Delectable Excitement
It was an easy journey by Indian standards, but it is also the first time I traveled alone in India. This made for a minor set of difficulties, mostly revolving around luggage. For example, what do you do when you cannot find the car on the train to which you are assigned? With Eleanor, one of us would wait with the luggage while the other one ran up and down the platform figuring out what happened. It is not easy running up and down the platform with a large (I think the suitcase gets bigger with every leg of this journey - not heavier, bigger) bag, apologizing to the people you run over on your way. And using the ladies’ facilities has another set of luggage issues. Though it is much more convenient to travel in tandem, it has also been nice to travel on my own for awhile, too. Especially here, and especially now that I’ve adjusted to India - more or less. (Travelers tip: Take a backpack and not a suitcase!! Other essentials: a thin towel if your hotel didn’t give you one and for putting down on seats and beds in trains/busses, a blow up neck pillow, something to cover your eyes so you can sleep when the lights are on, little cloth slippers, a shawl which can also double as a blanket, a good alarm clock, a lighter.)
After an overnight train ride followed by a 5 hour wait in a bus station, I was on the bus, not quite sure what to expect. The first three hours went past the lush wheat fields and gardens that I had been seeing since we left the desert. The crops here are amazing. They already have enormous cauliflower and beautiful beans. How can they do that this far north?? There is much to learn here! As the last three hours began to tick away (no food, very little water for the past 20 hours), I saw a distant rise in the horizon. How high up is Dharamsala? Is it really mountainous, or just beginning to be mountainous? And … it’s still hot! Typically, heat does not bother me very much. Even though there was a coolish breeze coming through the bus window, I was hot, through and through. Will it be cooler? How will the hotel be? Will it be peaceful and contemplative or will we feel like we need to move on? The answer, as always: What will be, will be. (Thanks, Mom,) There is no use wishing, hoping, wanting, fearing. Be here. Be now. And do what needs to be done when it needs to be done. Right now, I’m on a bus. Nothing to do. Pure being. Simple. Nice. (Why did that man leave his bag in the middle of the aisle where everyone had to climb over it?)
I watch out the window as the scenery starts to unfold. Thank goodness, the bus starts to make an ascent up a small mountain. Up and around, and, bit by bit, the world changes. The first thing I noticed were the gardens. As we started climbing more into the mountains, the gardens are, of course, smaller. Many are terraced, though there is still ample low land areas. But the gardens and fields are not big areas planted with only one crop. They are an artful mixture of plants. An area which, a few kilometers down the mountain would have been all wheat or something else, is groupings of several kinds of plants. And they are not planted in squares, but in meandering swathes of plants. And, even more beautifully, there are little wandering rows of lovely purple flowers planted between the types of plants and even within a group of similar plants. It was organic and natural looking , round instead of sharp and square; varied in color and texture instead of uniform. Why? Is it companion planting or do people here still do strip planting within communal plots, like in medieval times? Or, is their asthetic sense so developed that they keep beauty of form even in the planting of their crops?
My focus is on these little fields, wondering, admiring, thinking how I might change my little garden which needs some reviving this year. Pine trees begin to appear, and other kinds of conifers. We’re getting higher. The air is cooler, refreshing, uplifting. A boulder filled stream appears. Our bus follows along its side and I watch water cascading over the boulders. Finally, I see a person amongst the boulders. It was a glimmer of the scale of the stream and of the boulders to see that little person amongst those big rocks.
My eyes had been down, following the valley, the gardens, the stream. What is that? A cable? Why there? It is then that I realize it is a bridge! One cable for your feet, another rope above it for your hand. That’s it. A thrill starts to climb up my spine. Yes, I really DO what to cross a bridge like that. My mind says, "No", my body says, "Yes."
And then, I look up. As they say frequently here, "Oh my God!" Truly, that is what came to mind, and I kept saying it, over and over and over. For up ahead, rising above the twisting, turning, climbing road was peak after peak after glorious peak of snow covered mountains. "Oh my God! I’m actually in the Himalayas!" It is real. It is now. It is here. And I am here! How did that happen? How is it that someone like me can be in a place like this? This magical, mystical land. The Home of the Gods. The Roof of the World. Shangri La. I pinch myself. I still am. The vision stays. It really is real.
Friday, April 17, 2009
Linda: Sri Ram Ashram and Orphanage April 14
Sri Ram Ashram and Orphanage
Everyone once in a while, it is a privilege to see what a difference one human being can make. And it has been my experience that it is often an individual that makes a difference. In this case, it is the wisdom and inspiration of Sri Hari Dass, known here affectionately as Babaji, that has made such a difference.
Babaji was born in the 1920’s. By the age of 6 years old, he had already left his home to live and study in an ashram in the mountains north of Hardiwar. I cannot remember right now exactly when his learning became realization and when others saw and were inspired by his presence. He took a vow a silence, a vow he has not broken for the past 50 years, though he does teach through writing and by example. He established an ashram near Hardiwar. In 1971, he moved to California, where there are classes and retreats at the Mount Madonna Center. (I’m speaking from memory and will have to check on these details.)
Sri Hari Dass’s (Babaji) teachings revolve around the development of positive qualities and inner peace through selfless service and through the practice of Ashtanga yoga, the yoga in which he was instructed. He does not proselytize or advertise. If one is meant to find something or someone, one will find it or them. And the fruit of his love, service, and teaching here in India is in this loving orphanage 20 km outside of Hardiwar … and a 5 minute walk to the Ganges.
One enters the gates and feels the world falling behind like a dream. There are playing fields and equipment. There is a compound with three sides, opening onto a communal courtyard. There are flowers, bushes, and flowering trees. Everywhere are thoughtful touches of loving care. But … where are the children??
Ah. Rest time. It is hot. Tea at 3:30? How lovely. Eleanor and I unpack our bags, rest for a half an hour, and go down when the bell rings. As we have our tea, other adults begin coming out. We sit on a short wall, sipping tea and watching the children as they come outside for free time. Today, it seems is a holiday - so they don’t have a study period this afternoon. Everyone is happy!
Rashmi is the manager of the orphanage. Her energy and her love for the children are evident. Trips are organized. She teaches advanced fitness for the older boys and girls - something challenging … and inspiring for the young ones who watch out of the corners of their eyes, hoping they, too, will one day get to be that big and that strong. In the afternoons, when everyone else is resting, she spends her time with the older ones, helping them with computer skills or other practical things. So many things to see to, to follow up on (including us visitors!), yet, one sees that her heart and her mind are always present for the children, for her reason for being there. They know it. And they love her for it.
Andrea is the resident nurse. She came when she was 18 and "never left". Well, that is not quite true. After a few years, she returned to her home in Germany where she got a three year nurses license. She returned, and has given of her knowledge and her love ever since. When she is not at the clinic, which is open to everyone in the community, she is helping with children and babies, including her own little bundle of joy, Eisha.
Sabhmah ( I know I don’t quite have her name right - my apologies) has also been at the ashram for over 16 years. She has a gentle and wise soul. I wish I could have spoken with her more. Alas, I was there for too short of a time and the children were our reason for being there. There was the need. There was the duty. There was the love. Sabhmah’s main occupation at present is the care of little Sita. Sita is now two months old. She was found, 7 weeks premature, in a field, still wet from birth. She was taken to a hospital in Delhi. Sabhmah stayed with her and loved her. Slowly, slowly, through devoted care, little Sita gained weight, from 3 pounds, she is now 7. And she is well.
And so, the children find their way to this haven of loving care. There are about 66 children presently at the orphanage, with ages spanning 2 months to last year in college. Three girls have grown up here and are now married. There are other loving Ma’s and Da's here, as well as some caring Grandpa’s and other staff members who cook and do some of the necessary daily tasks. The day begins at 5:30. A bell rings and one hears quiet rustlings in the other parts of the compound. Tea is available (and welcomed), and by 6:00 the children are gathered in the courtyard for prayers and a few simple exercises. I walked with Andrea, her husband, Pradesh, their daughter, Eisha, and a couple of other volunteers to the Ganges. It is a wonderful way to start the day! 7:00, breakfast. Then, typically the children would go to school, but, as I said, it is a holiday. I spend the morning with the babies and small children. Oh the joy of a little one in my lap. Or two little ones. Or three! The older children are playing in groups in various parts of the compound. Basketball is a big event here. I played with them yesterday, an interesting game that includes everyone, at least for awhile. I’ll have to show it to my students when I return home. I managed to get it in the basket a couple of times as well! Lunch around 12:30, rest time until 3:30, study time until 5:30, free time until 7:00, dinner, prayers (delightful, with a touch of enthusiastic cacaphonony), and quiet time until bed at 8:30.
