There and Back Again.

"This is not what I expected."

Sitting in the Chennai airport, Rebecca just voiced what we both were thinking. In order to satiate our hunger, we had picked what has appeared to be the most edible food item in the airport: a vegetarian sandwich on white. Unfortunately, it was the saddest sandwich I had ever eaten; nothing more than white bread, two slices of old tomato, a bit of crumbled mozzarella, and luke-warm mayonnaise. They generously threw in some ketchup packets for flavor, which only made the sandwich more soggy and pathetic; which, I am glad to add, was not an indication for the rest of the trip. 

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For those who haven’t been following: I recently returned from a semester abroad to India through my university. The only people on the program for this last semester were Linsey and Becca, both of whom I love dearly! After three months of research in Vishakhapatnam, we decided to take our allotted break and travel around the country.

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First stop was technically Delhi, but we were only there for a few hours before hopping on a local bus headed to Agra. An impermeable haze shrouded all but the nearest rice paddy; yet that same haze lent an exotic distinction to the domed temples lining the highway. Rural India emerges and as it unfolds I could almost hear the low hum of a sitar calling me to travel each one of those dusty roads. Camels and water-buffalo pull carts of hay past the cement and palm leaf huts, women in saris carry huge textile bundles on their heads, and men gather around each local chai stand. The peaceful rhythm of pastoral life is like a salve after the busy Delhi streets.

Agra is a dusty tourist trap, but I loved it. The old red walls and forts of colonial times feel strange when juxtaposed with independent India’s most famous monument, the Taj Mahal. Various cycle and auto rickshaws vie for our attention as we walk along the street, but we hardly noticed them as we are consumed with the reality of the Taj Mahal’s turrets rising over the trees. 

We are here.

One exorbitant fee and three gates later, we reached The Gate framing the Taj. Any fear I had that I would be disappointed vanished as soon as I saw it; it is much more magnificent than any picture can capture. We spent at least 3-4 hours wandering the grounds and out buildings as well as the inside of the Taj, itself.

We caught a late-night train out of Agra to Jaipur, leaving the station around ten; arrived in Jaipur in the early morning, headed straight to our hotel, and slept for the next seven hours. Our day began in the old downtown, known to most as the Pink City due to the pink (now slightly orange) tint of the buildings. As our tour of the city ended, we pulled into the parking lot across from the Jal Mahal. The Jal Mahal is a floating palace situated in the center of a lake outlined with soft desert mountains. A great stone wall flows along the tops of  those mountains, a relic of the glory days of this Rajasthan kingdom. Back in the parking lot, there were about eight camels you could ride; seeing them was enough for me.

Painted elephants marked our next stop: the Amber (ah-hm-bear) Fort. A few years ago, Yahoo had an article about the hillforts in India and how they were an honorary wonder of the world (they rotate through various sites); my bucket list gained another item that day. As soon as we stepped onto the cobblestone road that led to the fort, I knew I could cross it off. The elephants had been walking the same way half an hour earlier, before they all took off for lunch.

 

The Mirror Palace in the Pink City of Jaipur.

Unlike most historical sites in America, nothing is closed off here. I explored EVERYWHERE. Every nook, cranny, outlook, and garden that fort had, I found. It was as if all of those times a park ranger told me not to go somewhere came back, I had to make up for lost time. (the little historian inside of me burst forth and couldn’t get enough of what I was seeing) The monkeys that played on the balconies were not as energetic as I was. Okay, you get the point. I was stoked. From the paint peeling from the semi-erotic murals on the wall to the entrancing sound of the snake charmer, it was perfect.

One more stop-over in Delhi and we were on the move again. Destination: Amritsar. The percussion of the Diwali fireworks mingled with the cadence of the train was my lullaby that night. Amritsar was the last stop on the line, so we took our time leaving our warm beds on the train for the cold and misty morning the fog in the station promised. We had come away from the reliable warmth of the south and ventured into sweater territory. At first glance, it wasn’t hard to tell that Amritsar was different; colder, yes. But the people were taller, the Sikh religion was obviously dominant (every other man wore a turban), and the terrain was definitely dustier.

