The Human Factor

I have written, rewritten, read, reread, edited, added, deleted and generally done to death those notes on my first time pilgrimage. All that needed to be said has been – or should have been, logically, seven posts later. I also took to heart an advice to ‘put it all together in one place for god’s sake, so that we can read it in one go, not in bits and pieces from here and there’ and did  sum it all up in one piece for translation.

[Now, will the Malayalam publication that had asked me for the story still accept it after almost two months past deadline is a question I am tossing up in the air. It can fall either way. Or just fly away!]

So what is left to say now, you might wonder. Well, the thing is, with me there’s always something to say. Al-ways.

And here I am, talking about the one thing that never ceases to fascinate: people. This time, people I saw in the course of my journey. My choice of ‘saw’ as against ‘met’ is deliberate – most of these photographs are of people I saw in passing; some even taken without their permission. I normally don’t do that –  makes me feel as if I am violating their privacy. In this instance I did, and I’m begging their pardon now, after the deed is done.

I would have liked to add to this the photographs of my fellow pilgrims – they were so interesting! But since I’m not sure it would be appropriate, I’m just going for the strange faces…

Fascinating faces… faces with stories to tell.

 

I saw him in Haridwar as we waited for Ganga Aarti. He was making his way through the crowd with a small diya made of leaves and a few flowers in his hands. He was determined to offer it to the river with his own hands – and did it too, disregarding the protests of the people he pushed and shoved out of the way to get there.

 

To me he is the face of Sitapur market. Among the rows of shops where they were selling equine paraphernalia, his stood out for some reason. Determination, perhaps? The will to survive – in that desolate township that has been half washed away by the floods? I don’t know. I just felt the need to capture that face – and in those surroundings.

 

He was there outside Triguni Narayan temple, an angry, foul-mouthed old man with many axes to grind. He chose to be provoked by what he thought he heard someone speak, and started raging. In the process he terrified many of the members of my group who were already shaken by the desolation of that part part of Himalayas. Living example of how not to grow old.

 

We saw her walking down the non-existent path in the mountainside carrying this burden. Bowed down by it, she just kept walking, not heeding the group that was for once silenced by the sight. Life there seemed relentless.

 

These are sights from Joshimath, where narrow paved pathways connected houses and shops, and people were manoeuvring their way through them with heavy loads.  Note how the man has to sidle his way as the planks would otherwise hit the wall.

 

Loved this lady on the spot! Met her while we were walking from the bus to Mana Gaon. She told us that her children were all working and very well placed too, thank god, but she still likes to work for ‘timepass’. When asked if I could take a picture with her she said: Hum to sundar nahi hain na? Isliye to aap photo kheench rahe hai! Now if that isn’t fishing, what is?

We assured her that she was sundar which was why we wanted to take a picture with her. Oh you should have seen the way she bloomed! She posed with me and allowed me to click solo pictures of her too. Must have been a force to reckon with, in her youth… I can just see the neighbourhood men going gaga over this one.

 

I saw them on the way to Ganesh Gufa. The lady refused to look up when I asked permission to take a photograph, muttering ‘Everyone wants to take pictures, but no one wants to buy anything. I won’t look up and smile for your camera.’ And true to her word, it was only after I bought some herbs  that she deigned to look up and pose for me!

 

This sweet lady, on the other hand, was very fine with being photographed. It was only afterward that she tried to sell anything. She patiently waited when I told her I’d buy on the way back as I had run out of change, and was thrilled when I actually came back for my purchase.

 

Just because I found her quaint! Oh-so-serious Li’l Ms Muffet was sunning there by the wayside, within view of her grandparents. She was pleased to be photographed, though you wouldn’t think so looking at her looking at me.

Ok, let me admit to a bit of cowardice here. I’d have loved to take a good shot of him; he was in the little temple near Bhim Pul. But he looked intimidating – which made me too nervous to ask for permission to, or be caught, taking pictures. So this was the best I could manage.

 

My story would be incomplete without them. They were staying in the same hotel as we did, in Badrinath. They had come from Rajasthan prepared, complete with a stove, utensils and enough food to see them – and their menfolk  – through the journey.  They posed for me with permission duly taken from their men. I was given a bowlful of halwa as a parting gift.

