For reasons that I don't completely understand myself, here I am, back in Rishikesh, waiting for the overnight bus back to Dharamsala. This gives me an opportunity to write yet another episode of my Indian saga.
I am now the proud owner of TWO white silk sashes, traditionally given as a sign of respect to spiritual leaders or as a sign of friendship to us common folk. You can buy these things if you want, but receiving them means so much more, and I got mine from two different people. What can I say? I'm so proud.
Life at the Uttarkashi ashram is, as several of the people there pointed out - simply paradise. The ashram is on the banks of the Ganges, surrounded by the Himalayas, with a creaking (not to mention swaying) bridge overhead that leads to the small village across the river (and to the tea-stall from which you – or the local villagers - can actually see straight into our dormitories and meditation hall). The mornings and evenings are always cool (sometimes downright cold), even when the days are hot.
We went on a couple of excursions while I was there - one to a sacred lake in the mountains (sacred because some saint or other challenged the gods for his father's life there); and another - up the mountains, in a valiant attempt to brave the elements and visit the source of the Ganges.
I've already told you about the excitement (terror?) of traveling in an Indian-driven car. I haven't mentioned the road-signs, though. The ones along the mountain road-side are friendly reminders that Alertness Always Avoids Accidents, and you can tell that the Indian road-sign management is making a real effort to be creative, albeit corny. We are told "Road is hilly - don't drive silly", and that "If you sleep, your family will weep". But the all-time favorite at the ashram is "No rush, no rally - enjoy the beauty of the valley", probably because it can be used off the roads, too.
In any case, it seems that the driver of our jeep doesn't really believe any of this. We drove up the mountain, through snow-banks that loomed higher than the roof of the car, over roads that were sort of "cracked open" because the ground under them had been partially washed away by the melting snow. (Yes, and a bit of that road wasn't there when we drove back down - nice to speculate about what if we had been there when it decided to "move on down"...) And of course, boulders that were above the road at some previous time of their life and had washed down into the middle of the road - not to mention cow-sized blobs of snow that had re-positioned themselves onto the road after the snow-plow had gone by - none of these seemed to bother our own private Evil Knevil. So what if the space between the boulder and the edge of the precipice was just an inch less than the width of the jeep? If you don't try, you'll never know, right? At one point, I simply got out of the jeep (and I wasn't alone), figuring - he can do his balancing act without me in the jeep.
Then, there were the waterfalls, one of which came down directly in the middle of the road. We received the benefit of a natural carwash, which included an internal wash AND a personal shower, at no extra cost, because naturally - the jeep was an open one.
Actually, I really needed the shower. It seems that I am unique, in that I have never suffered from any kind of motion-sickness. This entitled me to be the permanent occupant of the back of the jeep, from where I kept sticking my head out the back end of the jeep to see the scenery. Needless to say, by the time I climbed out of there, I had a brand new skin color - black, with shining specks. These specks were caused by the tiny bits of mica that form part of the mountains' content. When you're sitting in the back, watching everything through the haze of the dust that the jeep keeps kicking up - you first get the feeling that there must be something wrong with your eyes (or your brain) - because everything - the sky, the far-away mountains, the close trees, the road - it all glitters faintly. The little shining glitter-specks look like the flashing lights that you see when you're about to faint, or when you've had your head down for a really long time and then you suddenly come up. And then, you don't faint, and you realize that it's not you - it's them. The dust glitters, and now - so do my pants, my T-shirt, and my ears. I tried to wash it out, I really did - but some of those glitters will probably come home with me.
Anyway, we finally came to a huge (fir?) tree that had fallen across the road, and even our dare-devil driver couldn't coax his jeep to take wings and fly over it. (And I could tell he was actually considering it.) This was about two kilometers from Gangotri, which was our official destination. So everybody got out and started walking. Pretty soon, the thin air of the high altitude got to me (isn't it nice to have something to blame?) - so I sat by the side of the road and waited for the rest of the guys to walk there and back (about two hours). The loud BOOM that I heard while I was waiting was the tree being blown up by road workers, who chopped a few holes into the tree-trunk and tossed in some explosives - so now I have a bit of exploded tree as a souvenir.
Anyway, now I'm back in Rishikesh, after having left that particular part of heaven to a group of people who came for the "Sadhana Intensive" course – which means that for the next two weeks, they will be sitting cross-legged, eyes closed, and holding their noses while they breathe from one nostril and then the other. You may laugh all you like, but I have been to one of those classes, and I am here to tell you that it really does weird things to your mind.
Back in Rishikesh, the music stalls are still blaring out devotional hymns, the orange-sheeted saddhus are still shoving their tin pails in your face for a coin or a slice of bread, and the cows are still roaming the market place. (Some of the cows have each horn growing in a different direction, which gives them a jaunty, devil-may-care look (like they've just come back from a drinking party, maybe) - but the horns sometimes look like they're pointing back towards their heads, I'm wondering if a cow has ever gored it's own head...) Crossing a narrow, swaying suspension bridge is an interesting experience, when you've got cows, motor-scooters, beggars and ice-cream trolleys to look out for, in addition to the monkeys hanging from the suspension ropes, that can and will jump you if you look like you might have something good to eat.
Tonight promises another fun-filled, twelve-hour drive up to Macleod Ganj, sleeping in a bus seat. At least, this time, I know where I'm going (which is a novelty for me).
