We Serve Relationship

Returned to Delhi now, a few memoirs of Rishikesh for yer:

Rishikesh, 3rd March

At 7.00pm tonight there was a religious ceremony on the east bank of the Ganges. Thirty odd children, aged between roughly 8 to 16 years old were organised, legs crossed, around a small fire. Hundreds of other observers gathered around, while huge, soulful mantras rang out distorted from carefully placed PA systems. The children, dressed in orange garments, held looks on their faces I have yet to see any boys hold before. Such intensity, love and maturity spread across so many cheeks, so much devotion in those lips, such concentration in all those eyes. One boy in particular managed to attract my eyeline so often I felt more and more intrigued by him by the minute. He sat in front row of the devotion, left arm to the Ganges, right arm to the collection of tourists and believers. As the strong, subtle, repetitive rhythm of tabla arose from the speakers, all but a few of the numerous bodies failed to clap to it, creating a ramshackle accompaniment. This particular child though, his claps so graceful, his timing all but impecable, his jet black hair at perfect odds with his young skin, this child had god all over his eyes.
Being here in Rishikesh has not persuaded an agnostic such as myself any further towards a position of belief, yet it is enough that a gos is here for every inhabitant of Rishikesh. The landscape, which is very clearly conscious, spans the imagination. The ginormous, rolling hills and the purity of the Ganges' flow, the omnipotence of Rishikesh's landscape, it says a lot about the look in that boys eyes.
Humourous is the flip side. Rishikesh is awash with new age spiritualists with 'aims' and 'goals'. My favourite of which we met on the first night, bags on backs. "The aspect I enjoy the most", told a softly spoken American gent "is the yoga". He continued underneath the banner for the 8th International Yoga Festival "I don't so much like my teacher though. Although he is very wise, he seems to confront my innerness". At which point, without a formal farewell, he drifts of into the dusty darkness. I will mention at this point that Rishikesh survives mostly on the tourist revenue from it's many Ashrams.
Another good one was at my first rooftop cafe, that of "Will it be real brown bread, or fake brown bread?".
Psuedo-Spirituality aside, Rishikesh is a very kind, calm place. I only wisj I could learn more, without the tell-tale paranoia of intrusion, which governs a lot of my behaviour here. Tradition has the habit of exclusion, especially when you have an polite English brain plonked above your neck.

Delhi, 6th March

Back in Delhi now, in an exceedingly good mood thanks to a lovely train ride with Hari and the arrival at the Ajay Youth Hostel.
The hostel, tucked away in a sidestreet from the Main Bazaar, Pahar Ganj, is populated by late night pool players, relaxed attitudes, cooling fans out of Apocolypse Now and fairly decent prices.
With Rishikesh behind us, there was a couple of things I neglected to mention:

1. The Evening Recital Of Indian Classical Music

This was a quaint rooftop affair, accompanied by colourful dancers and a quiet, appreciative audience. The event was unofficially centered around a very serious, seriously talented Tabla player, who spent most of the performance with one eye on the mixing desk and the other on the crowd's line of vision.
To his right was a small, disinterested player of drones who looked up maybe once from his relentless, yet important task. To this tabla player's right was a handsome, prodigal looking man with a beautiful ability with his flute, to which his melodies slipped hand in glove with the pure night sky.
Between songs the musicians would quietly request to comprehend the depth and religious nature of the music, this carried out in a sincere, sweet manner, much like the delivery of the whole performance.

2. Green Hotel / "Hotel Work In Progress"

When we arrived here to slightly higher prices than quoted in the Rough Guide we were kindly told that this was due to renovation. To be specific, renovation of the entire hotel. Through a week of raucous drilling and incessant hammering, the iceberg moment was perhaps the loud bang on our door, followed by a quick nod, the hammering of 4 coat hangers to our door, another short nod and then a bewildered, boxer-shorted version on myself left to return to the toilet.

3. Engrish

Simply the fabulous manifestations of the English language, too many to actually meaningfully remember any of them except the slogan on the front of The Madras Cafe menu.

WE SERVE RELATIONSHIP

4. The Money, The Bridge, The Biscuits

Our final experience in Rishikesh, just previous to a taxi ride to Haridwar station, took place on Ramjhula bridge. As we crossed the Ganges, eyed hopefully by both the numerous monkeys and Rickshaw drivers, a blissfully ignorant Hari stopped very briefly to admire the beauty of one of the monkeys. The mistake was to due to the packet of vegecrackers in her right hand. All hell broke loose in an instant. The plastic bag containing the crackers was taken, the humans were left with nothing to do but gape, the monkey victorious. I'm sure the cheeky beauty gave a quick wink when he slid down the side of the bridge, bag in hand. I assure you - television executives and advertising firms would have taken the rest of the day off.

* * *
Apart from that, Delhi seems calmer, the streets less stressful, the people increasingly lovely, the time increasingly valuable, the trip increasingly unfathomable.

Toodle Pip
xx