It was at this basketball game that I had my first glimmer of the kinds of children that are being raised here. You see, while I was playing, everyone waited until I got the ball in before they took their turn. Out of respect, they did not get me "out". Out of respect, they did not get a younger student "out". They were competitive with their brothers and sisters who were of their ability in a supportive and exciting way. They were caring and nurturing with the younger ones. And that went for all ages. Even the four year olds were mindful of the two year olds. If a little one was wandering about, it was never long before they found someone’s arms to be in. I never saw a child hesitate a single second to help another child. They stopped what they were doing, picked the child up, got the help that was required, and then came back to the game - or didn’t. I didn’t see whining or complaining. Is it always perfect? Probably not. But this kind of caring was the norm. It has been taught to the children; the children teach it to each other. Everyone has someone to go to. And everyone will, someday, be needed and respected and admired by a younger one.
I came here, with my little skein of expertise and opinions. Now, I didn’t get to see the school because it wasn’t in session, and maybe that was a good thing. One has to be so careful when you visit a different country, a different culture. I could hear my little brain thinking, "What can I bring them? What things do I know that will be helpful?" It sounds loving and caring, but it really is all about me. As I watched these children caring for one another, I thought, "How did they do that?" I knew, that if ever I was to help, to really help, I’d have to learn first. I’d have to learn the culture, what is important in their world for them to know, to love, to understand. I’d have to learn the beautiful things that were being done and to not unwittingly undermine it with "good intentions". I’d have to learn, like the women I met there, that it is not about "me", but about them.
Yes, I know many things, and I’ve had many experiences. Are any of those things truly helpful here? Will it be in my destiny to find out? Will I return? Or will Eleanor? Or was this a passing moment? A moment rich in awareness, a blessing, a growth, and a new love in my heart to pray for and cherish during whatever days are left to me in this beautiful world. It’s all good. Will they remember me? Probably not. Will I remember them? Forever. And that, that is what makes the separations in this world bearable. For I know that, somehow, in the depth of my being, that a heartfelt prayer is never left unheard. They will never know, but somewhere, a voice will be praying for them, wishing them well, and willing a guardian angel to watch over them for the rest of their lives.
***
End Note: Eleanor couldn’t leave. And that is a good thing. I left Eleanor at the orphanage, where she will work, where she will learn, where she will discover more about herself, where she can be a little independent. I’m sure she will write more when she has time. She will join up with me near Dharamsala, where a large Tibetan community now resides near His Holiness the Dalai Lama. She will travel with another woman from the ashram, so neither will have to travel alone, and I will "pave the way". So, for a little while, we go our separate paths. And that, too, is how it should be.
Everyone once in a while, it is a privilege to see what a difference one human being can make. And it has been my experience that it is often an individual that makes a difference. In this case, it is the wisdom and inspiration of Sri Hari Dass, known here affectionately as Babaji, that has made such a difference.
Babaji was born in the 1920’s. By the age of 6 years old, he had already left his home to live and study in an ashram in the mountains north of Hardiwar. I cannot remember right now exactly when his learning became realization and when others saw and were inspired by his presence. He took a vow a silence, a vow he has not broken for the past 50 years, though he does teach through writing and by example. He established an ashram near Hardiwar. In 1971, he moved to California, where there are classes and retreats at the Mount Madonna Center. (I’m speaking from memory and will have to check on these details.)
Sri Hari Dass’s (Babaji) teachings revolve around the development of positive qualities and inner peace through selfless service and through the practice of Ashtanga yoga, the yoga in which he was instructed. He does not proselytize or advertise. If one is meant to find something or someone, one will find it or them. And the fruit of his love, service, and teaching here in India is in this loving orphanage 20 km outside of Hardiwar … and a 5 minute walk to the Ganges.
One enters the gates and feels the world falling behind like a dream. There are playing fields and equipment. There is a compound with three sides, opening onto a communal courtyard. There are flowers, bushes, and flowering trees. Everywhere are thoughtful touches of loving care. But … where are the children??
Ah. Rest time. It is hot. Tea at 3:30? How lovely. Eleanor and I unpack our bags, rest for a half an hour, and go down when the bell rings. As we have our tea, other adults begin coming out. We sit on a short wall, sipping tea and watching the children as they come outside for free time. Today, it seems is a holiday - so they don’t have a study period this afternoon. Everyone is happy!
Rashmi is the manager of the orphanage. Her energy and her love for the children are evident. Trips are organized. She teaches advanced fitness for the older boys and girls - something challenging … and inspiring for the young ones who watch out of the corners of their eyes, hoping they, too, will one day get to be that big and that strong. In the afternoons, when everyone else is resting, she spends her time with the older ones, helping them with computer skills or other practical things. So many things to see to, to follow up on (including us visitors!), yet, one sees that her heart and her mind are always present for the children, for her reason for being there. They know it. And they love her for it.
Andrea is the resident nurse. She came when she was 18 and "never left". Well, that is not quite true. After a few years, she returned to her home in Germany where she got a three year nurses license. She returned, and has given of her knowledge and her love ever since. When she is not at the clinic, which is open to everyone in the community, she is helping with children and babies, including her own little bundle of joy, Eisha.
Sabhmah ( I know I don’t quite have her name right - my apologies) has also been at the ashram for over 16 years. She has a gentle and wise soul. I wish I could have spoken with her more. Alas, I was there for too short of a time and the children were our reason for being there. There was the need. There was the duty. There was the love. Sabhmah’s main occupation at present is the care of little Sita. Sita is now two months old. She was found, 7 weeks premature, in a field, still wet from birth. She was taken to a hospital in Delhi. Sabhmah stayed with her and loved her. Slowly, slowly, through devoted care, little Sita gained weight, from 3 pounds, she is now 7. And she is well.
And so, the children find their way to this haven of loving care. There are about 66 children presently at the orphanage, with ages spanning 2 months to last year in college. Three girls have grown up here and are now married. There are other loving Ma’s and Da's here, as well as some caring Grandpa’s and other staff members who cook and do some of the necessary daily tasks. The day begins at 5:30. A bell rings and one hears quiet rustlings in the other parts of the compound. Tea is available (and welcomed), and by 6:00 the children are gathered in the courtyard for prayers and a few simple exercises. I walked with Andrea, her husband, Pradesh, their daughter, Eisha, and a couple of other volunteers to the Ganges. It is a wonderful way to start the day! 7:00, breakfast. Then, typically the children would go to school, but, as I said, it is a holiday. I spend the morning with the babies and small children. Oh the joy of a little one in my lap. Or two little ones. Or three! The older children are playing in groups in various parts of the compound. Basketball is a big event here. I played with them yesterday, an interesting game that includes everyone, at least for awhile. I’ll have to show it to my students when I return home. I managed to get it in the basket a couple of times as well! Lunch around 12:30, rest time until 3:30, study time until 5:30, free time until 7:00, dinner, prayers (delightful, with a touch of enthusiastic cacaphonony), and quiet time until bed at 8:30.
It was at this basketball game that I had my first glimmer of the kinds of children that are being raised here. You see, while I was playing, everyone waited until I got the ball in before they took their turn. Out of respect, they did not get me "out". Out of respect, they did not get a younger student "out". They were competitive with their brothers and sisters who were of their ability in a supportive and exciting way. They were caring and nurturing with the younger ones. And that went for all ages. Even the four year olds were mindful of the two year olds. If a little one was wandering about, it was never long before they found someone’s arms to be in. I never saw a child hesitate a single second to help another child. They stopped what they were doing, picked the child up, got the help that was required, and then came back to the game - or didn’t. I didn’t see whining or complaining. Is it always perfect? Probably not. But this kind of caring was the norm. It has been taught to the children; the children teach it to each other. Everyone has someone to go to. And everyone will, someday, be needed and respected and admired by a younger one.
