Part3 Bhagirathi
We bid adieu to Yamuna the next morning at the town of Barkot and immediately got on the road running along Bhagirathi. And immediately came the loud chant,
" Bhagirathi maiyya ki Jai!" - Long live mother Bhagirathi
That was Chaudhariji, our super driver. I immediately turned my attention to Bhagirathi, flowing alongside. And the first thing I noticed about her was how levelled she was. We all know that water is one element which finds it's own level. Always. (That Physics classroom-nostalgia!) Same could be said about the Bhagirathi. At every step of her journey she seems to find her level and maybe this makes her more approachable by humans. This gentle disposition, deep glens and an open valley with tiers of cultivation complete a picture of Bhagirathi. Thus where Yamuna had her riverbed barren full of boulders, stones and pebbles, Bhagirathi had her gentle slope filled with fertile soil and a way, albeit imaginary to approach her. Her bank was lined with small temples all the way. A Goddess more approachable?
This is a unique feature of Hinduism. We or more more precisely our ancestors, those genius philosophers humanised all the abstract concepts of the universe and created as such a parallel world of Gods. Here each God is a stakeholder in nature. And their inter-relations further explain the phenomenons in nature. Here Shiva is matter and his consort Shakti is energy. And they intermingle to teach us the concept of energy and matter. Hence in the next step Shakti becomes the earth(matter) and Shiva her all encompassing atmosphere(energy). Isn't it more beautiful to learn about these so called scientific concepts in those poetic lines? And today we call this 'mythology'. Myth is it? Coming back to the Bhagirathi, we were passing many tiny hamlets one after the other. At such a tiny hamlet Chaudhriji called out to us to look out at a plaque. This was Nakuri. Nothing special, except that this is where Bachindri Pal comes from. The first Indian women to climb Mount Everest. Awe. Respect. Admiration. It would be futile to say anything further. We moved ahead. Crossing the densely habituated valley we reached the town of 'Uttar' Kashi. Or Benares of the north. It even has its own 'Vishwanath' temple. This is also home to Nehru Mountaineering Institute, the alma mater of Bachindri Pal. But more about it later. Past Uttarkashi, our destination for the day was Harsil. A place famous for it's natural beauty, and these days an important defence establishment. On the way we passed an 'ashram'. This belonged to a self appointed seer, Pilot baba. I was told he was a fighter pilot with the Indian Air Force before turning to spirituality and has many followers all over the world. Good for them. Or him? I was half listening to all this as it would have been a crime to even miss a moment of the passing scenery. We had now reached what is called the higher reaches of the Himalayas, the deciduous had given way to the Deodhars, Silver firs, Spruce, Birch and Pencil Cedars. The Bhagirathi had started undergoing a subtle change. Gone was the motherly look, here she had started inspiring awe. Her gorge had started to form. And in this state we reached Harsil. A place which still has slate roofs. Though housing modern telecommunications network under it. The facia is still intricately hand carved. And the enclosure is still a beautiful mix of two textures- wooden pillars and stone walls. We moved to our nth GMVNL guest house of the trip. As usual these government properties are at the pick of the locations. We dumped our luggage and moved out to the garden just besides the Bhagirathi. The garden was beautifully maintained with well placed gazebos. Beyond the fence was the Bhagirathi running with force and beyond her was the dark green of the Deodhars. We all assembled in one of the gazebo with tea and pakodas, the natural beauty and the atmosphere to surround us. There was jest and gossip, laughter and smirks, stories and personal narratives, essentially everything fun. Later I moved out. For a one to one conversation. With Bhagirathi. It was informative to hear something from her, to share something with her. She assured of her presence here and now. There and then too! And true to her promise her sounds could be heard throughout the night, her presence was omnipresent.
