March 13, 2001

“Indian women ride scooters side saddle with the most amazing grace. Every vehicle is bumper to bumper, near head-on collisions are commonplace. You’ve got oxen pulling wagons next to big buses, next to Toyota land cruisers, next to cows, next to dogs, next to a series of scooters and auto rickshaws. A maze of pedestrians filter thru the streets. Brakes slam constantly. And yet, she’s holding bags of vegetables in her lap with no handle, her legs dangling off the side and she’s looking gorgeous in a sari, without a sign of anxiety. People pile 3 or 4 bodies on to one little scooter. Parents have no qualms about sticking their 5 year old up front with 2 more youngsters behind them. The beauty is that in all of the chaos, there really is a method. LA traffic has never been so smooth…”

At the time I wrote this journal entry I didn’t realize that I was describing the essence of India, itself. A vivid bombardment to the senses, India swirls in the pandemonium of a secret syncopation. From crumbling edifices to golden palaces, diesel streets to colorful celebrations, a reverent hum reverberates at the core of this ancient land, exemplifying life’s infinite faces. Many souls are called to travel to India, a quest of sorts. Though I had no guru in mind, no workshops to attend, I was on a discovery journey, tailored in my own traveler’s fashion. The basics, being:

Go somewhere you’ve never been before, go where you know no one and thrust yourself into that foreign world and see if you can not only survive, but have a good time.

India stretched me to my capacity, leaving me awestruck in the process.

En route to Rishikesh, I caught myself humming “Magical Mystery Tour.” The trekker I rode in wound through scenic woods toward the town which beckoned the Beatles to the side of the Maharishi in the late 60’s. Excited and nervous about the unknown which lay ahead of me, I enjoyed the quiet, absorbing the wind on my face. As we approached a hairpin turn in the road, a small car, four wheels in the air, came into view at the base of the road’s incline. The accident looked to have just happened with no people about. Our driver continued on, undaunted, with only a few mumbles to be heard from my fellow passengers. I hoped this was not an omen.

Many local people had warned me about Rishikesh, this spiritual mecca, full of mystery, so close to the source of the Ganges river. Repeatedly I had been encouraged to take heed of “those who wear the saffron robes”, the psuedo-saddhus, appearing as spiritual guides, with only intentions of the monetary kind. Though I wanted to arrive with an open mind, the skeptic’s tone had been set.

Stopping briefly on the outskirts of town, I sat in the safety of the trekker, taking in the bustling streets. A tap on my knee brought my attention to a small basket containing a coiled snake, which undulated beneath coins and bills.

Holding the package, was a dark-eyed woman who, again, nudged my thigh, saying, “Cobra”, with a hiss that revealed her own quivering fangs.
My leg tingled with a vulnerable sensation, as the snake’s tongue flickering only inches from me.

I gave an offering, as did all of the Indians in our vehicle. Welcome to Rishikesh.

Rishikesh vibrates with an energy fueled by the spinal cord of the city, the lifeline of India, the Ganges. The rapidly moving, blue-green colors of the river run past rows of elaborate ashrams. Music warbles out of speakers from internet shops blasting to call in tourists. There is much in this place that is experienced, subtly. Only now, 6 months after my return from India, do I realize that my story of this mystical city is the story of leaving.

After only two days in Rishikesh, I was called to Nepal where some friends were urging me to attend a concert in Kathmandu, where the Pakistani rock band, Junoon, would play. I was to get myself to Delhi, where I could buy a plane ticket to Kathmandu.

This may not seem so difficult, but after only nine days in India, being escorted by friends and locals, I had not been challenged to coordinate rickshaws, buses, trains and planes on my own. Though this is the very thing I had anticipated and welcomed, suddenly, the task seemed daunting.

That morning I drank two pots of tea, writing and considering my best mode of operation. Though I am not “religious”, traveling through India resuscitated my lukewarm prayer life. I found myself praying about everything. That morning I prayed for my route out of Rishikesh to Delhi to be made obvious for me. I knew my biggest problem would be my own fear. So, I prayed for effortless travel.

I took an auto-rickshaw to …..bridge. Road signs in broken English were posted on the narrow, winding roads: “GENTLE NO MY CURVES.” A warning for me, perhaps. I realized I had been dropped on a side street I wasn’t familiar with. I began walking on the still road, reveling in the quiet of no traffic or people. The breeze blowing, stirred my spirits with the morning sunshine and a calm washed over me. Passing a gate, shielding adobe buildings painted deep blue and red, my eyes moved to the sign in front “Kripalu Yoga Ashram”. It indicated that guests could stay. It seemed quaint and tidy. I knew I needed a place for the night and a place to put my backpack for the day. Still, enjoying my walk, I continued on.

As I rounded a corner and began sloping downhill towards the river, I paused as I thought of my yoga instructor at home and her speaking about Kripalu yoga. For some reason, it was enough to turn me around and I took a room there that was small and simple and just right for my purposes.
I was then brought to Yogiji, the proprietor, who sat, bare-chested, buddha belly, in a white cloth at his waist. A sign posted nearby read “Kill your Ego.”

Yogiji spoke in low and measured tones. He spoke English well and listened as I explained I only needed the room for one night because I was leaving for Delhi the next morning. He explained that he was leaving for Delhi, that night, with one of his students, George. They would buy a train ticket for me and give me a ride to the train station, if I liked. He explained they would leave at 10 that night in order to catch the express train which would have us in Delhi by 7 the next morning.

I did not know if Yogiji was one of those I had been warned about. I did not know if I gave him money if I would really see a train ticket. I did not know what would happen if I chose to drive in the middle of the night with two men I had just met. My morning’s prayer of effortlessness flashed in my mind and I agreed, handing Yogiji 150 rupees and a piece of paper with my name on it, for my train reservation.