I came here, with my little skein of expertise and opinions. Now, I didn’t get to see the school because it wasn’t in session, and maybe that was a good thing. One has to be so careful when you visit a different country, a different culture. I could hear my little brain thinking, "What can I bring them? What things do I know that will be helpful?" It sounds loving and caring, but it really is all about me. As I watched these children caring for one another, I thought, "How did they do that?" I knew, that if ever I was to help, to really help, I’d have to learn first. I’d have to learn the culture, what is important in their world for them to know, to love, to understand. I’d have to learn the beautiful things that were being done and to not unwittingly undermine it with "good intentions". I’d have to learn, like the women I met there, that it is not about "me", but about them.
Yes, I know many things, and I’ve had many experiences. Are any of those things truly helpful here? Will it be in my destiny to find out? Will I return? Or will Eleanor? Or was this a passing moment? A moment rich in awareness, a blessing, a growth, and a new love in my heart to pray for and cherish during whatever days are left to me in this beautiful world. It’s all good. Will they remember me? Probably not. Will I remember them? Forever. And that, that is what makes the separations in this world bearable. For I know that, somehow, in the depth of my being, that a heartfelt prayer is never left unheard. They will never know, but somewhere, a voice will be praying for them, wishing them well, and willing a guardian angel to watch over them for the rest of their lives.
***
End Note: Eleanor couldn’t leave. And that is a good thing. I left Eleanor at the orphanage, where she will work, where she will learn, where she will discover more about herself, where she can be a little independent. I’m sure she will write more when she has time. She will join up with me near Dharamsala, where a large Tibetan community now resides near His Holiness the Dalai Lama. She will travel with another woman from the ashram, so neither will have to travel alone, and I will "pave the way". So, for a little while, we go our separate paths. And that, too, is how it should be.
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
Camel Safari (Eleanor)
This morning, as we ventured out to explore the town and get a little shopping in before the safari, I got a proposal – a marriage proposal – from one of the people working at the hotel. I actually found him rather off-putting and was not particularly flattered by his offer, although 1000 camels is a pretty good bride price. Alright, it’s excellent and I would have been totally happy about it if he hadn’t winked at me. (And I was quite happy to have beaten my friend Mary in the number of camels I was offered, although her proposal was from someone in Niger, which is a poorer country than India, I think.) I was not, however, pleased in the least when Mom encouraged him! “Oh” says she. “I’ll have to talk to your mother about that. See if an arrangement can be reached”. UGH!
The camel safari was a success!!!!! I have finally found a beast of burden that does not bring on near death experiences! (I guess the elephant was fine too, but elephants are a bit much for me. Although I enjoyed it at the time.) I now have extravagant plans to circumnavigate the world via my trusty camel, who I will name William the Conqueror. (I have not quite figured out the Pacific Ocean part, but I’m working on it. Maybe I’ll book passage on a barge and ride Willie C. up and down the length of the deck every day for exercise. Or perhaps a cruise (with a luxury stable) is the way to go…)
I suppose I’d better start at the beginning. We set off with Mr. Desert, the jeep driver, and 4 other tourists – an Australian couple and two girls who had just finished their Masters in Mumbai and were celebrating. We drove for a while down a mostly deserted road and stopped for about an hour at an old abandoned village. Nobody knows for sure why the village was abandoned. History books say that there was a water shortage, but the people living on the edge of the Great Thar Desert are no strangers to water shortage. On the Audio Tour at the fort, they said that some children would not see their first rain until they were seven years old. And no other villages were abandoned, so that theory doesn’t really hold any water. (Yes, that pun was intended.)
The locals tell a different story. The Prime Minister of the first Maharaja of Jaisalmer, the one who’s Haveli Mom and I visited the other day, was a powerful, bvut cruel man. One day, he paid a visit to the village we were in, where he met a beautiful girl. He told the village headman and the girl’s father that he wanted her for his wife. And, although he had 6 wives already, they said yes – because, as Mr. Desert said, “in those days when a Maharaja or Prime Minister or someone like that asks for something, you can’t say no”. After the PM left, the news was broken to the girl. She refused to accept her father’s choice because the PM was cruel and had so many wives already. They tried to convince her to change her mind, saying that they had already promised, that he was a powerful man, that the entire village would suffer. But still she refused. So, after careful planning, every single person in that village left on the same night. They were business people, made rich because of their location on the Silk Route, and after they escaped Jaisalmer, the village broke up – going to Delhi, Kolkatta, Mumbai – and set up new businesses across the country. And all of them vowed that they and their descendants would never set foot in Jaisalmer again.
The village has been declared a World Heritage Site and conservation work is being done there now. Two of the buildings have been fixed up and painted to look like they once would have, but the rest is a crumbling ruin of houses. But “slowly, slowly” it is improving.
After the village we met our camels – my camel’s name was Lalu. He was an old man, he knew what he was doing, where he was going, and if I wanted to pretend I knew what I was doing with the reins, well then, that was my problem. He scraped against bushes, left the trail, complained loudly, stopped dead, munched on passing bushes, and absolutely refused to do anything faster than walk. And I loved him. By the end of the trip I felt as though we had reached an understanding, although what that understanding was exactly, I couldn’t tell you.
It was wonderful to be away from streets and honking rickshaws and shouting shopkeepers again. The desert may be barren, but it is peaceful. We stopped in some dunes to view the sunset, but we’d gotten there early. After rolling down a dune with Mom (and face-planting really, really hard) I wandered off by myself for a bit. I walked far enough away so that I couldn’t see or hear anyone anymore. I had not been alone, outside of the occasional 10 minutes when I was in the hotel room and Mom wasn’t, in 3 months. What a relief!
Mom found me though, of course. I did give her a bit of a hard time of it though. It’s usually really easy to track someone across sand, but I was practicing walking without breaking the thin crust. It still left a track, of course, but a much lighter one. And then I found a stretch of sand that was different than the rest – it was filled with shells from some ancient sea. Why they had congregated in one spot, I do not know, but there they were. I walked as lightly as possible. Apparently when Mom got there she didn’t know quite what had happened for a minute. She even wondered if I’d back-tracked in an attempt to outwit her. She did find the tracks though, and came to sit next to me. Which was fine. When Mr. Desert joined us, though, I made my excuses and wandered off again and did not rejoin the group until the sun had set.
Dinner was delicious, but the real treat of the night was to sit under a cloudless sky and stare at the stars. The milky way was visible. It is a breathtaking sight. Every time I see the stars – really see the stars, I mean, without any interference from electrical lights, I am taken aback by their beauty and reminded how small I really am. Little annoyances seem so important when you’re wrapped up in your own little life, but looking at the stars, it’s easy to realize that they’re actually just little annoyances. I also got to see four shooting stars, a rare treat.
The following morning, we had a late start. The collective we, that is. Without light to read by and an exciting book to keep me awake, I dropped off quickly and sloe soundly. I was awake at dawn. Seeing no reason to lie in bed, I got up and walked around into the dunes a little way and sat down to watch the world waking up around me. (I kept in sight of the camp this time, just in case, but I didn’t see anyone.) After about an hour, I got cold so I went back to get out my extra shawl. (If you remember, I brought 2 sets of clothes, although the second wasn’t needed – hooray. The shawl wasn’t much, but I suppose two thin, cotton shawls are better than one.) My rummaging in my backpack woke mom up. She joined me on my little dune lookout; she was clever and brought her giant fluffy blanket even though it looked a bit funny, sitting in the desert wrapped up in a cocoon of fabric. After a little bit, we were joined by the two girls. The Australian couple and Mr. Desert had gone back after dinner. We watched the newly risen sun light up the desert. I can’t say we actually saw the sunrise because there was a haze on the horizon. Then the girls went back to bed. One of them was sick and neither had slept well. Mom and I went to the campfire where we joined the guide and the two boys who had just risen and were starting breakfast. We had a nice chat while they boiled eggs and toasted the bread in a frying pan. I’m telling you, this is the way to camp – fresh vegetables and eggs, a cast iron pan, and you don’t even have to carry it. The camel does all the work!
The camel safari was a success!!!!! I have finally found a beast of burden that does not bring on near death experiences! (I guess the elephant was fine too, but elephants are a bit much for me. Although I enjoyed it at the time.) I now have extravagant plans to circumnavigate the world via my trusty camel, who I will name William the Conqueror. (I have not quite figured out the Pacific Ocean part, but I’m working on it. Maybe I’ll book passage on a barge and ride Willie C. up and down the length of the deck every day for exercise. Or perhaps a cruise (with a luxury stable) is the way to go…)
I suppose I’d better start at the beginning. We set off with Mr. Desert, the jeep driver, and 4 other tourists – an Australian couple and two girls who had just finished their Masters in Mumbai and were celebrating. We drove for a while down a mostly deserted road and stopped for about an hour at an old abandoned village. Nobody knows for sure why the village was abandoned. History books say that there was a water shortage, but the people living on the edge of the Great Thar Desert are no strangers to water shortage. On the Audio Tour at the fort, they said that some children would not see their first rain until they were seven years old. And no other villages were abandoned, so that theory doesn’t really hold any water. (Yes, that pun was intended.)