The early morning short ride next day from Harsil to Gangotri through the dense forests of Deodhars is one of the very best I have experienced. It had an atmosphere to bring goosebumps. And the mystic, eeriness increased when we reached Asia's second highest bridge. It is built over the most terrific sight I've ever seen. The gorge of Bhagirathi. Gorges have always inspired awe in me. Their sheer depths represent the timeline of the relationship between the mountain and the river. Thousands of years of the river's perseverance. And to take all this in a moment of time overwhelms me. Where the heart goes dhak- dhak, at the speed of Rajdhani, as they say in India. ( Rajdhani is the fastest train in India.) With this settings we entered what is called the 'Bhairav' Ghati ahead. Bhairav is the most aggressive form of Lord Shiva, the god of destruction. And accordingly the nature here had moulded itself. With treacherous cliffs hanging on both sides, and the slopes covered with dense Deodhar forests, it was difficult to guess the time of the day. In between a speck of sunlight used to steal through the dense foliage above. It brought more of a shock than relief at the presence of light. But everything passes. Always. And we were out of this valley to land in the chaos of a typical Indian temple town. Tourist buses and jeeps, along with heckling pilgrims and shouting hawkers, everyone at once jumps on you. As if to present extreme obstacles which would make the God's sighting even more sweeter. Here Gangaotri is touched by motorable roads even under extreme geographical features. This brings more and more pilgrims in the absence of any trek by foot. More of the types who put out a bejewelled hand of their SUVs to throw away a wrapper on the roads. ( a la Arvind Adiga)
The way leading to the temple and the bathing ghats was lined with the usual memorabilia. Outside the temple premises offerings comprising of a rose, and petals were being sold. Only two of the all had a white rose. I had to have it, my white Rose! I pounced on it. And it was mine. Victorious we moved towards the ghats- those purposefully created 'approach' ways to the river. A pilgrim takes these steps down, in all humility, towards that flowing stream of life. He offers his prayers to the God. Yes the God and not the river. It is this 'flow' that carries all his prayers to the God. The river messenger. The different platforms were abuzz with pilgrims. Offerings were stacked along the platform along with prayers. Ofcourse because this is a special river. The river that descended from heaven and the one which ascends back. What better way to send your prayers to the Gods residing there? Your own 'registered' Speed Post. Direct to Home, DTH service! I too posted my 'baggage'. Feeling light, I hopped on up towards the walking platform. With that spring in step we decided to explore the place.
A serpentine path along the river was the only one in sight and we followed it.Just after a few meters and a couple of bends the madness of religion was left behind to enter that world of Himalayas and his rivers. There were a few Ashrams or monasteries sprinkled here and there but they were inhabited by ascetics endorsing seclusion. Hence the world around right now only consisted of the path, the pilgrim and the pines. They,on one side trying to reach the heights of Himalayas and the Ganges on the other side running away. It was tempting to sit here, philosophise, contemplate. Even doubt and investigate. But instead of that passivity we moved ahead. Ahead, much ahead, beyond many turns the path opened up into a small, regular platform. A ghat actually, I came to knew later. Here, feeling like one has left the world and it's inhabitants behind, and arrived at it's edge, where the seas open up into the space, Sudha and I halted. Stopped. Settled. As Sudha took her place on a boulder, I moved towards the pebble trodden river bed. I had a task. To collect pebbles, not just any but ones submerged in the flowing river, and bring them back for my mom. I started collecting them, one after another. Selecting one here. Rejecting another there. Selection, rejection. Again. And again. Repetitive. After a while it became meditative, like going into a trance. I looked back, to see what Sudha was doing. Instead my eyes fell on 'the writing on the wall'. Krandan Ghat- the tears offering place for God. Zapped, I re-read again. I never cease to amaze at discovering the ingenuity of those unknown forefathers and their thought process. Their philosophies. And their provisions to 'connect'. To God, to nature, to fellow living beings,and to our inner selves. I collected my stones together and went back to sit on the boulder at the Ghat. I wanted to cry. Those tears of joy. And those of sorrow. To flow. Into this river, herself in flow. A very different emotional state came over me. That intoxicating state where one clings to pain. Everything internal. Reasoning with one self, of victimhood, suffering, injustice, loss. Anything external. Here I became melancholic. Saratchandra reasons in 'Srikanta' that when pain is devoid of fear it becomes pleasurable. I feel this is a state humans find more comfort in, and are actually addicted to. Happiness, is fleeting. It is that horizon, which one constantly aims for. And pain that continuous companion on this journey of life. After a while it becomes a habit and then a friend. I was thinking of all those moments of pain, when I lost something, someone I loved. Even if devoid of tears, I wanted to offer all that pain here. To god? At what purpose was this offering? To create that ideal state of mind, devoid of any thoughts?