 

And last but not the least, my crew minus the cooks and driver. I was sure I’d clicked their pictures too, but can’t find them now. Here you can see Mahavir, who forcibly carried my backpack all the way up and down the mountainside while we were walking, and little Gopal who helped equally. Gopal is the driver’s son, looked all of twelve but claimed to be eighteen, that too with a ‘Plus Two Degree’ under his belt!!! And that’s Chauhanji, brimming with stories from history, mythology and real life.

These are the people who risk their lives on a daily basis, ferrying passengers up and down the Himalayas, living there, and what they earn is a pittance.

A reminder to count blessings… to sort out priorities…to generally look at life  from a different perspective. After all, that’s what pilgrimage is about. 

 

Notes from Moksh Dham, the final destination

As I said, there were ghosts that needed to be laid to rest.

What are ghosts but stories interrupted? Fragile stories that slipped out of the hands that held them and shattered on the floor, or were snatched away without warning or mercy… Orphaned stories from whom both the narrator and the listeners have turned their faces away… Dejected stories with their heads hung, eyes down  and shoulders sagging…

Stories without closure, or that by any other name. Resolution, grand finale, happily-ever-after… That which we seek, eternally – like so many Tantaluses reaching out for the elusive fruit and water, even as the dark shadow of Sisyphus’ boulder falls on us. 

Stories, theirs and mine, that I have carried for as long as I have lived. 

What was it that I sought up there in Moksh Dham? Closure? Or the wisdom to accept the futility of seeking it? Either, perhaps. Or both. Or something else altogether… Like release. From the need for closure. 

The 9th of October found us trudging uphill the higher Himalayas, towards our final destination – Sri Badrinath – at an altitude of 10300 feet above sea level. There is no beyond – just Vaikund. That’s why it’s called Moskh Dham – liberates you. So pray, pray for as long as you want, pray for all those you want to pray for.

Yes, I needed to pray – though perhaps not in the conventional sense of the word. 

So onward we went, past rivers and valleys and hamlets and small towns. Past prayags and countless temples small and big. We stopped at Hanuman Chatti where mythology says Hanuman and Bheem had their altercation, before a humbled Pandava bowed his head to Vayuputra. We visited Joshimath, where the idol of the Lord Badrinath is brought for pooja during winter when the passage to the temple itself gets blocked due to snow and ice.

Hanuman Chatti

The temples were fascinating, but so were the lives of people in and around and on the way to those temples. At least what I could see of them in passing.  Life is obviously harsh up there in the mountains. I saw children doing hard physical labour at worksites, women bent over with the weight of what they were carrying to and fro, men manipulating heavy objects through narrow pathways. One of the most common modes of transportation for tourists was ‘doli’, a basket that seats a grown person, and is carried by another on his back! All in a day’s work, I could see. Heartbreaking and humbling at once.

I can see now why pilgrimage is deemed an inevitable part of a person’s spiritual journey, regardless of which God one believes in. For those who don’t, that is, the agnostics and atheists, substitute pilgrimage with travel – the underlying point is the same.

Get out of your comfort zone, walk the lands your feet have never touched. Eat foods that are different to yours. Drink soupy, over-sweetened tea from wayside stalls. Marvel at the vagaries of nature. Appreciate the way trees have bent and twisted themselves out of shape to accommodate the angry mountain winds. Wonder at the soaring birds you cannot hope to see where you live. Breathe in the feeble mountain sunshine and let the cold air parch your lips. Be humbled by the thunder that reverberates across hills and vales.

Feel.

Talk to people who don’t speak your language. Smile at them till they smile back. See their lives from ground level. Observe their traditions, rituals, costumes, and try to reason out why they are what they are and how they do what they do. Step into their shoes and walk a mile in them.

It changes you, imperceptibly yet profoundly.

I’m wondering whether to use the word arduous to describe this part of the journey, but then maybe it’s better saved for the trip back – especially the last leg from Haridwar to Delhi, caught in the unending/unbelievable traffic jam that beat Dubai’s hollow. Yes, that one was arduous. This one, up roads flanked by grim rock face on one side and plunging valley on the other, roads that seemed ready to disintegrate at any moment, was – well – nerve wracking, so to say. Prayer came easily to everyone.

It was late evening when we reached Badrinath.

This was what I had come for… This.

The seedy, still-being-built-and-will-continue-to-be-built hotel, the ‘breathtakingly’ (literally) steep, narrow and rail-less staircase, the large, haphazard room with one window that looked out at snowy peaks (the best they could offer in terms of a room with a view), were all a blur.

