GANGA HEAVEN

The following post has been ready to upload for 4 days, but heavy rains in the north have left huge amounts of people and towns with no water, no electricity and no internet. Plus, I have come down with a wretched cold and can hardly get out of bed. But I’m not dying, have staggered up the road to the internet cafe to touch base with life outside India and am in the safest of hands in a beautiful ashram. Hari Om!

Ok-doke….so where were we? Had I gone dancing at a pre-wedding party in Ajmer? Don’t think so. Had I drummed on the banks of Pushkar lake at sunset? Definitely not….

So, I had made it to the seductive hippie town of Pushkar and was waiting for my friend Christine to appear, as if by magic. Power cuts and crazy rains brought my first day to an early, most welcome close. I curled up in bed and listened to the kids from upstairs bumping and giggling their way around.

I went to sleep dreaming of yoga, my first class since the dreadful one in Jaipur took place the next morning bright and early. I forced Raju, (a cross-eyed, disabled character who knows everyone and everything about Pushkar), to bike me through the huge puddles and mounds of mud to Yogesh’s Pushkar Yoga Garden. He was surprised to see me bright and early, when it was so cold and drippy but found me a dry spot and pootled off to drop his daughter at school. His friendly wife Deepa kept me in conversation about Karnataka and their visitors.

It was such a treat to be in a class of only 2 people, (seems the rain had kept everyone except one resident away), on a rooftop way out of town with the mountains in the background and the birds chirping, surrounded by that delicious, fresh post-rain fragrance. The sun kept breaking through and I attempting a head stand, where the reward was an upside down mountain top. 

After a decent walk back into town, I ambled into Laura’s Café (irresistible) and found the best tea and porridge - coconut and cinnamon, my invention - in town. Soon Christine appeared on the Paramount rooftop and we caught up on all since we had met at Jaipur. Like so many, she’d gone on to the Delhi Art Fair and it sounded like a lush event. It was Christine who encouraged my Jaisalmer missions and introduced me to the Khans. We attempted to out talk each other.

Jealous of my yoga, we set off to do an afternoon session, which never materialised despite 3 attempts at Mama Luna (it’s advertised as free and every arvo - "but it's the off season"). Instead, we went to visit a friend of C’s, a hairdresser called Mahaveer. He welcomed us into his tiny salon and gave a gentleman customer the most incredible shave as we chatted, it was pure artistry. He invited us to a party in Ajmer that night, to celebrate a cousin’s wedding - the penultimate night is when the bride and groom party separately, in their respective family's homes. It is often the most fun night of all, as the actual wedding is usually rather staid and everyone is exhausted. We made plans to meet later in Ajmer.

I was keen to visit the only Brahmin temple in India and then took the Prasad (blessed sweets) to the lake to make a wish at the Nandi temple. It didn’t take long for a familiar drum beat to beckon us, as Christine was welcomed to take part in the regular Pushkar sunset jam. I sat back and as the sun sank below the mountains that encircle the beautiful lake. I couldn’t imagine wanting to be anywhere else in the world.

Wary of time slipping away, we had a quick munch, donned some party garb and leapt on a moving bus to Ajmer. On arrival, Mahandeer and his friend Deepak picked us up on motorbikes and deposited us in the midst of a frantic feast. Hundreds of people were lined up on mats eating a huge dinner. We were told in no uncertain terms that we must eat and it was impossible to stop the tide of food. Various guys hung around trying to actually feed us by hand. Christine handled it brilliantly and I, well, I tried. It’s quite hard being force fed sweet dessert by a stranger when you’re trying to eat your main course with your hands. In record time, we consumed a mountain of food and then the boys zoomed us off on their bikes to the groom’s house.

I really wish I had photos of what transpired. One old woman attempted to teach me Rajasthani dance and got annoyed at the inelegance of my outfit, so she took me into a back room and dressed me up in a pink flowery skirt and red saree. Christine soon appeared in hot pink and for at least the next hour, we were constantly pushed in the middle of a huge pack of people to dance under the bright lights of the video camera to all sorts of crazy music. It was hilarious. I kept dragging the women in to show me how to move and after a few minutes, they always ended up in fits of laughter at my ridiculous attempts. It was hypnotic, the way their long fingers created beautiful shapes, the way they moved their hips and their eyes.

