The sugar sinks to the
bottom of the glass of mint tea looking like white dust in a sky of green,
eerily reflecting the color of the water a hundred feet below me. It’s a
peaceful green somehow, not a weedy shade that one would expect from rivers in
India, nor the pulsating green of the tormented seas. This is a green at peace
with itself, serene in its own position as a symbol of what is possibly the
most feted celebrity in this country, the river that gives its name to
countless persons and establishments across the world, the river that provides
livelihood to millions of people who serve the needs, and desires, of people
like me.
That is a term that is hard
to apply here though. “People like me” could mean just about anything and
nothing. This café for example, like many others, is like a brochure that
paints a desperate picture of multi-culturalism, with a menu that echoes its
customers. A pair of young and astonishingly pretty German boys is smoking,
tucking into a hearty breakfast, exchanging occasional laconic sentences that
are the result of years of familiarity. A group of Americans on another table
converse excitedly about their footwear, therapies for a bad back, the
symbolism of the color red and their love for omelettes. A Korean girl sitting
alone at a table tries to figure out how much to pay for the bill, her embarrassed
smile responding to the patient one of the waiter’s.
I can also hear the sounds
of another group of people from the lane right below me. Large families
trooping in from towns all around, seeking salvation or at least a glimpse of
it in the temples and banks of the holy city, even as the foreigners take the
path of yoga and weed. Everyone loves capturing the moments though. Even here,
the old and the new collide and then co-exist. A random selection of pictures
of Rishikesh will reveal many selfies with those familiar pouts, even as there
are an equal number of the traditional poses of children with scowls and women
with suspiciously narrowed eyes standing against objects which could be
considered of interest, e.g. a bridge or a famous temple.
Looking into this melee of
diverse humanity, one could fashion oneself as an “observer” or “interpreter”
or “narrator”, or any other interesting word that found on the blurbs of
brightly colored book covers. Until one steps right into it.
**********************************************************************
A foot pokes into my back
and then withdraws. A few seconds later, there it is again. I shift a few inches
to the front. Then a flick from a cloth on my head. A poke from a foot again. I
give up trying to concentrate on the bhajans and finally look up. A large
purple flower printed on a synthetic yellow fabric pulsates in front of my
eyes. Before I could congratulate myself of having got into a psychedelic trance
without the ingestion of any substances, I realize that what I am seeing is a
corner of a salwar kameez that belongs to a woman who is dancing. Now dancing
is a rather vulgar term for someone who’s clearly under the spell of the
evocative bhajans, being belted out at full volume by young priests (who
interestingly look as well groomed as salesmen in an upmarket mall, but that’s another
story). Then I realize there are actually two of them, pleasant looking, “healthy”,
middle-class, middle-aged ladies dressed identically in brightly patterned
salwar-kameezes, under a dark colored cardigan and a red shawl. The same shawl
that flicked me, and I was happy to note, others.
I try hard to not keep
looking; after all, religious fervor is a private and individual expression. But
something about the dance makes look back again, some memory trying to surface
into my consciousness through the sensory overload. I get it. Their moves are
strikingly similar to those of the thousands (okay, hundreds) of women I have
seen dancing to brass bands in wedding baraats. Come to think of it, it’s not
just the moves. Here too, they seem to be enjoying themselves without a care in
the world, even as they keep an eye who’s watching. Sure enough, a moment
later, I hear the familiar strain of “aap bhi aao”, uttered to a young European
girl whose eyes and mouth had been wide open for a few minutes now. Now the
eyes gleam, the mouth snaps shut, and she jumps into cleared area (yes, we have
all moved back a few feet) with all the determination (and grace) of a newly
converted zumba dancer. The click of the smartphone cameras now takes on a new
high, competing with the beats of the tabla and strain of the harmonium, and do
I detect a hint of peevishness of the faces of the singing priests as the video
camera moves from them to the whirling dervishes (sorry, ladies)? Never mind, I
am sure it will generate more footfalls the next day for the “maha-arti”,
absolutely the event of the day.
A few minutes later, the
arti is completed. The yellow fire of the lamps burns brightly against the ochre
of the sky and Ganga seems to approve. As I walk away from the brightly lit
ghat where the arti was held into the darkness of the streets behind, the
noise, the activity, the crowd, the smells just melt away. All that remains is
the chanting in my ears, “gurudev bolo…” and it seems to calm and warm me on
this winter night. I smile at the fast receding memory of the dancing ladies
and walk on.
***************************************************************
Jagged rocks hang above me
and if I were more imaginative, or this were night instead of day, I could
attribute a more menacing air to them. But right now they are just pitiful,
rocks ravaged by landslides, a rude reminder of how commerce has made this
terrain so vulnerable that sights like this are as common as stray dogs
feasting on piles of rubbish, children peeing on the sides of the road or SUVs
filled with tourists causing traffic jams.
The urban chaos recedes into
comparative silence as one keeps walking into the hills above the city. The concrete
jungle of small hotels, guest houses, dharamshalas and “cafes” gives way to the
boundary walls of more comfortable resorts where smartly dressed men and women
go about their business of pampering travelers that seek salvation through
comfort. Packs of younger boys and girls, many as part of corporate outings,
drive by in vehicles imprinted with the names of the multitude of adventure
companies that run their business in their area, promising a few hours of
adrenalin pumping that could be perceived as exciting or terrifying (more the
latter if I read the faces of the group correctly).
One keeps walking, the road
on one side and the river on another. And suddenly I am at a corner where I can
see the spread of the river across miles. The water glides majestically below
me, resplendent in green, fresh from the exertions of rushing down the
mountains, now seeming to pause and take a deep breath before it plunges into a
landscape that’s weighed with expectation. As if to complete the picture, the
rain stops suddenly and a rainbow appears, creating a perfect arch between two
hills, a smile that speaks of wisdom far beyond the comprehension of the
teeming masses below.
The smile disappears, and
clouds gather again. The light falls steadily, and the chill in the wind is now
driving people off the streets. I resolutely stand my ground on the hanging
bridge, the Laxman Jhula, ignorant of the stiffness in my legs or the whistling
in my ears. The river is now not just gliding, but tumbling in haste over
hidden rocks. The moon makes a wistful appearance and casts a pale silvery glow
on water that’s now as magically turbulent as it was serene a few hours ago. The
temples bells ring out, possibly for the last time that day, seeking to drown
out the strident murmurs of the remaining crowds, the screeching of the
monkeys, the rattling of the vehicles in the distance, the insistent chatter of
the inner voice. Only the sounds of the temple bells and the roar of the river
remain, a divine reminder of our own insignificance, causing spirits to soar
and sink at the same time.
There’s someone else walking
by now. A sadhu. Brown eyes look kindly at me, under a head that’s piled with
braids a stylist would approve of. In perfectly unaccented English, he asks me
if I would like the best marijuana in the world. I smile and shake my head,
thanking him for the offer. He smiles back, but his eyes don’t, as they search
for someone, or something else. And I walk away too, searching for something,
or someone else.
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