I honestly did not care – as long as there were running hot water and a working flush – which there were. Ok, the bed did faze me – I had this nagging vision of a bedbug or two getting onto my body in the middle of the night. Or into my suitcase which I will then carry back home. A daunting vision, honestly. So I insisted that the sheepish caretaker change the sheets – a concept he took a while to understand – yes, and the pillow covers, please; no thank you, I’ll use my own blanket.

The view from my room

Looking back, I must have been like one possessed – the weary traveller lugging herself with one final burst of frenzied energy, desperation, upon getting the first glimpse of her destination. I bathed and got ready in no time, and must have really pestered Chauhanji because he arranged for a person to take me ahead to the temple while he waited for the rest of the group to assemble. My urgency somehow touched my co-passengers too because Teacher and her son joined me in my sprint to the temple.

I was there. Just like there are moments that elude the camera, there are experiences that defy words. Those that are better left unsaid.

I spent the rest of the evening there, inside the temple, until it was closed for the night, and was back before daybreak on the morning of the 10th. I was there, waiting, when the temple opened – having washed myself at Tapt Kund, a steaming sulphur spring that rubbed shoulders with the icy cold Alaknanda. I lost count of the hours I spent there, just sitting and absorbing it all.

This was what I had come for, after all.

Alaknanda by the road to Mana Gaon

Later that morning, I sat shivering uncontrollably on the banks of Alaknanda, repeating mantras after the Panditji, invoking all those souls, living and dead, that I had been carrying inside me…pleading, pleading silently all the while for closure, liberation. I was vaguely aware of the biting cold, the numbing hands, the frozen legs – but not enough to take my mind off from my desperate prayer. Peace. Peace. Peace… Please.

Sometime later, I said adieu to the temple, promising to be back. Someday.

India’s last village

After breakfast, we hopped back into the bus to visit Mana Gaon, India’s last village with its India’s Last Teashop among other things.  Where the present and the real share space with history and mythology. The little hamlet was quaint beyond belief, with a narrow pathway leading up, and houses on either side with their handkerchief sized gardens that grew mustard, cauliflower and cabbage in abundance.

There were wayside vendors selling handmade woollen sweaters and carpets, and every Garhwali woman in her thick, dark, maxi-like dress seemed busy with something: washing and sorting cut wool, weaving, sewing, peddling spices and other goods to tourists or carrying loads up and down the narrow path.

Walking further, we stepped on to a piece of land where Mahabharata and Ramayana, so far deemed mythology, came alive. Here’s from where Vyasa dictated the Mahabharata and here’s where Ganeshji sat and wrote it down. That’s Bheem Pul, Bheembali brought that huge rock as a bridge for Draupadi to cross the river, and that gateway up there, that’s where she – Draupadi – fell during Vanaprastha, and ascended to heaven. Chauhanji revelled in the narration. To me, everything seemed surreal.

Vyas Podhi

Stunning view from Mana

The Himalayas have a way of taking your breath away at unexpected moments. One such was the when I first saw the site where two great rivers, Saraswathi and Alaknanda, originate. I have not seen anything awe-inspiring like that in my limited life, nor do I expect to, ever – unless I return to that place someday. But when I look at the carefully clicked photos from there, I despair – my camera fell completely short of capturing the magnificence of the sight ahead of me. The 2D images I now have hardly do justice to it.

It was nature at her grandest, beyond anything the human mind or technology ccould hope to encompass.   

Where the rivers originate

Our return journey was uneventful, yet incredibly tedious. We stayed that night in a hotel in Peepalkoti, and continued the journey early next morning – a journey that lasted until past 11 at night. On the way we stopped at Haridwar where most of us bought gifts to take back home. It was during that trip back that we passengers really thawed to each other, sharing jokes and stories and photographs of family and friends – just before we were to go our separate ways.

View from the entrance of Mana Gaon

Teacher and her son were staying in the same guesthouse, and as our flights were around the same time, we left for the airport together on the evening of the 12th.

When we parted, there were no promises to meet or keep in touch – I suppose we had seen too much of life to make promises of that sort. “You have my number. Call me if possible when you come to Kerala, and I’d be really happy. Come over if you can, sit at our table and share our meal. It will please us. If you are able to, no stress.” Teacher hugged me and walked over to her gate, with her son leading the way.

The mountainside I left behind

I waited for my flight, watching the sun set over Delhi, thinking of them, thinking of our trip, thinking of my home, my life, and my ghosts… The ones I had laid to rest.