Earlier that day, I’d bought a bus ticket to the holy city of Haridwar = The Gate of Heaven - the closest city to Rishikesh. It would have been too easy to spend my last week farting about in Pushkar, so a few nights was all I allowed myself. Due to the impending bus trip, I was adamant that I didn’t want to spend the night in Ajmer. I knew I had a hellish journey ahead of me (whoah was I right) and I wanted to do yoga again in the morning. So, the boys kindly drove us back, though Deepak’s attempts to hit on me whilst driving his motorbike through the dusty night did get rather annoying and a touch unnerving. To be honest, the consistency with which Indian men ‘have a crack’ does feel unashamedly scattergun. My guess is that they try it on with every single western female of any age, marital status or background. I keep hearing how many yoga teachers have run off with westerners and keep witnessing the sad wreckage of failed love affairs. Luckily Mahandeer is a total sweetheart who recently got married, his wife is studying in Jaipur, and he ensured we all got home safely. Pity his best friend’s a complete hound.

In the morning, yoga was fascinating as almost everyone (quite a big class this time) had Rishikesh stories. It turned out that Yogesh had taught in an ashram there for 2 years (1991-92) when there were limited places you could practice as a westerner. Though today it is yoga city. He recounted how he helped the chef from the ashram where he had worked, get the lease on a little bakery that has since become a thriving business. Last visit, he called by and the man pretended he didn’t know him, ferociously guarding his own patch. Yogesh claims he also gave the man his scooter to sell, as he’d been a loyal worker and had no money. Now he’s a successful business man, he’s suspicious of others’ intentions and can’t even welcome an old friend. This is the absolute opposite of how ‘good’ Indians are supposed to lead their lives, but that is India and life in general I guess – constant contradictions.

The drumming lesson from Nathu’s son, (the Pushkar drumming master of the same name), was the most wonderful farewell. We sat under a ghat in a little stone-walled practice room - Christine, Nathu and I - with a holy man meditating a foot from us and animals wandering nonchalantly by. The drums were soothing and life affirming. I was really sad not to witness Nathu Snr’s return to Pushkar that afternoon, (every night at 5pm someone from the family leads a drumming session to welcome the sunset), as I remember him well from Jaipur years ago. He’s got a huge moustache, big tummy, heavenly laugh and almost no English. His sons are a tribute to him - eloquent and wonderful teachers. A text from Christine the next day told me that Nathu took her to a wedding at a palace where the groom sat on an elephant.

For my final hour in Pushkar, I sat on the Paramount rooftop and got in a slight argument with Raju, who is the most cynical Indian I’ve met. That’s quite an achievement. A lovely Swiss woman, called Fabienne, who I’d smiled at a few times but not spoken to, insisted that I must visit an ashram near Haridwar. As she described the place, her face lit up. She would be appearing there with her beautiful daughter Mira in a few days, while her husband is at Kumbh Mela with a group. Though I’ve been temped by this incredible holy festival, I keep being told that you need proper guidance and it’s dangerous to go alone. Hmmm…

Due to my typical lack of forward planning, I was assigned the last sleeper at the back of a rickety, local bus. I was the only foreigner. My backpack and I were constantly thrown around as the temperature dropped at alarming speed. There were no curtains on this sleeper to keep heat in, so I used my sarong (that’s usually some extra warmth) to create some privacy. I woke up with teeth chattering many times and my feet cold as ice. The windows kept jiggling open. It was an endless, painful trip and the yoga classes had left my body sore. I arrived in Hardiwar after an 18 hour bus trip chilled to the bone and feeling a touch sorry for myself.

As usual, men raced at me as I got off the bus, but I was in no mood for negotiations yet. I needed to thaw out and asked for some peace while I drank chai in the very muddy, rudimentary bus depot. A kind, elderly man told them firmly in Hindi to give me a minute. I sat in the sunshine, contemplating whether to head straight to Rishikesh, or to go first to the ashram which had come highly recommended, but at the very last minute. The city of Haridwar and its ashrams have a reputation as rather austere as it's a very holy city, but I couldn’t face another 40 minutes of travel. Lucienne had assured me that the ashram was only 5 minutes away and worth a stop, even if it was only for a cup of tea and a breath of fresh air.

After negotiations involving the whole gang of rick drivers, I was driven past a staggering scene of temples on the Ganga (Ganges). On we bumped through pot-hole infested alleyways and the driver kept asking more and more people for directions. Finally, the rickshaw pulled up at the gates of the unassuming ashram. Immediately a beggar in orange (sadhu) appeared. The area didn’t look very promising, this place felt a million miles from civilisation. Had I got it horribly wrong? Cripes.

