By 8 a.m. sadhus, sanyasins, spiritual seekers and plain old tourists amble leisurely alongside the sandy banks of the mythic river where schools of huge fish are fed offerings of puffed rice. Shops and restaurants open for business and begging babas encamped at the foot of the Laxman Jhula bridge intone Hari Aum with open palms inviting “donations” of baksheesh. Bearded Western men and women wearing kutas or salwaar kameez scurry to yoga and meditation classes. Hawkers in Laxman Jhula’s entrance square begin their hawking: peacock feather fans, maps, cheap cameras….
When the sun begins to thaw the early morning chill, tourists and Indians alike dip in the sacred river, a ritual for some, a new experience for others. At sunset, poojas will be performed on the ghats of Ram Jhula and a further calm will descend upon an already tranquil village. A typical day in Rishikesh….
Reputed as the “yoga capital of the world,” the village -- which lies at 356 meters on the right bank of Ganga and is surrounded on three sides by Himalayan ranges -- is also known as a celestial abode from where pilgrims launch arduous journeys to such spiritual highland outposts as Badrinath, Kedernath, Gangotri and Yamunotri. According to legend, Rishikesh derived its name when God, under the moniker “Hrishikesh,” appeared while Raibhya Rishi was carrying out hard penances in this area. It is also believed to be the site where Vishnu vanquished the demon Madhu and where Bharata, brother of Lord Rama, subjected himself to severe penance. Bharata temple was later constructed with the town of Rishikesh sprouting up around it.
Rishikesh gained further fame -- or infamy -- in the ‘60s when the Beatles studied here with their guru, the Maharishi Mahesh Yogi. Meditating and embracing Eastern philosophy, the pioneering artists created some of their most mystical music in the now abandoned Ashram that sits majestically at the tip of Ram Jhula. Dubbed the “The Beatles Ashram,” the rambling remains of a not-so-distant past is now over-run by assertive monkeys who have laid claim to the crumbling buildings and round river-view stone huts (presumably the dwellings inhabited by the band members) and tangles of trees that strangle the once orderly pathways through the sprawling estate. Vestiges of a fabled history can occasionally be found in the debris -- books, ledgers, and the like.
Twenty four kilometers to the south of this peaceful enclave lies Haridwar, whose name literally means “Gateway To The Gods.” A small bustling holy city situated at the point where the Ganges merges from the high Himalaya to begin its slow progress across the plains, Haridwar is notable for hosting every 12 years the Kumbh Mela, an event of great import which attracts millions of pilgrims who bathe in the hallowed waters of the Ganga. Kumbh Mela takes place every three years, consecutively at Allahabad, Nasik, Ujjain and Haridwar. Despite extensive safety precautions and the implacable sanctity of the spiritual convention, however, a tragedy occurred here in 1986 when 50 people were killed in a stampede to the river and dozens others were drowned in the powerful unseen undercurrent.
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Back in Rishikesh on the third day of my third visit here. It’s barely 8:30 a.m. Booming bass and screaming vocals jolt us awake, as though loud speakers were surreptitiously hidden beneath our pillows. The town is jumping and awash in lavish color. Gangs of mostly kids yell, laugh, sing, and prowl the streets looking for victims to barrage with colored powder. A party is in progress, one that began the previous night with symbolic bonfires throughout the village. It is March 15, 2006 and this is Holi, aka known as the Color Festival, one of Hindu India’s most eminent celebratory days. Across the nation, Indians are shrouded in hues of green, pink, red, yellow and blue with women, atypically, almost equally participating in the melee. There is not a white or brown face to be seen. Today everyone is a member of the rainbow race. Cows and dogs are not spared, the helpless beasts boasting unnatural hides in shades of fuscia and lime.
This is my third consecutive Holi festival. The first, experienced in Varkala, Kerala, was mild and fleeting as celebrants coyly asked permission before dousing you with color. Last year in Pushkar, another of India’s highly holy cities, the scene was quite different. Good fun succumbed to aggression as uncharacteristically drunk Indians in this normally dry village amassed in the town center to sometimes violently accost the foreigners. Women’s blouses were ripped from their torsos, asses grabbed (including mine), the occasional punch thrown. I was physically detained by several Indian men while others poured liquefied color over my head, temporarily blinding me and less temporarily rendering my ears pink and my hair green. Distorted techno music blasted from massive public speakers and the small square was throbbing with human flesh. Here in Rishikesh, where alcohol is also forbidden, a few pathetic skirmishes erupted but the vibe was less hostile, never heating to the fever pitch of last year’s Pushkar episode. By 3 p.m. Holi was over and Rishikesh quietly reverted back to its serene normalcy, the yelping of a few hungry dogs now the only sounds to be heard.
By Suzan Crane -- the Global Gypsy Girl
posted by Jacqueline
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Jacqueline
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