Charting my own religion

I wrote a section for the May edition of Discover India and the edit team massacred it. So, here's the full version


A brimming, wild river; a silent moonless night echoing off overbearing mountain sentinels; a warm summer sky reflected in still green waters – different shades of the river of life as seen from a quaint yet oft-visited town.
Nestling in the lap of the Himalayas, Hrishikesh is fed by the raging Ganga before she bounds into a ritual-ridden, polluted phase of her long winding journey into the Bay of Bengal. In this pristine town, the pride of place is occupied by two suspension bridges named after the immortal divine brothers – Rama and Lakshmana. Numerous temples dot either bank, with some no more than an idol under a tree, to others that are at least twelve storeys high.
At any time of year, devotees throng the town’s temples and bazaars, queuing up for a dip in the holy river or just the right of passage on the swaying suspension bridges. Backpackers, both Indian and foreign, jostle for space with mendicants dressed in saffron along the river’s banks and near the eating joints. The more adventurous move northwards towards Shivpuri for the adrenaline-rushing rafting points. A few others relax their minds and bodies through India’s most famous export of several centuries – yoga.
Hrishikesh means many things to many people and several things to me.
I associate this temple town with two things – a sense of overwhelming peace juxtaposed alongside a madly rushing river and a vegetarian foodie’s heaven. I’ve tried unsuccessfully to convince my non-vegetarian friends to make a food trip to Hrishikesh. They laugh off the idea because meat is a strict no-no around the temple towns of Hrishikesh and Haridwar. I’ve not given up though. Now I just try to sell the idea with other unbeatable delicacies added to the platter.
Yet, my most lasting memory of Hrishikesh has nothing to do with food OR peace! It is the image of me jumping off a 23-ft high rock into a placid pool formed by the gushing river below. I recall trying to choose between staring across the river to the opposite bank and looking down into the seemingly bottomless pool beneath the craggy rock I was standing on. The split-second, spine-chilling feeling of being suspended in air ended as fast as it began. It left behind the sweet taste of victory as I recalled conquering the fear of standing on the edge of a precipice with adventure-crazy fellow rafters and of making the jump without chickening out.
Several summers later, of course, a colleague and I bunked office and spent a weekend on the banks of a placid Ganga, leaving the bank only to grab regular bites at the German bakery near Lakshman Jhula, dessert at the Chotiwala restaurant near Swargashram across Ram Jhula, and back for more at the German bakery. Brownies, plum cakes, rasmalai, mushroom quiche, pasta, chhola batura, lassi – we gave our stomachs a tough time, I’m sure.
A birthday trip to Hrishikesh with someone special took me to Muni ki Reti, a quieter part of town, in winter. Loads of photo-ops, the green gurgling waters, the cold, misty mornings, the splendid aarti at Tapovan Ghat in the evenings and the windswept launch rides between the sun-kissed banks gently jostle with the memory of long walks along winding lanes and of cutting a black forest pastry as the clock struck twelve on a moonless night.
The most recent trip, however, is more of a vision than a memory. It is rain-washed and mixes with the rising mist and the descending clouds. Getting caught in Hrishikesh in the monsoon is not the best of things. And two young women barely staying dry under a single ‘borrowed’ umbrella is definitely not the idea of a perfect holiday. But it was a whim we carried to fruition by spending a large part of it with steaming cups of lemon tea in an eat-out called Rainbow near Lakshman Jhula. That, and the yum omlettes made to order, the alu parathas through the day and the view of a mist-covered Ganga from the terrace of a fourth-floor hotel room, made it as perfect as a muddy, monsoon trip in small-town India can get.
The rain clouds parted at will to make way for a confluence of the mist rising from the surging waters and the fog settling down upon it. In the distance, ghost lights from temples across the bank, giving me my first glimpse of the divinity of Hrishikesh. I felt like I was in the midst of the misty, cloudy, heaven scenes conjured by tele-serials on Indian mythologies or the ‘Dream Girl’- type Bollywood romantic numbers.
After numerous visits to Hrishikesh in every kind of weather, sunny, windy and wet, I finally found myself brooding on the nature of religion – on the faith inspired in millions by the Ganga. I wondered why I felt bereft of such a ritualistic devotion that would make me wake up at un-Godly hours to perform rituals to appease our pantheon.
As the rain pitter-pattered on the roof of the restaurant and the aroma of apple pie and omelette played with my taste-buds, I realised my passion for the mighty river that I could only sense below the blinding mist was no less. And knowing that my love did not demand that I feed the river with greasy lamps, plastic bags filled with flowers, incense sticks, vermilion pastes and plastic cans only eased my conscience.
I looked on at the overpowering vision building before my misty eyes, remembered the strong current of this river that had almost carried with her two people I loved dearly and murmured my gratitude for letting them go. And in that vast moment, I was entwined not just with an immortal river but for centuries of its existence, the lives it has made and destroyed and the unimaginable faith people have in its miraculous powers.
And I surprise myself when I realise that if there is one place I’ll keep going back to, and one where I’d like to take everyone I love, it has to be this temple town! I’m sure it has many more shades to be unravelled and I’m raring to go.

By Anusha Chandrasekharan

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