tile walkways,
and over 1000 rooms. And, it was almost mystical because chanting
constantly filled the empty spaces in the air. But, while mystical,
the atmosphere was also very unusual. Around every corner were boys
wearing bright orange robes, studying to become priests, and each
courtyard was filled with wildly colorful pastel painted statues of
Hindu gods. Unfortunately, the people I encountered were absolutely
impossible to communicate with—not because of a language barrier, but
because they desired to be difficult—and this did not add to the
experience.

Perhaps I wasn't in the mood for Rishikesh or the ashram experience,
though. The trip started quite poorly in the first place. The bus
from Delhi to Rishikesh was supposed to take five hours. It took ten.
And, the driver decided not to stop in Rishikesh at all. I shouldn't
have been that surprised. But, it was dark, and I was tired, and not
of the disposition that took this slight lightly.

The way the bus ride transpired was completely Indian in nature: we
left two hours late; we made multiple stops to pick up people on the
side of the road; and, we never made it to our destination. Since I
was the only person on the bus going to Rishikesh, and more people
were going to the next stop, the driver made the executive decision to
just drop me off wherever he liked, which meant, for me, in the middle
of nowhere. I am not a fan of Greyhound, the not-so-sleek American
bus company, but to its credit, I doubt that a Greyhound driver would
ever drop a passenger off on the side of the road at night to fend for
herself.

Usually, I would just accept this sort of situation, but on this
particular night, I was not in the mood, and managed, in the process
of being booted off the bus with all my gear, to throw a royal fit.
After quite a bit of thrashing about and using my "angry woman" voice,
I coerced the ticket collector into giving me money for onward
transportation to Rishikesh. I also told him that he needed to find
me a taxi or rickshaw. He refused. I appealed to the rest of the
members of the bus, hoping that someone would understand me or take
pity and help. I doubt anyone really understood what I was saying,
but from my face and my livid gesturing, I think they got the idea. A
young Indian gentleman spoke up, and told the ticket collector to get
me a rickshaw. He begrudgingly did. It took fifteen minutes for a
passenger vehicle to come along, but he finally hailed a group
rickshaw and we bid each other bitter farewells.

So, after a cold rickshaw ride and a hike to the ashram, I entered my
room and fell into bed. Chanting filled my ears and continued for
hours into the night. I closed my journal entry that night with this
slightly judgmental first impression: "This place is a weird cult."