A man with missing front teeth emerged and welcomed me inside, sitting me down in the sunshine. It was so quiet and I closed my eyes for a few moments. When I re-opened them, I was dazzled by the orange flowers that cascaded around me. In full bloom, waterfalls of orange flowers that look rather like honeysuckle drenched every wall inside the perfectly kept compound. When the beautiful Mandakini came to introduce herself, it was clear that she was pregnant. She explained that it was a very quiet time, as most of the ashram staff and guests were at Kumbh Mela but I was most welcome. I felt a surge of relief.

Over a deliciously simple breakfast, I met a fascinating Kiwi who is in her 60s and lives in white robes, having given her life to god. She had just returned from the state of Tamil Nadu and has stopped off to wash her hair and clothes on the way back to her guru. A shy, graceful westerner (Sharmada, an Austrian) skipped about with her eyes down and soon I got talking to an Argentinean girl who was off to Rishikesh. Dana stated loudly that she’s a young Latino who likes to talk - she hoped I didn’t mind, but didn’t really draw breath to find out. By this time, I had a heavnely hot shower and was attempting to get my room in order as we yattered away. After studying, she’d decided to start a 'creche' for kids in the slums of in Buenos Aires. Twice a week she teaches reading and writing to adults there, which is government funded (though the money she sees is minuscule), and she noticed that the kids were interested too, so started up a third session just for kids off her own bat. What began with a few kids has now ballooned to around 20 children of all ages, so she’s had to employ her two best friends. She’s only 22 and the way she spoke about missing ‘her kids’ was just lovely. She's studying full time but spends 3 nights a week helping other, an exceptional youngster.

The food at the ashram is almost all from their garden (oh my gosh to eat fresh salad again!) and the dairy comes from cows kept in the compound. They even make their own gas from the cows and use the dung on the fire that hasn't gone out for 25 years. The atmosphere is light and warm. Mandakini’s husband Vivek appeared and I was entranced as the two of them prepared the fire for the puja/aarti. He sounded a well worn conch and the small gaggle, (two lovely Mexicans appeared who had spent the day in Haridwar), of residents and visitors chanted together and gave thanks to the Ganga. It may sound a bit hokey, but life here is enacted with such dedication, love and devotion it’s impossible not to be swept up in the communal atmosphere. It’s just shanti, shanti, shanti (peaceful).

I love that the place is so empty and calm. I love that I don’t have to lock my door. I love that there aren’t strict rules, that you’re welcome to join in whatever you want. I absolutely love being away from the mayhem and the madness of ‘India proper’ for a moment of reflection. It would have been too easy to stay in Pushkar. This is a sort of paradise and I’m so grateful to Lucienne for suggesting I come. She and Mira arrive in a day or two and I look forward to reconnecting with them. It’s incredible how quickly friendships form and plans mutate – remember those days? Remember what it was like to let the wind blow you? India will take you back, back to yourself and to ancient times. If you let it.

I’ll try and post again soon, but for now I must rest. I am coughing like a banshee and managed to fall on my arse last night during aarti (prayers). I insisted on taking part and my leg went completely to sleep, so when I tried to put weight on my right leg it felt like nothing was there. Next thing I knew, I was on the ground ruining the spell of the puja and now I’m sniffling, snuffling and streaming. Not a pretty sight. Mandikini says that this happens a lot to people when they come to the ashram and that I should just rest. She keeps bringing me delicious tea remedies and soups.

Yesterday I devoured the book ‘Tears of Bliss’, that her German mother wrote about her journey to find her guru. Mandakini’s holy father ‘left his body’ at the last Kumbh Mela (in fact 12 years ago exactly today). They’re planning a special ceremony at the full moon, when Matterji (her mother) is back from Kumbh Mela and there will be 200 sadhus in orange at the ashram. What an incredible sight it will be.  What an astounding family they are. I feel very lucky to be in their care. Typical that I’m sick as a dog in paradise! (Talking of dogs there are 3 here, one is an Alsatian puppy called Shanta who is so naughty, Pushti the golden lab who bounds about eating everything in sight and the huge old brown fellow Managanam is very vocal during prayers.) I’ve been feverishly sleeping today away with the sounds of the cows, monkeys, dogs, guests and the flowing Ganga as a soundtrack. Heaven.