Amongst all these questions walked a old, wrinkled lady on the ghat. Sudha and I were both observing her. She was wearing old, faded clothes; carrying rosary beads, a tumbler for water, some Basil leaves and a rugged shawl. There was also a square, woven, sitting mat. She went near the river, placed all her belongings down and folding her hands started her prayers. Who was she? What was she doing here? As she finished her ablutions and prayers Sudha went besides her and started a conversation. The lady lived the life of a migratory bird. She had a full and happy family somewhere at the foothills. She played her role of a loving grandmother, a disciplined mother and responsible head of the family during half of the year. Then she has made a conscious decision to spend half her year here at Gangotri.
Far away from loved one's.
Minus 'moha'.
Without any belongings, other than her clothes.
Minus 'dikhava'.
Without money to sustain herself.
Minus 'maya'.
Living on the goodwill of others.
Minus 'aham'.
By this time she had finished her ablutions and prayers. She blessed us both, giving the Tulsi patta and prasad. And with that she went away leaving me behind, here on the Krandan Ghat with so many varied thoughts. In the spontaneity of the moment I loved her way of life. Enough to maybe even emulate it in time. Thinking about this experimentation I wondered if Hinduism isn't a chemists lab, to discover that route towards one's spirit whether through lifestyle experiments or through the Krandan Ghats. Collecting the memories of this place to construct a Krandan Ghat within me, to visit whenever those tears would want to find a place to God I started back towards the world.
Tracing our way back along the same route we arrived in Uttarkashi by evening. I checked and was told that the Nehru Mountaineering Institute was closed for the day. With nothing to do Sudha and I went in search of some chai and samosa. Having had our fill with some converstaion with the locals we were back at the rest house where everyone was ready to make a visit to the temple dedicated to Shiva. A twin of the famed Kashi Vishwanath in Benares. Finding our way through narrow lanes, dodging cows and cars alike we reached the premises. Religion not being on the top of the group's priorities every one made their way back to the rest house after the darshan. Except me and Ananda. We decided to attend the 'aarti' or the evening prayer about to start. Taking our place inside the Sanctum Sanctorum I began to observe the other participants. About ten to twelve locals were already gathered. The women were sitting on one side and the men on another but the whole place was buzzing like a community hall. One person, maybe a local lawyer was discussing a civic issue with two ladies and they inturn prodding him to take it up seriously. On the other side. Three men discussing about some pavement on the banks of the Bhagirathi which had come off. And then on some common topic everyone used to join in. Even the priest with his preparations of the prayer ongoing contributed. And amidst all this buzz and discussions, conversations and cacophony there was Shiva. Sitting in the middle, serene as ever, taking in all that was said. The whole scene was so contradictory that it took me a while to take it in. The contemporary and the ancient, the dialogue and the rituals all gliding hand in hand... And then the prayers started and as if there never existed this plurality- all melded into one. That one chant in his praise. To the accompaniment of the prayer bells. Everything became singular. Me, my thoughts, God, the others, their thoughts, the chants, their sounds. Ek omkara.
Back at the rest house Sudha and I contemplated about the day, watched some old Hindi movie songs, had lots of fruits for dinner. And a good, naughty laugh over the 'warm Lenin' provided to us. A perfect travelling day.