Had I, really?

Again, there has been no epiphany, no miracle. Yet, looking back from the distance of more than a month, I see a shift. A subtle one – just a single degree, perhaps…a tiny seed sown deep within. One I hope will take root, eventually.

Bheem Pul

Where rivers meet

  …to continue the notes of a first-time pilgrim

Sokanasini

October 5 – 10, 2015

A river runs through it – the college where I did my graduation. ‘Sokanasini’ they call her. As in ‘the one who ends grief’.

I had spent some of my happiest hours there, by her banks, with some of the finest people I have known in my life. My friends who did better than all the king’s soldiers and all the king’s men in putting me together.

The river was my friend too. I had sat in contented silence on her banks, hidden from the world by teak and acacia trees, dreaming impossible dreams. We, my friend Honey and I, had talked, laughed, read poetry and shared secrets as only the very young could have. We had waded through the weeds to sit on rocks, sighing as her gentle waters caressed our feet. At such times, I had almost believed that all was well with the world.

Sokanasini… Who had named her thus? Another lost soul who must have, at some point, allowed their pain to be washed away by her gentle waters?

Who names rivers anyway?

As our bus wove its way through mountain roads, there was always a river that accompanied us: Alakananda, Mandakini, Bhagirathi, Saraswathi, Ganga, Dhauliganga, Pindar… Chanting those names in the loud silence of my head, I had wondered, a hundred times during the bus journey, who names rivers? 

These beautiful names that originate in the heart and roll out of the tongue in whispers. Teasing, sensuous… yet somehow aloof. Names that carry a wealth of meaning, just like the water that meanders its way through rocks and bramble, a world of secrets glinting in its jade-coloured depths.

Our guide Chauhanji had told us stories. Stories of Ganga who once made her queenly way through the heavens. Who at first laughed at Bhagirath who pleaded with her to come down and bless the earth. And who eventually decided to relent at the behest of Vishnu. Stories of Shiva who conceded to absorb her impact, thus taming her into what she eventually became.

Chauhanji told us about Saraswathi who disappears into the earth right at her birthplace in the Himalayas, and surfaces only at Allahabad…

There were more recent stories too. Of the time when these rivers raged through Himalayan valleys, punishing, erasing everything in their path. Stories repeated at each new scene of devastation. Chauhanji pointed out to us the ravages of that flood, all the way to the top. Damaged roads, destroyed mountainsides, wasted lives…

Water – the giver and taker of life. Untouched by all it touches.

Then he showed us where they meet, the rivers. These confluences, prayags as they are called, are considered holy, with much history and myth associated with each. And not without reason. There is something awe-inspiring about them, even when you merely see them from a distance.

Two rivers that wind their way down mountainsides, each carrying its own secrets, its own stories, its own hues. Converging, unwillingly at first, as evident from the differing shades of jade they maintain for quite a distance. And eventually, just out of our sight, they learn to accept each other – with all the commitment of two souls that have decided to journey forward in accord.

United they flow.

I lost track of the details of prayags we came across on the way, but I know there were five – Panchprayag, as they are known. Their names are as resonant as those of the rivers that meet.’Vishnu Prayag, Nand Prayag, Karn prayag, Rudra Prayag and Dev Prayag, in the descending flow sequence of their occurrence’ as Wikipedia tells me.

To me, they are a confluence of beauty: nature at her best. Green and blue and every shade in between; sometimes calm and tranquil, sometimes turbulent and moody – always, always, heartbreakingly lovely. At times, while browsing through the photographs from those days, I chant the names: Rudraprayag, Vishnuprayag, Devaprayag…

Who named them, these prayags? The one who named Haridwar as the door to the Lord and Rishikesh as the hair of the saint…and decided to call the land beyond as Devabhoomi, the land of Gods? Someone with bright eyes and endless curiosity, who loved the sound of Sanskrit words and would listen to it in the stillness of the mountains? One who revelled in the depth of meaning buried in those syllables? And a group of like-minded others who sat around a fire and listened to his/her stories, seeing the wisdom in them?

Perhaps. 

 

 

 

Notes from Kedarnath, Lord of the Mountains

October 7, 2015

A twilit afternoon. The sunlight that accompanied our chopper all the way from Phata abandons us just as we step down on the tarmac. The air is different here – crisp, blue and bitingly cold. Mountain peaks that appeared a friendly green from the helicopter loom intimidatingly dark from ground level, their tips lost among thick white clouds rapidly turning grey.  At a distance, you see the temple, Kedarnath, lord of the mountains – grey, ancient, majestic, aloof… and one with nature. 

