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James Mutti 1800 words
My story actually begins in Haridwar, a Hindu holy town 24 km down the Ganga River from Rishikesh. Because of its religious significance – the site where the Ganga descends from the mountains into the north Indian plains – a fair number of Indians were visiting. Few foreign tourists stay in Haridwar however. It’s little more than a jumping off point for Rishikesh.
I knew that this area was a destination for foreign tourists and Indian pilgrims because of its holy sites and promises of spiritual rewards. While I was interested in this aspect of both towns, it was not my reason for visiting. I was more interested in spending some down time in smaller, peaceful, mountain towns during the non-tourist season.
But try explaining this to the small handful of other foreigners I met in Haridwar. Or to the Hindu priests at the sacred Har-ki-Pairi temple on the Ganga. The realization that I was understood to be some sort of Western spiritual seeker by everyone I met in Haridwar hit me on my second day there. After a pleasant conversation with the four young men who were playing cards at the front desk of the Indra Kutir Guesthouse, I had innocently wandered down to the steps leading into the Ganga by Har-ki-Pairi to see the nightly Ganga Aarti celebration. It was crowded and a young man approached me offering to explain the ceremony and show me around. I should have suspected a trap. But this was my first visit to India in eight years; being in a small town, my guard was down; my sixth sense to avoid such situations was dull; the verbal repartee needed to worm my way out of an unwanted situation was rusty; and it all began with buying a leaf full of marigold petals for just 5 rupees.
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| After Gangi Aarti in Haridwar |
Before I knew it, I was following the young priest to the steps, taking off my shoes and standing at the edge of the river holding my leaf full of now wet petals in my hand as another priest chanted in Sanskrit. Music boomed in my ears, old bare-chested priests swung flaming pots close enough that I could feel the heat. As I glanced around me, I watched devout Hindus going through the same ritual and shelling out handfuls of hundred rupee notes. I had been had. After unhappily parting with 1000 rupees on the edge of the river, I was hustled to a small room in the temple where I was relieved of another 200.
As I walked back to my guesthouse through the brightly lit lanes of the colorful bazaar and then along the dark residential streets, I fumed. There was something exhilarating about the experience. I could see why it would be significant to a Hindu pilgrim or a tourist enamored with the spiritual gifts of India. And I had made an offering to the river Ganga for my family’s long life. All well and good. But I felt taken advantage of and coerced into doing something I hadn’t wanted to. I had learned my lesson; this would not happen to me again. My thoughts were interrupted by a voice behind me. “Did you have an enlightening day?” I turned around to see a woman I had met the night before as I had searched the dark streets for a place to stay. We had chatted amiably before parting ways. Now she was dressed in white robes with a red tika in the middle of her forehead telling me about her trip to the temple to meditate that morning. We said good night and it dawned on me that, to everyone around me, I was one of the Western spiritual seekers who came to India looking for some life-changing religious experience. Why else would I be in Haridwar? And for three nights no less.
After a few days of wandering the town’s wonderful bazaars, eating delicious thalis at Shivalik Restaurant and watching kids flying kites from their roofs in the afternoons, I hopped the bus to Rishikesh. Rishikesh is best known for the throngs of Hindu pilgrims who pass through the town into the holy shrines of the Himalayas and for the throngs of Western New Age yoga and meditation students under the tutelage of countless charismatic gurus. Famously, the Beatles stayed in Rishikesh in 1968 to study with Maharishi Mahesh Yogi. His ashram is now closed due to legal disputes with the government, and though you can wander the grounds, do so at your own risk: muggings have been reported.
I was happy to be arriving after the sacred Himalayan temples of Yamunotri, Gangotri, Kedarnath, and Badrinath (accessed from Rishikesh) had been snowed in for the winter, transforming Rishikesh from a bustling pilgrimage and tourist mecca into the sleepy end of the line in the valley of the Ganga. Rishikesh felt like what it was: an off-season tourist town – lazy, relaxed, happy. The pace of life was leisurely and locals were friendly and generous, never pushy or demanding. Visiting Indian families happily walked the footbridges crisscrossing the Ganga and piled into the jeep taxis that climbed into the surrounding hills. Bearded and dread-locked New Age Westerners hurried to yoga and meditation classes and lounged around cafes eating granola and pizza.