The locals tell a different story. The Prime Minister of the first Maharaja of Jaisalmer, the one who’s Haveli Mom and I visited the other day, was a powerful, bvut cruel man. One day, he paid a visit to the village we were in, where he met a beautiful girl. He told the village headman and the girl’s father that he wanted her for his wife. And, although he had 6 wives already, they said yes – because, as Mr. Desert said, “in those days when a Maharaja or Prime Minister or someone like that asks for something, you can’t say no”. After the PM left, the news was broken to the girl. She refused to accept her father’s choice because the PM was cruel and had so many wives already. They tried to convince her to change her mind, saying that they had already promised, that he was a powerful man, that the entire village would suffer. But still she refused. So, after careful planning, every single person in that village left on the same night. They were business people, made rich because of their location on the Silk Route, and after they escaped Jaisalmer, the village broke up – going to Delhi, Kolkatta, Mumbai – and set up new businesses across the country. And all of them vowed that they and their descendants would never set foot in Jaisalmer again.
The village has been declared a World Heritage Site and conservation work is being done there now. Two of the buildings have been fixed up and painted to look like they once would have, but the rest is a crumbling ruin of houses. But “slowly, slowly” it is improving.
After the village we met our camels – my camel’s name was Lalu. He was an old man, he knew what he was doing, where he was going, and if I wanted to pretend I knew what I was doing with the reins, well then, that was my problem. He scraped against bushes, left the trail, complained loudly, stopped dead, munched on passing bushes, and absolutely refused to do anything faster than walk. And I loved him. By the end of the trip I felt as though we had reached an understanding, although what that understanding was exactly, I couldn’t tell you.
It was wonderful to be away from streets and honking rickshaws and shouting shopkeepers again. The desert may be barren, but it is peaceful. We stopped in some dunes to view the sunset, but we’d gotten there early. After rolling down a dune with Mom (and face-planting really, really hard) I wandered off by myself for a bit. I walked far enough away so that I couldn’t see or hear anyone anymore. I had not been alone, outside of the occasional 10 minutes when I was in the hotel room and Mom wasn’t, in 3 months. What a relief!
Mom found me though, of course. I did give her a bit of a hard time of it though. It’s usually really easy to track someone across sand, but I was practicing walking without breaking the thin crust. It still left a track, of course, but a much lighter one. And then I found a stretch of sand that was different than the rest – it was filled with shells from some ancient sea. Why they had congregated in one spot, I do not know, but there they were. I walked as lightly as possible. Apparently when Mom got there she didn’t know quite what had happened for a minute. She even wondered if I’d back-tracked in an attempt to outwit her. She did find the tracks though, and came to sit next to me. Which was fine. When Mr. Desert joined us, though, I made my excuses and wandered off again and did not rejoin the group until the sun had set.
Dinner was delicious, but the real treat of the night was to sit under a cloudless sky and stare at the stars. The milky way was visible. It is a breathtaking sight. Every time I see the stars – really see the stars, I mean, without any interference from electrical lights, I am taken aback by their beauty and reminded how small I really am. Little annoyances seem so important when you’re wrapped up in your own little life, but looking at the stars, it’s easy to realize that they’re actually just little annoyances. I also got to see four shooting stars, a rare treat.
The following morning, we had a late start. The collective we, that is. Without light to read by and an exciting book to keep me awake, I dropped off quickly and sloe soundly. I was awake at dawn. Seeing no reason to lie in bed, I got up and walked around into the dunes a little way and sat down to watch the world waking up around me. (I kept in sight of the camp this time, just in case, but I didn’t see anyone.) After about an hour, I got cold so I went back to get out my extra shawl. (If you remember, I brought 2 sets of clothes, although the second wasn’t needed – hooray. The shawl wasn’t much, but I suppose two thin, cotton shawls are better than one.) My rummaging in my backpack woke mom up. She joined me on my little dune lookout; she was clever and brought her giant fluffy blanket even though it looked a bit funny, sitting in the desert wrapped up in a cocoon of fabric. After a little bit, we were joined by the two girls. The Australian couple and Mr. Desert had gone back after dinner. We watched the newly risen sun light up the desert. I can’t say we actually saw the sunrise because there was a haze on the horizon. Then the girls went back to bed. One of them was sick and neither had slept well. Mom and I went to the campfire where we joined the guide and the two boys who had just risen and were starting breakfast. We had a nice chat while they boiled eggs and toasted the bread in a frying pan. I’m telling you, this is the way to camp – fresh vegetables and eggs, a cast iron pan, and you don’t even have to carry it. The camel does all the work!
Jaisalmer - day 2 (Eleanor)
Our second day in Jaisalmer was spent in the Maharaja’s Palace in Jaisalmer Fort. But before we were allowed inside we had to pass the gauntlet of women with anklets. We did not make it. After sorting through many, many pieces, we decided on a few sets. Mom tried to be fair and buy something from everyone, but it wasn’t easy. And we still hadn’t bee to the ATM to get money so we couldn’t afford anything anyway. I was convinced to stay while mom went off in search of an ATM and I’m really glad I did. I became the ‘sister’ of one of the women; she gave me a little necklace and introduced me to everyone.
Somehow I ended up sitting on a flight of steps outside a fairy tale fort, surrounded by gypsies in lovely, colorful clothes and enough jewelry to keep anyone happy for life, playing a traditional Rajasthani instrument that was similar to a violin. The husband of one of he woman would play a phrase and I would play it back. There were more strings than on a violin, but only one is fingered; the rest are drones. And there were bells ties to the end of the bow that jingled every time I switched directions. After a short while we had a small crowd surrounding us but I didn’t care. I felt like I’d gone back in time.
Mom caught the tail end of my Moment, and snapped a few pictures, but when she came the women expected her to buy jewelry – and more jewelry, and more. They hadn’t bothered me because they liked that I was playing their music and because I had no money anyway, but Mom was fair game. So we beat a somewhat hasty retreat. We got invited to their houses to play music and dance and eat dinner, but decided not to go. It could have been wonderful, a gem of a night, but was more likely to be awkward and uncomfortable, a show of poverty to gain our pity, a dinner we couldn’t eat for fear of getting sick, and no easy escape. Still, part of me wishes I had dared to venture beyond my safe little bubble.
We went on the Audio Tour in the Maharaja’s Palace, which I recommend. It is a nice way of getting information about the place while still taking all the time you want and not having to worry about a guide. Guides, people guides that is, can be either excellent or obnoxious. The Audio Guide is a way of playing it safe.
The palace was beautiful. Built from golden sandstone, which changes color and warmth throughout the day depending on the sun, and with exquisite carvings both outside and in, it is a sight well worth seeing. The view from the seventh storey is not to be missed. Stretching out below you in one direction is the Great Thar Desert, while on the other side is the bustleing little city of Jaisalmer. The Rang Mahal (Palace of Color) was, once again, my favorite room. It was the private quarters of the maharaja and is decorated with mirrors and murals. The colors in the murals and on the painted walls are wonderful: bright reds, rich blues, and deep greens accented by embellishments of gold leaf. I don’t know if I could hav slept in such a room, but it was certainly a nice place to linger in for a while.
We also learned a bit about the history of the Jaisalmer rajas and their families. The Jaisalmer royal family believe themselves to be descendants of the moon. Their motto was ‘death before dishonor’. Jaisalmer Fort was only taken three times – and each time here was a jihar. After a long, complicated ceremony, all of the royal women, in their finest silk clothes, jump into their own funeral pyre. The men, wearing saffron turbans and armed to the nines, ride out into their final battle, determined to take as many of the enemy with them into the next life as possible and die a heroic death.
I think this became a vicious circle. In Europe during the middle ages, if a city was captured the nobility was treated with respect and were often ransomed (in the best circumstances). However, in Rajasthan a woman who did not take her own life was dishonorable and a man who did not die gloriously in battle was a coward. Neither deserved respect and so they were treated as the lowest of the low – and were probably killed in the end anyway. So there was no mercy. ‘Death before Dishonor’ was a code taken seriously by everyone.
