Feeling surprisingly refreshed for someone that was just on a bus for 12 hours I take my bag and try to find a place to stay. At first I share a rickshaw with three girls and we go to the High Bank area where a guesthouse was recommended. Didn’t like it so I put my bag back on and head back downhill, on foot. Its hot and I am just realizing how dehydrated I am, but I need the workout. Finally made it down and walked along the road until I saw a pedestrian suspension bridge. I follow my intuition and cross over. On the other side I check my book and decided to check out this ashram by the river. I get there but my mind can’t stop wondering about this santosh puri ashram the French woman wrote on her note. Should I just go there? What should I do? This compact little cute Indian guy strikes conversation with me and starts following me. He said he was just interested to talk to foreigners to practice his English. The guy seemed genuine so we hit it off. But my bag is still on my back and the sun is only intensifying. We go to the ashram I read about in the book. Very colorful place with sculptural representations depicting various religions scenes. The scenes were in cages or display cases, however you want to describe them. It was like a shiva/hindu theme park. We sat there in chatted some more but I wasn’t sure if this was the place for me so we left and walked back across the bridge and I started searching for a regular guesthouse. I am already exhausted by this point. My friend Lalit buys me a soda. He was a devotee of Shiva and had a lot to say about it. Nice guy, seemed to be really spiritual but not in the cheesy way that I’ve seen Westerners be “spiritual” in India. He kept saying “people come to India for peace but India lost its peace.” I mean yes Lalit, please don’t speak the obvious.
I see two blonds and I am drawn to ask them “where are you staying?” of course they respond “Parmarth Niketan Ashram! They have great rooms and the food is good.” oh really? that’s the place with the statues, the Shiva theme park across the river. So I tell Lalit, who’s been following me for over an hour by now that I will go back to that ashram to get a room. He wishes me good luck and walk away thinking to myself “I can’t believe I’m gonna cross that bridge for a third time already.” but I do and I make it back to the ashram. At the reception an old lady tells me “no room!” to which I respond by slapping my face with both hands “oh no! but I came so far for this place!” I am dripping in sweat and I played out the whole exhausted lost traveler look to gain her sympathy. Finally she pretends to make a phone call then says “ok ok, how many night you stay?” I say one maybe two, “ok ok one night I have a room.” I am relieved.
The room was amazing! My favorite room so far. It was so unintentionally modern with built-in concrete shelving. The bedroom had a backdoor leading to little space that I could only describe as a courtyard with an opening below to a similar space for the room under me and an opening above to the sky. To the right is a marble counter spanning the width of the room with a sink at one end. Then a door leading to the bathroom. All marble floors, very simple, very clean. I love it. Alas, the ceiling fan was not enough to cool this boy. This turned out to be the one of the hottest days here. I melted into the bed and passed out.
Hours later I woke up and went out to check out Rishikesh, or at least the area I was staying in, which I think was the best part where the ghats and temples lined the river. It was nearing dusk and around 6:30 the Ashram/temple where I was staying performs a ganga aatri, a ceremonial prayer by the river Ganges. This was some of the best people watching I had done so far. Students in bright orange and yellow robes, old men in faded pinkish robes, women in traditional dress, visiting families in jeans, a sprinkle of tourists, all kinds of people were there. The ceremony has a sequence and I am not very familiar with this so please don’t quote me on this but there was singing and chanting, sometimes clapping. Then there was a part when offerings, mostly flowers, were presented to a pit of fire. Then there was the culmination of the ceremony when flames were waved and people seemed to want to come as close as they can to the flame, put their hands over it then tough their heads and faces. At the center of all this is the head priest of the Ashram, who seemed like a rock star. This guy had a huge head of hair perfectly puffed almost like an afro with a streak of silver hair around one side of his face. When he entered the area by the river where the ceremony is taking place, people stood and parted way. There are banners all around with pictures of this guy, one of them even has him photoshopped next to the Dalai Lama. The pomp was almost Catholic.
I am really starting to like this. This was the first time that it really hit me that I am in India. I mean up until now it has been oddly banal, but being at this ceremony with all its performance and variety of people and energy was different. I walked briefly through a little market then headed across the bridge yet again (four times today) and walked aimlessly.
I noticed a place called Madras Café. I was hungry so I went. I was the only person there besides an older white man dressed in all white. He sat at the table next to mine. Seems like he’s been in India too long. I look at the menu and I found myself asking that guy if he’s been here before. I didn’t even think before I made the decision to speak with him it kind of just happened. He said he’s been here plenty and they have good food and made a recommendation. He also asked me to join him at his table. Peter was his name and he lives in Bayridge Brooklyn. What are the chances. “your name is Mohamed, that must get you into trouble these days? Huh? Some of my friends won’t even buy a falafel because they don’t know, maybe one out of ten guys is no good and supports AlQaida.” oh lord, is this really where this conversation is going? Luckily it didn’t stay that way. I think he was surprised to meet a guy named Mohamed in India, traveling alone, speaks English with no accent and blah blah. I understand. “but you don’t have an accent, you sound like New Yoka.” I’m thinking to myself “I am a New Yorker dammit. And stop trying to find out if I a religious or not just cuz my name is fucking Mohamed, I wish my name was Khalil or something.” The conversation actually took a more pleasant turn and we ended up talking about Middle East history, since he thinks I’m an expert, and it was all interesting. I got a free dinner out of it. Peter looked deep into my eyes and said “you’re a good man Mohamed.”
I walked back across the bridge, this time lights were out. All I can see is the silhouette of the hills across, the moon peaking from behind dark clouds like it is about to storm and the silhouettes of people in front of me, their bodies outlined by light from a motorbike coming from the other end. It was kind of surreal crossing the bridge in the dark. It must have been another power outage. I Haven’t said much about outages but they happen everyday.
I made it to my room and laid in bed. The sky was lightening like I’ve never seen it before. I was praying for rain (to cool down the air) but it was only a light show. I was sleepy but I kept staring at that opening in the courtyard to the space below and imagining a blue Shiva with its tongue sticking out and a halo around its head induced by a light bulb attached to the back of its head emerging fro the opening as if it was rising on a pedestal. “oh no are these the visual disturbances again mentioned as a side effect to the malaria meds or is this just my vivid imagination? Is it because I am staying at an Ashram, maybe there is something else living in……. …zzzz.z.z.z.z…” I fell asleep. It was a good day.
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