Rishikesh

I write this in Rishikesh. The holy land. The Tapasthali as it is called. The last time I was here was about twenty years ago. This trip, like the last one too, was equally capricious. This too, like the last one, was a journey by road. I must have been all of six or seven when the last one was undertaken. To my seven year old, callow mind the idea of travelling to a land so far by car had seemed so overwhelming. Cars can only be used to traverse city-length distances, I used to think. In this trip, however, I had no clue of what the destination was until we’d reached midway. It was then, upon my pesky insistence, that the destination was revealed to me. “Just pack your bag and sit in the car,” was the instruction given by this friend who planned the trip. I must admit that when finally the revelation was made, waves of excitement and surprise ran through my body. All the memories from the last trip came rushing back. 

Ganga—The Ganges!

Twenty years have passed since I had seen Ganga flowing in all her magnificence and glory. From the room I was staying in, one could see Ganga flowing through the foothills of the Subhadra hill range (so I am told). One could see the hills in the backdrop—or should I say not see them. These hills remain perpetually shrouded in the clouds—their summits certainly do. One can only faintly trace their silhouettes. It feels as though they are too proud of their beauty and think the world (and people like I) to be too poor a judge of their beauty, and hence in their ancient wisdom choose to remain veiled. Or maybe they actually contain the proverbial ancient and secret wisdom which they want to conceal from prying eyes. The mystique only augments their charm though. Whatever may be the reason, the sight of these tall and bosky hills wrapped in a misty blanket is spell-casting.

At their base flows Ganga. There are some subjects about whom one can’t talk without sounding cliché, and Ganges is one such subject. She splays and meanders, after having cavorted in the difficult and mountainous terrain farther up North. The volume of water and pace with which it flows is staggering.   

As a Vaishnav one is reminded of all the epics whose past is believed to be intertwined with that of Ganges. Mahabharat, if my memory serves me well, was composed on the banks of Ganga in Badrikashram. Bhagwatam—the crest-jewel of Puranas—was narrated by Shukadev Paramhans to King Parikshit, the grandson of Pandavas on the banks of Ganga in Naimish-aaranya. Lord Ram was a descendent of King Bhagirath, who is believed to have been responsible for the descent of Ganges from the heavens. Pleased by his tough penance and upon his insistence that Lord Shiv agreed to hold Ganges in his locks so as to temper her fierce flow. 

Such is the significance of Ganges. She is linked to all these ancient tales. She’s been a witness to all of them. Originating from the toenail of Lord Narayan and washing the dense locks of Lord Rudra, she descends on this mundane world. Gurgling fervently, she carves and curves her way through the Himalyan foothills. She is so ancient and yet ever so fresh. 

You cannot help but feel at home in the vicinity of Ganga. You feel you belong here. Her swift flow and vivacity seem to suggest as if she’s replete with tales to tell, of the mountains, of the ancient past, of her current sorry state. It’s a disgrace that we’ve managed to corrupt something as pristine as her. 

But Ganga—no matter how bad things may be for her—seems to give one hope. One can still draw an uncanny solace from seeing her flowing. One feels that things are not as bad, at least till is Ganga is around. 

The one thing I thought I’d miss out on this trip was rains. The clouds were clustering overhead, hanging unusually low, but, like celibate yogis who would observe strict penance, they too seemed not to let go. 

To my pleasure though, finally, just hours before our departure, they decided to, well, break their vow of celibacy.