We left the palace after noon, and so lost the opportunity of seeing the Jain Temples once again. We went to the July 8 Restaurant for a snack and were served, as a treat, fresh Mango pulp, chilled, golden, and delicious. I imagine that ambrosia, the drink of the gods, must taste similar to that divine drink.
We wandered around the fort for a little bit and observed the hustle and bustle of happy people at work and children at play – I even joined in a cricket game with some boys for a while – before leaving to set up a camel safari. I’d been told by Sarath, the Ayurvedic Doctor, not to risk it, that it was better to avoid things like camel safaris and ice cream for now in the hopes that in a few years I will be completely cured. I agreed for the ice cream (I’ve been very good, but it’s been difficult.) but the camel safari was too much. I might never have such a chance again! We did play it safe, though. I packed all my medicines – my inhaler, three disgusting Ayurvedic drinks, and two homeopathic remedies – as well as an extra change of clothes. I also went camel sniffing beforehand to see how or if I reacted (I did but it was just a little sniffle, which I figured I could handle) and told the man arranging everything about my asthma so he would arrange for an extra blanket to be put on the camel and make sure the bed and sheets were clean and hair-free.
Mr. Desert, the agent at Sahara Travels, is quite a character. His real name is Mr. Bissa, but I only learned that through reading the Lonely Planet. After setting up our safari for a short overnight trip (3pm – 11 am) we talked for a while. Or rather he talked, Mom encouraged, and I listened. His entire business was created, and has survived, on the basis of his impressive looks. Back in the ‘80s he was a poor, simple truck driver. But in 1989 he entered the first annual Rajasthani ‘Mr. Desert Competition’ – a manly beauty pageant – and won. In 1990 he entered again – and won. He won again in 1991 and 1992. But after 1992 he received a certificate naming him Mr. Desert for life and making him one of the judges in the competition. They also changed the rules so a person can only win for one year, making him the only life-long Mr. Desert. About this time, his friends started encouraging him to stop driving trucks and enter the tourism business – he had a reputation to maintain, they said. Since he couldn’t afford to open a hotel, he started a travel agency – Sahara Travels. Six months went by without a single customer, despite an excellent location right next to the fort. He was told he needed to go to the bus and train stations and meet tourists as they came into town. But he was not cut out to be a tout, apparently. “I say ‘come on my camel safari’ and they say ‘no’. ‘Well’, say I ‘No means no, that is fine I will ask the next person’” He couldn’t hassle, couldn’t ask fifteen times until the tourist finally said yes out of simple desperation. He decided to close shop, go back to being a truck driver. That week, some tourists with cameras wanted to take his picture, not in his office but out in the desert. He had nothing else to do so he went along with them. They entered the photos in a competition and he won – his face was seen across India on a cigarette advertisement. So he hung the picture behind his desk and decided to see if that helped at all – after all, his lease was not up for the office. It worked. The next day, a young woman entered his office to ask if he was the person in the picture – and she became his first customer. The original picture, along with many others, still decorates the walls of his room.
He obviously enjoyed telling his story – it was much longer than the version I have given you. But it was nice to get to know someone, to hear of success even if it was based upon good looks. After talking over chai, he let us take his picture – I even got to try on his turban, which was a little small and bright pink. Then we went back to the hotel (a new hotel – one without bed bugs or walls in an unfortunate shade of green) to rest and eat dinner.
Somehow I ended up sitting on a flight of steps outside a fairy tale fort, surrounded by gypsies in lovely, colorful clothes and enough jewelry to keep anyone happy for life, playing a traditional Rajasthani instrument that was similar to a violin. The husband of one of he woman would play a phrase and I would play it back. There were more strings than on a violin, but only one is fingered; the rest are drones. And there were bells ties to the end of the bow that jingled every time I switched directions. After a short while we had a small crowd surrounding us but I didn’t care. I felt like I’d gone back in time.
Mom caught the tail end of my Moment, and snapped a few pictures, but when she came the women expected her to buy jewelry – and more jewelry, and more. They hadn’t bothered me because they liked that I was playing their music and because I had no money anyway, but Mom was fair game. So we beat a somewhat hasty retreat. We got invited to their houses to play music and dance and eat dinner, but decided not to go. It could have been wonderful, a gem of a night, but was more likely to be awkward and uncomfortable, a show of poverty to gain our pity, a dinner we couldn’t eat for fear of getting sick, and no easy escape. Still, part of me wishes I had dared to venture beyond my safe little bubble.
We went on the Audio Tour in the Maharaja’s Palace, which I recommend. It is a nice way of getting information about the place while still taking all the time you want and not having to worry about a guide. Guides, people guides that is, can be either excellent or obnoxious. The Audio Guide is a way of playing it safe.
The palace was beautiful. Built from golden sandstone, which changes color and warmth throughout the day depending on the sun, and with exquisite carvings both outside and in, it is a sight well worth seeing. The view from the seventh storey is not to be missed. Stretching out below you in one direction is the Great Thar Desert, while on the other side is the bustleing little city of Jaisalmer. The Rang Mahal (Palace of Color) was, once again, my favorite room. It was the private quarters of the maharaja and is decorated with mirrors and murals. The colors in the murals and on the painted walls are wonderful: bright reds, rich blues, and deep greens accented by embellishments of gold leaf. I don’t know if I could hav slept in such a room, but it was certainly a nice place to linger in for a while.
We also learned a bit about the history of the Jaisalmer rajas and their families. The Jaisalmer royal family believe themselves to be descendants of the moon. Their motto was ‘death before dishonor’. Jaisalmer Fort was only taken three times – and each time here was a jihar. After a long, complicated ceremony, all of the royal women, in their finest silk clothes, jump into their own funeral pyre. The men, wearing saffron turbans and armed to the nines, ride out into their final battle, determined to take as many of the enemy with them into the next life as possible and die a heroic death.
I think this became a vicious circle. In Europe during the middle ages, if a city was captured the nobility was treated with respect and were often ransomed (in the best circumstances). However, in Rajasthan a woman who did not take her own life was dishonorable and a man who did not die gloriously in battle was a coward. Neither deserved respect and so they were treated as the lowest of the low – and were probably killed in the end anyway. So there was no mercy. ‘Death before Dishonor’ was a code taken seriously by everyone.
We left the palace after noon, and so lost the opportunity of seeing the Jain Temples once again. We went to the July 8 Restaurant for a snack and were served, as a treat, fresh Mango pulp, chilled, golden, and delicious. I imagine that ambrosia, the drink of the gods, must taste similar to that divine drink.
We wandered around the fort for a little bit and observed the hustle and bustle of happy people at work and children at play – I even joined in a cricket game with some boys for a while – before leaving to set up a camel safari. I’d been told by Sarath, the Ayurvedic Doctor, not to risk it, that it was better to avoid things like camel safaris and ice cream for now in the hopes that in a few years I will be completely cured. I agreed for the ice cream (I’ve been very good, but it’s been difficult.) but the camel safari was too much. I might never have such a chance again! We did play it safe, though. I packed all my medicines – my inhaler, three disgusting Ayurvedic drinks, and two homeopathic remedies – as well as an extra change of clothes. I also went camel sniffing beforehand to see how or if I reacted (I did but it was just a little sniffle, which I figured I could handle) and told the man arranging everything about my asthma so he would arrange for an extra blanket to be put on the camel and make sure the bed and sheets were clean and hair-free.