A moment later it begins to drizzle – large, ice-cold drops that fall with searing randomness on exposed skin.

Despite the noise and presence of hundreds – vendors, visitors and officials stationed here – there is a prevalent silence, a solitude that urges you to speak in hushed tones. You look around in awe, suddenly, acutely aware of your own insignificance in the grand scheme of things.

Intruder, know thyself: you may visit, but you don’t belong.

Kedarnath, inadequately captured

***

The morning of the 7th is a blur.

I had to go through my set of unusually out-of-focus photographs to recall the events of the day properly. Photos, the app that has replaced iPhoto on my Mac, is better than me at documentation. It shows the time and location of each photo taken, which I find amazing. Technology has been a continual source of fascination for me, much to the amusement of my boys. They find my naiveté funny, at times exasperating, as I often come up with ‘new discoveries’ that they have been using for God knows how long. Their “Ammmaaaa….!” (roll eyes, shake heads) is a familiar part of my life. 

These hills, valleys and rivers the colour of jade…

And so, thanks to Photos, I know that we were in the bus at 6:17 am, trudging up the Shivalik ranges. The idea was to reach Sitapur by late afternoon, settle there for the day, perhaps look at some temples around and visit Kedarnath the next day.

There was a noticeable sombreness at the mention of Kedarnath – I am not sure whether it was due to the still vivid memory of the devastating floods of 2013, or the mere fact that it is located at an altitude of 11,755 ft above sea level. We had opted to skip the 4 – 5 hour trek for a 10 minute ride in a helicopter to save time.

I watched mesmrised from the bus as the first rays of the sun fell on the mountainside and reflected on the waters of Mandakini meandering across the Shivalik valley.

Oh glory!

On the way we stopped for breakfast at a partially abandoned petrol station, where our duo of cooks conjured up a sumptuous spread, complete with semolina halwa. They were obviously up cooking breakfast and lunch while we were still in bed.

Back in the bus post breakfast, there was a sudden change of plans, as rumours that helicopter workers were going on strike the next day came via the phone lines. After another round of calls and consultation, we decided that the Kedarnath visit that was to happen the next day was better advanced to that very afternoon, just in case. As Chauhanji assured us, we could still make it if we rushed to the helipad at Phata. But then, when you’re heaving uphill the Himalayas through barely existing roads, there was only so much you could hurry!

The helipad at Phata from where the journey begins

We reached the helipad at sometime around 2:00 pm. There were rumours (again) that Kedarnath temple would close at three, which caused mild panic. The officials there, however, kept reassuring us that we would be able to make it on time. They advised us to leave our bags behind and carry only the bare minimum weight. The kind of precautions they were taking made me slightly wary, though it was also good to see that nothing was being taken for granted. The usual ‘chalta hai’ attitude was refreshingly absent.

The helicopter ride was uneventful though I could see that my fellow passengers were quite tense – they had done their research and were keenly aware of the risks involved. I had not; so my ignorance proved to be my bliss. Or perhaps I have a diminished sense of danger in certain contexts.

The surreal feeling that gripped me as I stepped out of the helicopter intensified as I walked up to the temple. I could feel my lungs crying out for oxygen, and like others, I was also panting loudly. It was pure will power that kept my legs moving forward. Till I reached the temple.

Intruder, know thyself.

Stepping inside the ancient stone portals was sublime. Maybe it was because of the camphor being used there in the temple (they say camphor replenishes good old O2), but I was no longer aware of my thirsty lungs, nor my aching legs. All I felt then was this overwhelming need to let go… Of everything. And just be, secure in the belief that everything would take care of itself. 

Sitting in front of the ‘swayambhu’ (self-manifested) Shivaling, automatically obeying the instructions of the poojari, I wept. Without inhibitions. Like a child. Maybe there is a child in all of us, biding time?

The best thing about travelling with strangers is that their presence does not intimidate you. It doesn’t matter if they think of you as silly, crazy or worse. You are secure in the transience of your relationship. Here today, gone tomorrow. Good while it lasts. That’s it. There is a sense of liberation that comes with that knowledge.  

