Okay, I know there aren't enough photos on my journal. Believe me, I'm taking pictures, but I haven't had time nor the technical skill to upload them onto the journal in a nice narrative fashion. I'm working on it. I know you strangers are waiting on pins and needles. I'm not a Luddite, just a dunce. There's a difference.
I'm in Rishikesh. Finally, gone from the incessant flim-flam that is Pahar Ganj. However, a word of advice for fellow travelers. Get your bohemian fashion on if you hope to blend in among the intelligentsia of Rishikesh. Successful women are not just women, they are Yoginis. Handsome, suitably soiled, loose fitting clothes that fall just right off their lithe bodies, the jewelry, the beadwork. But most especially, the feet. Authentic feet. Not those borish french pedicure types that roam the malls of the world. No, these women and men are a particular kind of goddess and god in the making. If not pure born, then surely they have been groomed from an early age to be so appropriately rough hewn. Tattoes and piercings are not the coin-of-the-realm here. They exist, but instead, a kind of Rastafarian dreadlock sensibility prevails.
Of course, Rishikesh is yet another way-station along the Path. You might find a teacher here, you may not. Many ayurvedic, meditation and various yoga trainings exist. Many restaurants overlook a slowly gliding Ganga River. Sunrise and sunsets are splendid. Babas wander the streets, but most are beggars and not saints. Yet, even the beggars may be much wiser than you or I. Alas, as I was dutifully reminded by a village elder, Truth gathering (perhaps) has been pushed farther into the more remote villages and forests of India, now that curiosity and commerce reach so deeply into our collective existence. The fine trick he says, is to have patience and to stay in one place long enough to listen for the subtle voices that will lead you to the next stone in the brook. The bus that brings you here is not always the bus you will leave on.