Mr. Desert, the agent at Sahara Travels, is quite a character. His real name is Mr. Bissa, but I only learned that through reading the Lonely Planet. After setting up our safari for a short overnight trip (3pm – 11 am) we talked for a while. Or rather he talked, Mom encouraged, and I listened. His entire business was created, and has survived, on the basis of his impressive looks. Back in the ‘80s he was a poor, simple truck driver. But in 1989 he entered the first annual Rajasthani ‘Mr. Desert Competition’ – a manly beauty pageant – and won. In 1990 he entered again – and won. He won again in 1991 and 1992. But after 1992 he received a certificate naming him Mr. Desert for life and making him one of the judges in the competition. They also changed the rules so a person can only win for one year, making him the only life-long Mr. Desert. About this time, his friends started encouraging him to stop driving trucks and enter the tourism business – he had a reputation to maintain, they said. Since he couldn’t afford to open a hotel, he started a travel agency – Sahara Travels. Six months went by without a single customer, despite an excellent location right next to the fort. He was told he needed to go to the bus and train stations and meet tourists as they came into town. But he was not cut out to be a tout, apparently. “I say ‘come on my camel safari’ and they say ‘no’. ‘Well’, say I ‘No means no, that is fine I will ask the next person’” He couldn’t hassle, couldn’t ask fifteen times until the tourist finally said yes out of simple desperation. He decided to close shop, go back to being a truck driver. That week, some tourists with cameras wanted to take his picture, not in his office but out in the desert. He had nothing else to do so he went along with them. They entered the photos in a competition and he won – his face was seen across India on a cigarette advertisement. So he hung the picture behind his desk and decided to see if that helped at all – after all, his lease was not up for the office. It worked. The next day, a young woman entered his office to ask if he was the person in the picture – and she became his first customer. The original picture, along with many others, still decorates the walls of his room.
He obviously enjoyed telling his story – it was much longer than the version I have given you. But it was nice to get to know someone, to hear of success even if it was based upon good looks. After talking over chai, he let us take his picture – I even got to try on his turban, which was a little small and bright pink. Then we went back to the hotel (a new hotel – one without bed bugs or walls in an unfortunate shade of green) to rest and eat dinner.
First impressions of Jaisalmer (Eleanor)
We arrived in Jaisalmer in the early afternoon. A jeep was waiting to take us to the hotel. Apparently this is the way to do it in Jaisalmer; rickshaw drivers are notorious for dropping tourists at the wrong hotels. Our hotel room was an unfortunate shade of green (the same color as the background in that painting I mentioned – it seems quite popular actually), the beds were itchy, and the manager was a bit pushy – he wanted us to go on his camel safari – so we only stayed there one night before moving to Hotel Golden City, which was much better.
The first afternoon, we went exploring a little bit. We saw one of the three main Havelis in Jaisalmer and walked around inside the fort. Havelis are large, old, intricately decorated mansions. The one we visited belonged to the former prime minister of Jaisalmer. Apparently, when it was built it was as high as the fort but after the prime minister’s death, the Maharaja had 2 floors removed. I found it interesting that the maharaja waited; the prime minister must have been quite a formidable man. The architecture in the Haveli was extraordinary. Because water is so scarce in the desert, there is nothing cementing the various tone blocks together. They fit together perfectly, like legos, and are joined with iron bands. Because of this, the entire building could be taken apart and reconstructed in another place.
Everything had multiple uses. For example, the ceiling of one storey was wood, then there was a slight space, about a foot, and the floor of the next storey was stone. There were five reasons for this. Footsteps echoed so you could hear intruders, the air circulation cooled the house, if there was a fire the entire building wouldn’t collapse, wood couldn’t support all the stories above it but stone could, and there was something else but I can’t remember it.
I especially liked the removable flowers. The prime minister apparently loved flowers, but flowers do not grow in the desert. So he had hundreds of stone flowers decorating his house which could be removed and used for decorations during festivals and other celebrations.
After the Haveli, we ate a traditional Rajasthani meal, with some ingredient that can only be found on the edge of the Great Thar Desert, and it was delicious. We then ventured into the fort. We were immediately set upon by a group of tribal women selling anklets. Personally, I was more interested in the clothes and jewelry they wearing than the anklets they were selling. In any case, we had no money but were interested enough that we said we’d return after visiting the ATM. Thus, we escaped and made our way into the fort.
Jaisalmer is known as the Golden City, and with good reason. The yellow sandstone that many buildings are made of is a beautiful gold color. Mom and I enjoyed just wandering around. We got invited into another old haveli. This one was not recommended in the guidebook, and it needs a little work, but it was quite nice. It belonged to the Maharaja’s secretary. He had the job of entertaining, and sometimes housing, people of all castes and classes who came to speak with the Maharaja. So his house was a fascinating blend of many different styles, catering to rich and poor alike. One waiting room, for example, had two levels – one for an upper caste gentleman and one for all of his attendants. There was also an impressive portrait of the secretary himself. It was 300 odd years old, but still in quite good condition. He looked as though he would have had quite a presence.
After the second Haveli, we were wandering through the back streets and alleys inside Jaisalmer Fort – Lost. (This seems to be a common occurrence.) As we wandered, a women stopped me rather abruptly and told me my sari was tied wrong. She promply began tying properly, in the middle of the street. It wasn’t a real problem, merely somewhat embarrassing. After I was all fixed up, we asked for directions to the Jain Temples. She did give us directions, but pointed out that they were closed after noon anyway, and did we want to visit her shop.
So the rest of the afternoon was spent shopping. It was a good day.
The first afternoon, we went exploring a little bit. We saw one of the three main Havelis in Jaisalmer and walked around inside the fort. Havelis are large, old, intricately decorated mansions. The one we visited belonged to the former prime minister of Jaisalmer. Apparently, when it was built it was as high as the fort but after the prime minister’s death, the Maharaja had 2 floors removed. I found it interesting that the maharaja waited; the prime minister must have been quite a formidable man. The architecture in the Haveli was extraordinary. Because water is so scarce in the desert, there is nothing cementing the various tone blocks together. They fit together perfectly, like legos, and are joined with iron bands. Because of this, the entire building could be taken apart and reconstructed in another place.
Everything had multiple uses. For example, the ceiling of one storey was wood, then there was a slight space, about a foot, and the floor of the next storey was stone. There were five reasons for this. Footsteps echoed so you could hear intruders, the air circulation cooled the house, if there was a fire the entire building wouldn’t collapse, wood couldn’t support all the stories above it but stone could, and there was something else but I can’t remember it.
I especially liked the removable flowers. The prime minister apparently loved flowers, but flowers do not grow in the desert. So he had hundreds of stone flowers decorating his house which could be removed and used for decorations during festivals and other celebrations.
After the Haveli, we ate a traditional Rajasthani meal, with some ingredient that can only be found on the edge of the Great Thar Desert, and it was delicious. We then ventured into the fort. We were immediately set upon by a group of tribal women selling anklets. Personally, I was more interested in the clothes and jewelry they wearing than the anklets they were selling. In any case, we had no money but were interested enough that we said we’d return after visiting the ATM. Thus, we escaped and made our way into the fort.
Jaisalmer is known as the Golden City, and with good reason. The yellow sandstone that many buildings are made of is a beautiful gold color. Mom and I enjoyed just wandering around. We got invited into another old haveli. This one was not recommended in the guidebook, and it needs a little work, but it was quite nice. It belonged to the Maharaja’s secretary. He had the job of entertaining, and sometimes housing, people of all castes and classes who came to speak with the Maharaja. So his house was a fascinating blend of many different styles, catering to rich and poor alike. One waiting room, for example, had two levels – one for an upper caste gentleman and one for all of his attendants. There was also an impressive portrait of the secretary himself. It was 300 odd years old, but still in quite good condition. He looked as though he would have had quite a presence.
After the second Haveli, we were wandering through the back streets and alleys inside Jaisalmer Fort – Lost. (This seems to be a common occurrence.) As we wandered, a women stopped me rather abruptly and told me my sari was tied wrong. She promply began tying properly, in the middle of the street. It wasn’t a real problem, merely somewhat embarrassing. After I was all fixed up, we asked for directions to the Jain Temples. She did give us directions, but pointed out that they were closed after noon anyway, and did we want to visit her shop.
So the rest of the afternoon was spent shopping. It was a good day.
Monday, April 13, 2009
Linda: Rishikesh, April 12
Rishikesh
Train? Or bus? Going from one place to another in India is always different. Each area and each connection has an easier way and a harder way, and we’ve learned (the hard way) that it is extremely helpful to talk to a reputable travel coordinator IN the city from which you are departing to find out the best way to get from one place to another. Between Pushkar and Hardiwar, the decision was more ambiguous. We could ride on a train, which at least had a toilet, was a smoother ride, and might, if we were lucky, have air conditioning. Or, we could have a guaranteed seat on a sleeper bus (versus a local bus) and get there 5 hours or more earlier, but no toilet. Also, the comfort of a sleeper bus varied dramatically from company to company. Alas, in fact, there was no choice. No seats on the train. Bus it was, which meant we would arrive in Haridwar by 8:30 and Rishikesh by 10:00 the next morning.