Once our auto driver drove as close to the Golden Temple as he could, we hoisted our luggage and made the last mile or so on foot. The crowd we moved with consisted of barefoot rank and file workers bundled up in layers of wool walking next to wealthy businessmen in black wool overcoats; everyone pretended not to notice the street kids just trying to make a rupee or two. After we dropped our bags off and washed our feet and hands, we entered the Golden Temple. The actual temple is situated in the middle of a large, rectangular pool. Everything surrounding me is made of marble and most of it has either some design or the name of someone who died in battle. There is a metal railing that runs throughout the pool about ten feet in, attached to it are some chains that a person can hold while bathing in the water to stabilize themselves. Fish swim all around those who are bathing, they swim close enough to the surface that I can touch them. They are used to this, all the touching and moving and bathing. To touch a fish is to invoke a blessing upon you, they swim in holy water and therefore they are holy.

Directly across the pool from the temple is the langar, a pro bono kitchen that feeds any and all who come through the doors. They had some delicious lentil curry and roti. We continue to walk around the pool after eating, eventually making our way to the line to see the Guru Granth Sahib, which is holy scripture and the last guru of the religion. Standing there with these pilgrims, I couldn’t help but feel that the ground, pool, and everything surrounding this book was holy and that my experience would be by association. We shuffled through the inside of the temple and marveled at the delicacy and detail of the designs. The chanting and singing going on inside here was what I had heard being broadcast through the entire temple complex, rhythmic and prayerful mantras designed to draw the mind towards divinity. It worked. Each of the three levels of the temple was just as ornately worked as the last; a modern marvel.

Being white wasn’t much of a problem until now. At least two hotels turned us down because we were foreigners; we eventually found one willing to take us, for the typical price of about $9.00. Later that day we journeyed half an hour to the India-Pakistan border. Dangerous? You would think so, but it was more like a high school pep rally than anything else. Before any interaction between the countries began, there was shouting and flag waving to a soundtrack that practically forced feet to move and hips swing. Each military would present a John Clease-esque walk and the other side would counter. Two hours later, we drove home in silence, each processing what we had just experienced.

Prashant displaying his nationalism.

Rooftops are some of my favorite places. The view of the post-Diwali fireworks that night from the hotel roof was a sight to behold! I would spend many a night up on the roof of the green house in Vizag–but that is not what you want to read about. You are probably reading this to gain a glimpse into the organized chaos that is traveling in India. Back on topic!

The one photo I was able to get of out of the car
before my camera died.

Haridwar, the gate of the Ganges and one of the seven holy cities in India, was our next waypoint. Unfortunately, Becca and I were not able to spend more than an hour in town because we had reservations at an ashram in the Himalayas to get to and a twelve hour drive to get us there. Shiva, our driver, was one of the most aggressive drivers I have ever encountered; Haridwar is his hometown, so he had plenty of interesting tidbits to share in his delightfully broken English. We drove through some of India’s most incredible national parks while he regaled us with tales of the animals that roamed the streets at night. Apparently, the highway we were on closes at night to allow animals to cross it; a few of the animals he mentioned were elephants, tigers, and rhinos. Monkeys, terribly boring animals in comparison, ambled along the sides of the highway and provided the perfect atmosphere for Shiva to demonstrate his driving skills.

Comparing Bollywood music and dance moves for four hours, telling stories for three, and a few stops for food carried Becca, Shiva, and I to the mouth of the highway into the Himalayas. It was night now. We drove in silence for the next hour or so until Shiva had enough and needed conversation again. During that silence, I gazed in amazement at the dark vistas we passed. The moon was bigger than ever before; when combined with the light of the galaxies now exposed by clean air, the country side was illuminated. This was the part of the trip I was most excited about; as we pulled into the Mayavati Advaita Ashrama I pinched myself to make certain this was real. I was convinced as I felt the biting chill (low 40’s?) of the air on my flip flop shod feet. 

