I was twenty-one years old when I travelled for the first time. I had visited places before. But I travelled for the first time on my second trip to Rishikesh.
The premise of that trip was simple and had been decided by two people who had already travelled some during college: you don’t need a lot of money to travel. It was to be my first, and most important, lesson as a traveller. Of course, I write this with the advantage of wisdom from hindsight. We were broke postgrad students and back then none of us romanticized our paucity of funds. We were only dealing with a crazy urge to travel out of Delhi.
Even though they knew me to be a travel novice the guys did not give me sufficient warning about the trip we were to take together because the three of us felt this immense need to get out of Delhi in spite of being end-of-the-allowance-month broke; by then we had spent enough time (a lot of which was free time; we were literature students) for them to know that I was always up for adventure.
So carrying only enough money for food and bus tickets—tickets in an inter-state bus charged almost a-rupee-a-kilometre and Haridwar, our stop for the night, was around 200 kms from Delhi—and backpacks that contained no change of clothes but newspapers, bedsheets and shawls, we rode on into the sunset. On a tepid March night we reached Haridwar to set up what was to be one of my most spectacular travelling experiences. A good start I would say.
Even though Haridwar holds very high ground among the scared places of India—one of the seven most scared, in fact—religious devotion was far from our minds that night. Like travel, if one sets one’s mind to it and is willing to make some compromises with comfort, religion is not an expensive interest, and the end is worth all the trouble, some would say. We were at this ancient pilgrim town to take advantage of the slack laws for loiterers. In the urban spaces that the three of us usually hung out in, we had often been stopped by police patrols when we went out at night. Young people walking aimlessly at unearthly hours can be up to no good was the general impression among the lawkeepers—even though we would usually go out at odd hours to address hunger pangs, with only piping hot aloo paranthas and chai at all-night shacks occupying our minds. But not in Haridwar. It was around 10 p.m. when we got off at the state transport bus stop and soon mingled into a bustling crowd that only public transport stations generated. Locals, tourists and touts, all contributed to the chaos.
The midway food joint at which the bus had earlier stopped for dinner was too expensive for our pockets. So we had only used the public convenience and stretched our legs while the driver and his handyman enjoyed a free meal, even a commission, for getting the joint a bus-load of clients. After spilling out of the bus stand, our first stop in Haridwar was a dhaba. Only after filling our stomachs with some wholesome but basic rotis, daal and vegetable curry, did we start towards our parking place for the night. We were to spend the night in Har-ki-Pauri, the most sacred spot in Haridwar, at a ghat of the river Ganga—at an open space next to a row of steps leading down to the holy river. By the time we finished our meal and walked the two kilometres, the place was already lined with people who had spread out for the night by the river, either to save on hotel expenses like us or to be the firsts to take early morning dips in the Ganga before hundreds of others turned up for this auspicious and soul cleansing bath.
The guys had done what we were about to repeat that night only once before. So, upon reaching, we had not looked up at the sky and as a result missed seeing the gathering clouds. We had taken care of immediate needs instead of thinking ahead. By the time we reached the ghat, all the prime locations under the foot over bridge were taken. But we would only realize the prime-ness of that location later that night. On reaching the ghat, still unaware of the turn in weather conditions, we only looked for exclusivity. We found a spot which was not only large enough to fit the three of us but also had free space on either side. Placing our backpacks to mark the place as our own for the night we went and sat on the stairs by the river. Although we were tired from our journey, the gentle breeze that started to blow suddenly stirred away the fatigue. We leaned back, enjoying the silence of babbling water and synchronized snores. We let our eyes follow the bravest among the earthen lamps that the pilgrims floated on lotus leaves, flickering but alive in spite of the length of time and wind, and the watery grave. And just like that, we, who led hedonistic lives, got sucked into the spirituality of the place. Why else did I feel so calm and at home amidst all these sleeping strangers. Earlier, on our way to the ghat, when we had crossed the 100-foot statue of Lord Shiva, there was a similar stirring in my heart, followed by a tinge of anxiety about having told half-truths about this trip to my parents in Assam. I had not lied, but I had disguised the truth about my travel companions and place of stay in generalizations. My parents, for instance, would have never imagined that I was going to spend the night in the open, and I did not tell them. They would have been more comfortable if there was another female member in the travel group. I had wanted to spare them the worry but leaning back to look at the humungous Shiva statue I had felt a little uneasy. The name Haridwar translated as the ‘gateway to the gods’. Would there be consequences to face for such selfish behaviour in such a holy place?
A sudden yawn from one of my friends brought me back to the immediate situation. Soon the two of us caught on to his yawn and just as suddenly all the tiredness of a long day weighed me down. And it had been such a warm day. Why was I feeling cold? We quickly got to work to settle down for the night. The clock tower at the ghat showed that it was nearly midnight and we had to get an early start to Rishikesh, only 25 kms away, in order to make the most of the day. I was already dreaming of splashing about in the river and chilling in the beach. Given our budget we would have to skip lunch at the German Bakery this time. When we started out I thought our stay at Haridwar was only to facilitate all the fun we were up for in Rishikesh but I realized I was enjoying myself already. Spreading out newspapers to cover enough space for three healthy-sized people while battling with a wind that had picked up since we first arrived was a big enough challenge, but we chose to sleep in even more luxury by covering the patch with a double bedsheet and quickly taking our positions to make sure our bed stayed in place. We were wrong to assume that a shawl on what was a warm day in March would be enough to keep off the cold at night by the river. The newspapers and one layer of cloth was also inadequate to stop the cold that was seeping from the pavement. So tightly wrapped were we in our shawls from head to toe we must have resembled three cocoons. Because of the discomfort and the overwhelmingness of sleeping on newspapers under an overcast sky I found it hard to believe that I would get any sleep that night. But I had underestimated how tired I was. I drifted off before I could complete another yawn.
I woke up to thunder and utter darkness, followed by fantastic bursts of lightning that exploded into the darkness like firecrackers. The ghat was well lit when we had gone to sleep but the thunderstorm must have led to a power cut. I sat up and figured that my friends were also awake and alert for rain. Another flash lit up the clock tower. It was only 2 a.m. We could hear the restlessness of the river between thunderclaps. In retrospect, I imagine I was part of a surreal setting. Back then, I still had too much sleep in my eyes to ponder about such things. I lay down again and slept off grumbling to the thunder like it was a loud and bothersome neighbour. My friends who were up for a while longer told me it only drizzled for some time before the scenery settled down.
When I woke up in the morning, my first thoughts were if I had dreamt of the thunderstorm. But I couldn’t concentrate on it for long because soon a growing mummer filled my ears and I slowly opened my eyes. I shot up. My friends, having slept later than I had were still dead to the world. I shook them awake. And together we took in the magnificent scene. We had been lying on a crooked square patch of what was our makeshift bed. And there were thousands of human feet around us. Except for where we had been sleeping, every inch of the ghat was populated by people who must have arrived at daybreak for the auspicious bath. Because of our previous day’s tiredness and the thunderstorm-disturbed sleep, we overslept. The optimistic phone alarm we had set for five in the morning did not stand a chance if the din of thousands of people did not manage to wake us up till seven. It was a miracle that we did not get crushed in a stampede that morning.
As we quickly packed the newspapers and clothes, and fled the place, I let out a silent prayer of gratitude in the direction of the giant Shiva statue. For the stirrings of a new life I felt within me. For infecting me with itchy feet, at last!