Or so we thought. We thought we’d fall asleep in our little sleeper bunk and wake up with the journey nearly over. Three traffic jams, each two hours long, and 20 hours later instead of 12, no AC, crammed on a dusty mat where you could never quite sit up, we finally bounced ( bounced here is an understatement. One “bounce” in the middle of the night had me airborne and knocked the wind out of me. I had a fit of quiet giggles after that one, and memories of teenage rides over railroad tracks – sorry Dad) our way to Hardiwar. The good news is, I finally realized I had completely abandoned all schedules and didn’t really care about time. For me, this was moving in new waters, especially after teaching and raising a family for the past 25 years. We didn’t really have to be anywhere at any time, we were safe, we would get there, we were only uncomfortable - and Eleanor had a dust rash. The other good news is that we met two women on the bus who came from Malta, (how wonderful to learn about Malta!) and they had guidebooks. After a quick perusal of the guide book, I realized I made the wrong choice in a hotel. This little piece of serendipity made the difference between a pleasant stay in Rishikesh and a more difficult, noisy, and inconvenient stay.
And, despite the rigor of the journey – by far the most difficult we had, mostly because it was unexpectedly long … and bouncy - I was immediately happy we were here. We fell asleep in a desert and woke in a garden. Everywhere was green, green grass, wheat fields, flowers, orchards. Lushness, ripeness, food, plenty. And the air had that slight tang of the mountains. My shoulders relaxed, the knot in my stomach that I didn’t know I had been carrying for days was gone, and I was feeling, once again, a little adventurous. We bounced along for another hour in the autorickshaw, passing the sacred Ganges River several times, her ghats filled with bathers, worshippers, ashrams, and temples. I expected to arrive in Rishikesh to see the blessed river with Himalayan Mountains in the distance. To my immense joy, they were there – rising immediately and majestically out of the plain, up, up, up from the Ganges and touching the sky. These were the Himalayan foothills, gentle and generous with forests and flowers, home to sadhus and sages for thousands and thousands of years. For Hardiwar and Rishikesh are sacred areas, where the Ganga leaves her home in the mountain and spreads out upon the open plains.
We arrived, tired and disheveled and hungry (24 hours without food and very little water – no toilets on the bus) to a lovely room, all by itself, with a glorious private deck that looked down upon the Ganges and the Himalayan Mountains (and still only $24 a night). We ate one of the most delicious meals of my life at 4:00 (dinner, breakfast, lunch, and dinner all rolled into one) – with pots of tea and dessert, made an appointment for a massage the next morning at 10:00, and retired to our deck for contented reading and quiet being. India. So amazingly varied. Peoples. Places. Languages. Traditions. Prices. Things one can buy. Geography. Topography. History. Problems. Governments. Animals (I walked by a camel one day and almost didn’t notice). Transportation details. Everywhere, it is different. And yet, there is a thread, a lovely beautiful thread that binds it all together. The Heart of India. It is something I can’t quite define, but it is real and it crosses all the boundaries, all the languages, all the religions, all the cultural and historical differences. There is a spirit that winds its way across the great and ancient land that is more real than the different ways. That which unites is far greater than that which separates. And I hope and pray that these peoples can hold onto that unity, and that diversity.
***
Rishikesh is a traditional city absolutely filled with ashrams – and the shops, businesses, restaurants, and suppliers that go along with a pilgrim city. The Ganges River is to the east of our room, with foot bridges crossing it to the north and south of us. It is a fascinating 5 km walk to circumnavigate the two bridges. The shops coalesce nearest to the bridges, and the ashrams fan out from there. One meanders up and down the river and sees ashrams of the long standing and prestigious names, founded by great sages and personages such as Sivananda (especially famous for yoga), Dayanda, Niketan, and, of course, the ashram made famous by the visit of the Beatles in the 1960’s. There are temples and shrines and lesser known ashrams. There are academies for yoga of all sizes and shapes, from large, well apportioned buildings to tiny huts with a single sadhu. Though there is a very, very strong “hippie” presence here (one person reported that half the visitors were here to “chill out” which usually meant taking some form of marijuana or hashish and the other half were here for spiritual reasons, mostly yoga), it was somehow less distressful than it had been in Pushkar. The size and magnificence of the Ganges and of the mountains neutralized and even uplifted everyone. And, there were intriguing doors everywhere – little worlds of traditional practice and science where one could enter and leave the noisome world for peace, and wisdom, and retreat.
Where to go? What to do? As one of the professors, Dr. Manring, at IU told us in one of her extremely helpful correspondences, serendipity rules in India – which has certainly been the case throughout our journey. We wanted to spend a little time (3-5 days) in an ashram, to have a sense of what this traditional lifestyle was like and to learn more about Hinduism. The four ashrams mentioned above had been recommended, as well as the Sri Ram Ashram and Orphanage in Hardiwar. Alas, Shivananda was full, I forgot about the Niketan at the critical moment, and Dayanda ashram was in a quiet period after a time of intense activity during the visit of its leading guru. But, happily, the path was made easy to visit the Sri Ram Ashram and Orphanage in Hardiwar, whose founder is Hari Dass, known as Babaji. It was, as many things have been on this journey, for us, the right place at the right time.
.
We spent 4 days in Rishikesh before returning to Hardiwar and the Sri Ram Ashram. We visited the Dayananda Ashram, which is a beautiful place in the southern part of this part of Rishikesh. It has a simple, but lovely temple, lovely and a very quiet, inward feeling. The swamis were very kind, but, as mentioned earlier, they were in a quiet period – no lectures and occasional yoga classes. We did go down to the Ganges, where we sat with some families whose children were swimming in its waters. Eleanor, with proper intention, made this her new beginning, and bathed (fully clothed, as is typical here) in the Ganges holy water. We could have attended lectures and yoga classes at the various ashrams, even though we were not able to actually live there, and we did attend one yoga class at the Sivananda ashram. One could not be in a more stunningly beautiful and supportive place to have a yoga class. The yoga room (separate times for men and women) had windows on two sides. There was a lot of natural light, as well as fans. The walls were a warm yellow with a hint of orange; the floors of medium colored wood. And the view was the Ganges River, with the pilgrims and worshippers bathing by her side and the mountains soaring above. The two hour yoga class went very quickly, a combination of asanas (yoga postures), prajana (breathing), and quiet meditation. The nun who conducted the class was gentle with a touch of much appreciated humor (the headstand was absolutely impossible for me, though Eleanor managed it for a few seconds – everyone else seemed to be able to float effortlessly on their heads), as was everyone there that we had met.
Afterwards, we went down to the Ganges to watch aarti, a beautiful, private ceremony where people have little leaf baskets filled with flowers and a candle. They say a prayer by the river, light the candle, and set it floating down the river. As the night deepened, dozens of little flower boats, a symbol of someone’s hopes and prayers, bobbed down the river, disappearing in the darkening horizon. A perfection of simplicity and pure beauty.
We were going to go to a lecture, chanting, and puja after aarti, but Eleanor was tired and so was I. Somehow, leaving the ashram at 10:00 to walk back to the hotel seemed overwhelming. With regret, I walked away from the long flight of stairs up to the Samadhi Hall where the worship and lecture would take place, and went back to the hotel. It really is a support to actually stay in an ashram rather than try to participate while you are staying outside. I noticed this here and in Tiruvanamalai, when we were in the Ramana Maharshi ashram. One wouldn’t think it would make much difference, being a 10-15 minute walk away or being “in house”, but it does. When one is inside the ashram, there is no reason to leave. The day is full, food is served, all your needs are taken care of. All you need to do is learn and be. One has made a choice to be there and not elsewhere. Outside, one needs to take care of food and other little things – you feel a bit in two worlds. There are reasons for both possibilities, but it definitely took more effort to attend events when we weren’t living in the ashram. And I was a bit more agitated as well.
Our days passed quickly with quiet meanderings, reading, and visiting. It was a restful time in many ways, and a time to rejuvenate after the rigors of Rajasthan.