Brahmakamal, state flower of Uttarakhand

We were back at the helipad, sipping some much needed, overly sweet tea and waiting our turn with the chopper. Suddenly, as if out of nowhere, the ground was sprinkled with what seemed like white crystals – someone up there had decided to add a handful of salt to the already exotic mix of weather! In a matter of an hour or so, we sailed through sunshine, mist, drizzle-turned-almost-rain, and now hail/snow!

sunshine/mist/rain/hail

Flying back in a warm haze of profound gratitude, I looked out of the window, up at the clouds and the invisible sun beyond. Without thought, just taking it all in. The magic of the temple, the weather, the mountains, clouds… The lush white clouds. 

As I watched, the clouds parted, and in a moment of divine glory, white, dazzling sunlight streamed down on the world! And then it passed – just like that – leaving me wondering if it were the fantasy of an oxygen-deprived brain. 

Then, as if to prove me wrong, a moment later came a second display, as gloriously spectacular as the first. I was speechless. Up there, within view of that temple nestled among rainclouds, it felt natural to believe in miracles. I know I did.

Throughout the way back, the discussion was about the 2013 floods, and the unspeakable loss of lives and resources that happened in its wake. Chauhanji had first hand experience of the horrors as he had been on the road with a group that was doing the Char Dham yatra, on their way back from Yamunotri. (Or was it Gangotri? I don’t remember.) He recounted them to us with a surprising lack of drama, which in retrospect was more effective on the whole.

It was a subdued group that got down the bus in front of a desolate looking hotel in a valley at Sitapur.  The mountains, valleys and rivers, the precariously positioned roads, the changing weather, the grim physical signs of a past disaster unfolding around us, were all beginning to get into our system.

The sun set to the quietude of the evening… passive, patient, accepting.

It’s too bad (or is it?) that my pilgrimage consisted mostly of moments unphotographed than otherwise. I’m reminded of the scene in The Namesake where Irrfan Khan’s Ashoke Ganguli says to his son: “All this and no picture, huh? We just have to remember it then. Will you remember this day, Gogol?”

I’ll just have to remember it then. Remember that I went to this place where there was nowhere left to go.

Notes of a First-time Pilgrim: Experiencing the Ganga

Selfie by the Ganga

October 6, 2015:

I remember a friend once telling me that one had to travel alone to truly appreciate the generosity this universe has to offer. I think of her now, as I write this. I thought of her at odd moments during the entire trip, each time the warmth of the world’s goodness reached out and touched me…filling me with a profound sense of gratitude. 

Maybe that is what pilgrimage is – the quest for the intangible good, within and without, relinquishing all sense of entitlement…  

Sights in passing – from Haridwar to Rishikesh at daybreak

“Kahin yeh toh woh do number wali madam nahi hain?” A man, whom I later came to know was our tour guide Chauhanji, asked the lady manning the desk at Panicker Travels’ office. She confirmed that I was indeed the madam slotted for seat number two of the rather tired-looking bus that was revving on the roadside. If Chauhanji looked a wee bit disappointed at the sight of the jean-clad Amazon towering ahead of him, he covered it up quickly enough and bravely welcomed me.

Eight of us, all noticeably South Indian: three couples looking at retirement, a rather angry-looking man who sat down in the seat behind mine and started staring balefully outside without speaking to anyone (he maintained the stare and the silence throughout the trip!), and yours truly. We settled down inside the bus, which was still waiting for someone.

Soon they arrived in a noisy bustle: a lady who appeared to be in her 50s, accompanied by a young man somewhere in his late twenties or early thirties, evidently from Kerala.

And we were ready to go.

Chauhanji took out his mic. Chauhanji and his mic were to be an integral part of our trip henceforth, briefing us on the places we would be visiting each day, the logistics thereof, and the history and spiritualsignificance of each. He started out with a small sermon on the importance of praying and maintaining a positive spirit throughout the rather tough journey ahead of us as ten pairs of tired and apprehensive eyes stared back silently at him.

Chauhanji…

…and his mic

Our first stop was a Ganesha temple in Delhi where, true to tradition, the necessary pooja was done for the bus and its passengers to reach Badrinath and return safely, without hitches.

We scrambled back into the bus, made ourselves as comfortable as we could, given the fact that this was no luxury bus we were travelling in, and tried to sleep. Our guide, in the meantime, introduced us to the crew: the driver and his adolescent son, a young assistant, Chauhanji himself and two cooks. The latter would serve us fresh, hot food thrice a day wherever we were stationed, plus bed coffee as room service.