Unlike the vast majority of foreigners who come to Rishikesh to indulge in all types of spiritual experimentation, I had come simply for the tranquility of a small town and the natural beauty of the surroundings. And it was gorgeous. It was exactly what I had wanted. The Ganga was cold and green and clear. The rippled white beaches were dotted with smooth boulders. The steep hills were covered with thick green woods. The mornings began cold, windy and shady. By the afternoon the sun was high and the sky was bright blue.
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| The footbridge to Kailashnanda Ashram |
When I asked the owner of the Surya Hotel (where I was staying) where I could get a newspaper, he offered to pick one up for me each morning. My experiences at the post office and the little shops along the street were pleasant and easy – none of the noisy aggressive haggling that is necessary in other parts of the country. I met a friendly woman on the beach who had come to Rishikesh with her family to make their life better. Her husband worked at an ashram and as a farm laborer while she cleaned along the banks of the river. They could make some money and the ashrams provided food. In the end she wanted me to help them out, but she seemed eager to tell her story as well – to talk about her village, her kids, her life. On my last day, I met three young Muslim men. Two of them were visiting the other who was at school in Rishikesh. Our hour-long conversation encompassed religion, politics, the differences between the US and India, family situations, the need for peace, faith in humanity, the shortcomings of friends, the peacefulness of Rishikesh, the loudness and greediness of Delhi, beards, dreams and hopes. It was one of the highlights of my trip, making a connection with kindred spirits on the other side of the world.
Rishikesh was also remarkable for the way that one could sit in peace and quiet without interruptions. I sat for half an hour on the banks of the Ganga with no one approaching me, save two monkeys. On another occasion I sat alone on a sandy beach for over an hour. No one. No mean feat in India, as any traveler can testify.
I was also struck by little acts of humanity and community that I witnessed. Nothing dramatic, but meaningful nonetheless. I saw a man giving the neighborhood stray dog a chapatti for a late night snack. And once darkness fell each night, small groups of neighbors surrounded little fires lit along the side of the road, sometimes joined by a cow or two.
Even the begging seemed low-key. Groups of crippled men and women with small children crowded the footbridges. There is no doubt that their need was real, but they were not pushy and were fed and housed at the ashrams. Because of the generosity of the ashrams and its draw as a tourist destination, Rishikesh also drew a high number of people dependent on the charity of others. I struggled with my reactions to these displays of hardship, as every traveler in India probably does. How could I help? I gave money to people everyday, but I couldn’t give money to everybody everyday. Even if I could, what difference would it make really? Would it provide a good education? Good healthcare? Any of the opportunities I had been blessed with? No. But it might mean the difference between dinner and no dinner, or medicine or no medicine for a child. Anyway, my ways of deciding whom I would give money to were hopelessly arbitrary. It was often difficult to make sense of, but it was somewhat comforting to know that Rishikesh must be one of the better towns in India to be homeless and/or jobless in.
So, beautiful surroundings, friendly people, peace and quiet, and a sense of community. What could be better?
But was I missing something? Should I have been getting more out of Rishikesh? Would all that I saw around me be even better, would I be more in tune with it, if I was ‘living in the present’ or if I were ‘more aware’? Maybe, but the truth is that I was perfectly content in Rishikesh. The only thing that rubbed me the wrong way were the hordes of Westerners on their quest for New Age enlightenment (that and the surprising lack of Indian food in most restaurants in my neighborhood). And if I were on a spiritual quest here, those are the people I would have been with day in and day out. I don’t doubt their intentions and I’m sure most of them are thoroughly good people, but something about the scene didn’t agree with me. Was it too self-conscious? Too selfish? Too insulated from the real world outside the ashrams and the yoga centers? Of course, it was at least partially thanks to this scene that Rishikesh is the laid-back, clean, prosperous town that it is. It turns out that rampant consumerism and religious searching aren’t as contradictory as we often assume. I sometimes wondered what the old Hindu sadhus thought of the cafes serving pancakes and cinnamon rolls filled with white hippies that have filled Rishikesh.
In the end, I realized I was simply looking for a different type of knowledge and a different way of understanding. I was glad to find that I really didn’t need the added, contrived, spiritual element to make India a place of real beauty, depth and meaning for me. It turned out that I could enjoy Rishikesh and not be a spiritual seeker.
Copyright © 2006 James Mutti
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