Train? Or bus? Going from one place to another in India is always different. Each area and each connection has an easier way and a harder way, and we’ve learned (the hard way) that it is extremely helpful to talk to a reputable travel coordinator IN the city from which you are departing to find out the best way to get from one place to another. Between Pushkar and Hardiwar, the decision was more ambiguous. We could ride on a train, which at least had a toilet, was a smoother ride, and might, if we were lucky, have air conditioning. Or, we could have a guaranteed seat on a sleeper bus (versus a local bus) and get there 5 hours or more earlier, but no toilet. Also, the comfort of a sleeper bus varied dramatically from company to company. Alas, in fact, there was no choice. No seats on the train. Bus it was, which meant we would arrive in Haridwar by 8:30 and Rishikesh by 10:00 the next morning.
Or so we thought. We thought we’d fall asleep in our little sleeper bunk and wake up with the journey nearly over. Three traffic jams, each two hours long, and 20 hours later instead of 12, no AC, crammed on a dusty mat where you could never quite sit up, we finally bounced ( bounced here is an understatement. One “bounce” in the middle of the night had me airborne and knocked the wind out of me. I had a fit of quiet giggles after that one, and memories of teenage rides over railroad tracks – sorry Dad) our way to Hardiwar. The good news is, I finally realized I had completely abandoned all schedules and didn’t really care about time. For me, this was moving in new waters, especially after teaching and raising a family for the past 25 years. We didn’t really have to be anywhere at any time, we were safe, we would get there, we were only uncomfortable - and Eleanor had a dust rash. The other good news is that we met two women on the bus who came from Malta, (how wonderful to learn about Malta!) and they had guidebooks. After a quick perusal of the guide book, I realized I made the wrong choice in a hotel. This little piece of serendipity made the difference between a pleasant stay in Rishikesh and a more difficult, noisy, and inconvenient stay.
And, despite the rigor of the journey – by far the most difficult we had, mostly because it was unexpectedly long … and bouncy - I was immediately happy we were here. We fell asleep in a desert and woke in a garden. Everywhere was green, green grass, wheat fields, flowers, orchards. Lushness, ripeness, food, plenty. And the air had that slight tang of the mountains. My shoulders relaxed, the knot in my stomach that I didn’t know I had been carrying for days was gone, and I was feeling, once again, a little adventurous. We bounced along for another hour in the autorickshaw, passing the sacred Ganges River several times, her ghats filled with bathers, worshippers, ashrams, and temples. I expected to arrive in Rishikesh to see the blessed river with Himalayan Mountains in the distance. To my immense joy, they were there – rising immediately and majestically out of the plain, up, up, up from the Ganges and touching the sky. These were the Himalayan foothills, gentle and generous with forests and flowers, home to sadhus and sages for thousands and thousands of years. For Hardiwar and Rishikesh are sacred areas, where the Ganga leaves her home in the mountain and spreads out upon the open plains.
We arrived, tired and disheveled and hungry (24 hours without food and very little water – no toilets on the bus) to a lovely room, all by itself, with a glorious private deck that looked down upon the Ganges and the Himalayan Mountains (and still only $24 a night). We ate one of the most delicious meals of my life at 4:00 (dinner, breakfast, lunch, and dinner all rolled into one) – with pots of tea and dessert, made an appointment for a massage the next morning at 10:00, and retired to our deck for contented reading and quiet being. India. So amazingly varied. Peoples. Places. Languages. Traditions. Prices. Things one can buy. Geography. Topography. History. Problems. Governments. Animals (I walked by a camel one day and almost didn’t notice). Transportation details. Everywhere, it is different. And yet, there is a thread, a lovely beautiful thread that binds it all together. The Heart of India. It is something I can’t quite define, but it is real and it crosses all the boundaries, all the languages, all the religions, all the cultural and historical differences. There is a spirit that winds its way across the great and ancient land that is more real than the different ways. That which unites is far greater than that which separates. And I hope and pray that these peoples can hold onto that unity, and that diversity.
***
Rishikesh is a traditional city absolutely filled with ashrams – and the shops, businesses, restaurants, and suppliers that go along with a pilgrim city. The Ganges River is to the east of our room, with foot bridges crossing it to the north and south of us. It is a fascinating 5 km walk to circumnavigate the two bridges. The shops coalesce nearest to the bridges, and the ashrams fan out from there. One meanders up and down the river and sees ashrams of the long standing and prestigious names, founded by great sages and personages such as Sivananda (especially famous for yoga), Dayanda, Niketan, and, of course, the ashram made famous by the visit of the Beatles in the 1960’s. There are temples and shrines and lesser known ashrams. There are academies for yoga of all sizes and shapes, from large, well apportioned buildings to tiny huts with a single sadhu. Though there is a very, very strong “hippie” presence here (one person reported that half the visitors were here to “chill out” which usually meant taking some form of marijuana or hashish and the other half were here for spiritual reasons, mostly yoga), it was somehow less distressful than it had been in Pushkar. The size and magnificence of the Ganges and of the mountains neutralized and even uplifted everyone. And, there were intriguing doors everywhere – little worlds of traditional practice and science where one could enter and leave the noisome world for peace, and wisdom, and retreat.
Where to go? What to do? As one of the professors, Dr. Manring, at IU told us in one of her extremely helpful correspondences, serendipity rules in India – which has certainly been the case throughout our journey. We wanted to spend a little time (3-5 days) in an ashram, to have a sense of what this traditional lifestyle was like and to learn more about Hinduism. The four ashrams mentioned above had been recommended, as well as the Sri Ram Ashram and Orphanage in Hardiwar. Alas, Shivananda was full, I forgot about the Niketan at the critical moment, and Dayanda ashram was in a quiet period after a time of intense activity during the visit of its leading guru. But, happily, the path was made easy to visit the Sri Ram Ashram and Orphanage in Hardiwar, whose founder is Hari Dass, known as Babaji. It was, as many things have been on this journey, for us, the right place at the right time.
.
We spent 4 days in Rishikesh before returning to Hardiwar and the Sri Ram Ashram. We visited the Dayananda Ashram, which is a beautiful place in the southern part of this part of Rishikesh. It has a simple, but lovely temple, lovely and a very quiet, inward feeling. The swamis were very kind, but, as mentioned earlier, they were in a quiet period – no lectures and occasional yoga classes. We did go down to the Ganges, where we sat with some families whose children were swimming in its waters. Eleanor, with proper intention, made this her new beginning, and bathed (fully clothed, as is typical here) in the Ganges holy water. We could have attended lectures and yoga classes at the various ashrams, even though we were not able to actually live there, and we did attend one yoga class at the Sivananda ashram. One could not be in a more stunningly beautiful and supportive place to have a yoga class. The yoga room (separate times for men and women) had windows on two sides. There was a lot of natural light, as well as fans. The walls were a warm yellow with a hint of orange; the floors of medium colored wood. And the view was the Ganges River, with the pilgrims and worshippers bathing by her side and the mountains soaring above. The two hour yoga class went very quickly, a combination of asanas (yoga postures), prajana (breathing), and quiet meditation. The nun who conducted the class was gentle with a touch of much appreciated humor (the headstand was absolutely impossible for me, though Eleanor managed it for a few seconds – everyone else seemed to be able to float effortlessly on their heads), as was everyone there that we had met.
Afterwards, we went down to the Ganges to watch aarti, a beautiful, private ceremony where people have little leaf baskets filled with flowers and a candle. They say a prayer by the river, light the candle, and set it floating down the river. As the night deepened, dozens of little flower boats, a symbol of someone’s hopes and prayers, bobbed down the river, disappearing in the darkening horizon. A perfection of simplicity and pure beauty.
We were going to go to a lecture, chanting, and puja after aarti, but Eleanor was tired and so was I. Somehow, leaving the ashram at 10:00 to walk back to the hotel seemed overwhelming. With regret, I walked away from the long flight of stairs up to the Samadhi Hall where the worship and lecture would take place, and went back to the hotel. It really is a support to actually stay in an ashram rather than try to participate while you are staying outside. I noticed this here and in Tiruvanamalai, when we were in the Ramana Maharshi ashram. One wouldn’t think it would make much difference, being a 10-15 minute walk away or being “in house”, but it does. When one is inside the ashram, there is no reason to leave. The day is full, food is served, all your needs are taken care of. All you need to do is learn and be. One has made a choice to be there and not elsewhere. Outside, one needs to take care of food and other little things – you feel a bit in two worlds. There are reasons for both possibilities, but it definitely took more effort to attend events when we weren’t living in the ashram. And I was a bit more agitated as well.
Our days passed quickly with quiet meanderings, reading, and visiting. It was a restful time in many ways, and a time to rejuvenate after the rigors of Rajasthan.
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