I was half-asleep through the first leg of the journey that deposited us sometime before dawn in a hotel in the vicinity of Haridwar.

Note: The word ‘hotel’ is a euphemism from here onward. The places we stayed in kept us mindful of the fact that this was pilgrimage, not picnic, that we were embarked on. In the course of the trip, I learned to be thankful for simple things like running water, working toilets and decent meals served on time.

Nothing like a pilgrimage to help you sort out the priorities of life.

The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel

And the view thereof

We started for Rishikesh after breakfast. It was there that I first encountered the Ganga – wide, seemingly calm, with temples and closely packed buildings on either bank. We crossed the river across Lakshman Jhula to begin the temple run – temple walk, actually.

Oh we walked, and how! From temple to temple, from temple to cable car and back, from there to the boat that would take us across the Ganga, and beyond to the rickety tea-stall that sold divine ginger tea, then to the cab and finally the bus…

The Ganga at Rishikesh

I find it tough now to keep track of all the temples we visited… What I have is my notebook, where I had made random entries – paragraphs, sentences, at times words – to jog my memory. But those notes stop short of specifics. My bad. 

The cable car that took us to Mansa Devi temple off Rishikesh

From the boat in which we crossed the Ganga

My first entry on that first day, written sometime in the afternoon, reads as follows:

And here I am on this journey, this quest for peace, for a miracle. In the hope that the chaos, the noise within that has risen to a self-devouring crescendo, will subside, dissipate… For, why else had I come? 

Yet, so far there has been no epiphany.

Strange, our temple cities are. Where sanctity co-exists in an uneasy truce with  filth. Where the divine is peddled on street-sides – both by hunger and by greed – to the bewilderment of the seeker.  Where one had to pick one’s way to God with extreme care and caution…

The other side of pilgrimage

And then there is the Ganga, who seems inured to it all, untouched as much by the impurities as by the teeming human presence. She just meanders on with the grace and majesty of a queen.

That has been the single moment of truth thus far – seeing the Ganga, touching it.

For some reason my mind keeps ruminating on differences – between cities, landscapes, cultures, people… between the north and the south… between the temples and rituals thereof…  

The placid Ganga at Rishikesh

I miss the histrionics of south Indian temples, here in the north, where the Gods seem more approachable. Here, one can go right up to the idol, even touch it! Which oddly fazes me, used as I am to the sanctimony of the temples in the south.

There is drama in way the half-clad poojari goes into the ‘garbha griha’ – the sanctum sanctorum – and closes the door behind him… Mystery in the muted sounds of the rites happening inside which no ordinary mortal is privy to, anticipation in the sound of edakka (a small drum shaped like an hour-glass) as we wait with bated breath, praying…

Thrill in the increased pitch of edakka and the rising bass of the ‘sankh’ – conch shell – punctuated by the gong of bronze bells as the doors are suddenly thrown open…  A taste of the mystical at the sight of the dark stone idol lit by a hundred lamps, seen through the haze of incense and camphor smoke… Shock in the sharp spray of holy water that the poojari sprinkles from his lofty heights… Fever in the chanting and occasional loud wails from the waiting crowd…  

Krishnaaa…Krishna, Krishna, Krishnaa…

And pathos. In the streaming eyes, mumbling lips, arms raised in supplication to the divine…

Theatre at its best.

Rudraksh (L) and sandalwood trees at Rishikesh

In the evening, we went to Brahma Kund in Haridwar (or Hardwar) – the ‘dwar’, entrance, to what they call the Devabhoomi, abode of Gods. To take part in Ganga Aarti. 

Ganga, the one that washes away all mortal sins… There was a sudden change in her demeanour here, as if the placid child in Rishikesh had suddenly grown up into a haughty young woman – surefooted, impatient and dismissive of the adoring crowd who waited on her. I could feel her forcefulness, determination, even before I took the first tentative step into her icy waters. 

Ganga at Brahma Kund – Haridwar

Diya jale…

What sins was I hoping to wash off that day, as I stepped into those waters? I don’t know. “Kayena vacha, manasendriyairva…” Surrendering my thoughts, words and deeds, my heart, mind and senses here, at your feet…

She was ravenous, the Ganga, her strong arms pulling me into the depths of her being before my feet could touch the bottom. Death, in retrospect, was just a matter of letting go.