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A day before flying out of Vizag for Delhi, Becca and I walked along the beach to the Ramakrishna ashram and library to talk with one of the swamis there. Swami Nityayogananda is the head librarian there and also acts as a representative for the ashram at the various community events that take place; he is also an avid yoga practitioner and an unabashed student of the Truth. Over the course of our discussion, we mentioned that we would be traveling up north. As soon as he heard this, he insisted that we take a detour to the Mayavati Ashram in the mountains of the north; so far into the mountains that tigers were known to walk around the gardens. Built by Swami Vivekenanda himself, the ashram was intended to be a place of deep meditation and thought for those interested in discovering Truth and beauty. I knew in an instant that I had to go. Becca and I decided that if there was a way to go, we would take it! As soon as we arrive in Delhi, our friend and intrepid planner, Prashant, helped us map a course to the ashram. A few transportation miracles later and we we at the ashram.

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View of the ashram

Dinner was modest. A simple cauliflower curry and thick potato stew served with chapati and warm milk; my starving, frozen body rejoiced. The company we encountered was just as delightful. Aside from the generous and incredibly hospitable Swamis and Maharaj, we met two Austrian devotees of Sri Ramakrishna along with a couple from Bengal. Our room was filled with warm blankets which almost compensated for the lack of space heater or rug to cover the tile floors. I slept like a baby.

Our trip would not have been the same
without them.

Seven was breakfast, followed by a half hour devotional thought by one of the Swamis. He spoke of Truth that transcended race, religion, caste, and any other division that might exist; I wrote it down somewhere. It was after the devotional thought that I saw the towering peaks of upper Himalayas. They poked out of the clouds about halfway between the Earth and sky, I know why people came here to think; it became more apparent to me after the hike we made to Swami Vivekenanda’s meditation spot. The mountains demand reverence and peace. It was warm enough that I tucked my flip flops into my backpack and made the rest of the hike barefoot because I wanted to remember how the mountain ground felt. You haven’t really walked anywhere until you’ve done it barefoot.

Ride from Lohagat to Bareilly.
There is a few hundred feet
drop over that edge.

We left the next day for Bareilly. Thanks to the help of the Maharaj, we made our connecting bus in Lohagat that would take us to the bus station in Bareilly. That day was the most memorable bus ride of my life, captained by the second most defensive driver I have ever encountered (and an Indian doppleganger for Matthew Goode). Becca and I took the front two seats next to the driver and spent the entire time clinging to each other to prevent us sliding right off the seat. Seats in India are not built to accommodate American hips. After taking a rickshaw to the train station, Becs and I found a place to eat and had some delicious mushroom curry and picked up some food for the train.

Twelve hours later, we met up with the rest of our group in Bodh Gaya; it was here, under a bodhi tree, centuries ago that Siddhartha became the Buddha. The day after we arrived, I sat and meditated beneath the eaves of that same tree. Pilgrims swarmed over the temple complex. A few of the young monks waited in anticipation for one of the bodhi leaves to fall; it is said that if you catch one before it hits the ground that you gain good luck. I remembered that my Aunt had been here years before as she toured the Ayurvedic side of India, I tried to imagine what it had been like the day she sat here.

Crazy old man who wanted a picture
blessing me...

All the monks here had tattoos.
You can see some of the
ones on his feet.

 

Thukpa at Mohammads!

Lunch was a little hole-in-the-wall kind of place in the back of a dusty, outdoor parking lot. Such is the glory of Mohammad’s. If you ever find yourself in this part of India EVER, go and eat there. They have some of the most incredible thukpa, momos, tsampa, and mint lemonade.

Typical train ride, not too shabby!

After picking up our stuff in Delhi, we settled into the next train which would take us home.

My train bed.