Fishing for Rupees in Ganges

Kalighat, Calcutta

One of These is Not Like the Others

Squatters at the Haridwar train station. 5 AM.

Bicycle Built for Two

Bearded in Blue

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."

Ashram

The next day, the Ganges, which divided Rishikesh into two banks,
drank up a cool, steady rain. I walked, arms akimbo, across the
grounds of the ashram concentrating on every step to keep from
slipping on the slick tile walkways. Over email, I had enrolled in a
two week beginner's yoga course at the ashram taught by an American
woman. The course seemed to be a full-service operation including
meditation, asanas, chanting classes, and tutorials in the
Bhagavad-Gita (one of India's most holy texts). That rainy morning I
asked four different ashram people about the "Beginner's Yoga Course"
and was told three different start dates, and, from one particularly
confused fellow, that there was no course at all.

That was off-putting, but not surprising—in India there's often a
different answer to the same question depending on who you ask.
However, I was repelled by something else, as well: "obsessive
Swami-worship." Many ashrams are started and led by a guru of some
sort. And, I have been warned that some ashrams focus on the leader
more than their mission. My ashram was led by a long-bearded,
orange-clad guru whom everyone seemed to adore.

But, over breakfast the first morning, I observed several guests being
shushed. A pleasant looking Indian man told them that silence was to
be observed until 10 AM, because "the Swami is meditating!" One
couple, a newly married Asian bride and groom, both dressed in
spectacular silk clothing, sat in the front office outside the
breakfast area waiting to meet His Holiness, perhaps to have their
marriage blessed. I kept overhearing conversations about how
"impressive He is in person," and how "He doesn't say anything, but
you can just feel His power." I reflected for a moment, over my bowl
of steaming sweet wheat porridge, and then quietly tiptoed back to my
room to pack.

Rain

There's nothing like the sound of a thousand raindrops trotting on a tin roof. Today during Pranayama, the breathing portion of our yoga class, the evolution of a storm stole my focus. I neglected my lungs and abdomen and let the thunder bowl through me, its knees and elbows banging into walls, clanging about above my head, taking over the sky.

The raindrops came soon after, loud, like schoolboys spilling marbles on a sheet of glass. After a heavy onslaught, the droplets slowed. Rivulets ran down leaves looking for a nice place to land. Spheres of water tumbled down temple ramparts, happy to roll, and then leap, roll, then leap, picking up speed, flipping over once, twice, splaying liquid arms then curving into a droplet again and galloping over the next edge. It smelled as if God had ripped open a thick, yellow-veined, green leaf and the moist, fresh earthy smell took over everything.

The asphalt darkened into deep slate, and the cow paddies and afternoon detritus dog-paddled to a nearby drainage canal. These narrow, cement canals run parallel to the road on both sides, accepting the debris and dirt that's been discarded in the street.

When it pours, water speeds through the drainage-ways, and little Indian boys and girls kneel to watch, rapt with attention, as trash rushes by underneath them. For an adult, it's difficult not to be disgusted by the junk that bumbles about, bobbing from one side to the other. But, the children must imagine the floating bottles and bits of brown paper and plastic wrappers as bobbing sailboats and flashy fish. A little girl twings a piece of silver foil through a steel grate into the water passing below and smiles as it drops and floats downstream. She sighs with delight at her creation.

I inhale the rain smell, and wiggle into my mat, trying to once more focus on my breath and watch my inner nature, all the while wishing the rain would stage another hoe-down above my head.