Did I pray? I don’t know. If praying is remembering the ones you lost even as you grit your teeth and lower yourself into the ice-cold waters… If praying is holding on, despite, clinging to the metal chain that was the only thing that stopped you from being carried away by the undercurrent… If praying is desperately acknowledging your own insignificance and surrendering to the will of the universe even for a short while… Then yes, I prayed. Fervently. 

Why did I feel an overwhelming sense of pain as I climbed out of the water? Why did it feel as if my heart would break? Who was I weeping for? Again, there are no answers.

The ones I love, the ones I lost, the ones I wanted to send off in peace… and myself, lost as I am. 

Later, waiting on the banks for the Aarti to begin, I could feel a sense of calm, tranquility, settling in. Idly I recalled  Haridwaril Mani Muzhangunnu (The Bells Toll in Haridwar), the title of a book by Malayalam writer M. Mukundan, that had affected me deeply, back in my teenage days.

Ganga Aarti at Brahma Kund, Haridwar

And there, unfolding before me, was a scene I would forever remember: the restless river in the darkening twilight, the little diyas floating away briskly… The larger-than-life Aarti, and the cold air reverberating with the chant of the thousands that had come to wash off their sins in these waters, the sound of gongs and bronze bells…

My first touch of the spiritual.

***

Random shots from Rishikesh: 

Alpha male at rest

A bench that has seen a lot of life

Fodder for fish

Holy cow! Moo, please.

Notes of a First-time Pilgrim: the Beginning

The Himalayas as I saw it

What is it that drives a person to attempt the seemingly impossible? To step over the boundaries of their small world and venture into what can only be described as a previously unthinkable course of action?

What made me gather my non-existent time and resources, pack my bags, leave my family behind and head to the Himalayas with a group of strangers…? 

There is no answer, really. Or if there is one, it is complex. So complex that I can’t begin to comprehend it myself. 

Let’s just say that there were ghosts that needed to be laid to rest.

This earth, this beautiful earth…

Maybe it was time, as they say?

Or perhaps the Himalayas decided to be merciful to someone who urgently needed to quieten the chaos in her head, before it swallowed her whole…

The latter, most definitely… Yes. For without that mercy, one could not have made it there and back. I know. 

Plus the support of some amazing friends, not to mention my forever tolerant family. I’m sure not many families would listen to a declaration of ‘I’m going to Badrinath’ without batting an eye-lid. And then proceed to do what it takes to make it happen. Not where I come from. Maybe these are what they call blessings… 

“Go. Go experience the Himalayas. Badrinath…they call it Moksh-dham, you see. For the simple reason that there’s nothing beyond it, there’s nothing more to seek. Go, pray. It will give you peace!” he said, my doctor who had long ago adopted me as his family. Having had to deal with the physical manifestations of my restless spirit for years now, he understands my needs only too well. 

Leaving Sharjah behind

October 4, 2015:

The moment my flight takes off has always been a sublime one for me. This time, it bordered on the surreal. There was the familiar sense of thrill – perhaps a residue of what drove Icarus to fly towards the sun, the primal human urge to conquer the skies. Laced with a tinge of fear. Then the sense of liberation that always comes with leaving behind one’s dailyness and heading towards the different. An exhilaration that bubbles upward from the gut, making one smile for no reason at the receding earth outside the window.

…to fly o’er hills and vales…

For one strange moment, I felt as if I was watching myself in the third person. Watching a confused, multi-tasking, middle-aged wife and mother of two attempting what had thus far seemed impossible – at least in her particular context. I watched her respond to the lure of the unknown as if hypnotised, and marvelled at it. 

…and lands unknown…

Looking out of the window that afternoon, all the usual sights of a day flight seemed doubly precious to me – the way the land curved around the sea, the glint of the sun on water, the rock formations, the clouds… the earth itself. As if I was seeing it all for the first time. As if I wanted to etch every little detail of the trip in my consciousness so I won’t forget it, ever. 

…to reach Delhi skies…

The sky over Delhi was different from the one over Dubai – in places. In the sense that it looked down on river Yamuna. From that altitude, the pollution was not visible, thankfully. 

…and down I went to start my journey…

It was dusk when I landed at Indira Gandhi International Airport, New Delhi. A dusk that seemed like a duplicate of Dubai dusks, maybe a perfect setting to start off my Himalayan quest. 

…as the sun set the stage.

I was on my way. To Badrinath… in search of peace.