Return to Rishikesh

After what seemed like a very long journey (a feeling shared by the co-passengers) aboard the Kochuveli-Dehradun express, made all the more dreary by the lack of a pantry car (read banana fritters aka pazhampozhi and meals) and glamorous people to journey with, and a relentless onslaught of vada-pav vendors along the Konkan route, alighted at the Haridwar junction railway station at 3:46.

If anything, the train was a bit early. It wanted to finish off its uninspiring run as fast as possible, perhaps...

The lands, lush green after the monsoons the last time I had travelled along the Konkan rails, were this time dominated by shades of brown... I had a window seat, as usual, but more of the fate colluding thing was visible in the singular incident of it being the only broken seat in the entire compartment, if not the entire train.

Pappuji, the wheelman of Ushaji, was waiting for me at the station. But he couldn't get to me in time for me to stop giving some of my money to a poor little rich kid (long story, that... in short, I got taken for a ride, again)... By the time he did get to me, I had managed to get a useless recharge on my vodafone number too...  

Ever courteous, Pappuji and his wingman Birenderji escorted me to the Indica, and we set off, honking for attention amidst a dozen others trying the same tactic. The adamant bulls and tottering rickshaws were gradually left behind, and we were on the road to Rishikesh.

As the wind whipped my hair (it had assumed the consistency and quality of coir after the train trip and had to be tamed down with half a litre of water which I had poured over it from the station in order to look a bit presentable), the cold prodding a just hatched headache to grow faster, and the scents of Pappujis tambaku and Birenderjis bidi aftersmells mingled with the fresh air to make me intoxicated enough to forget the abovesaid headache, the exhaustion slipped away to be replaced by the realization - Here I Am.

Last year, the journey from the station to the Omakarananda Ganga Sadan was in the dark. This time, I took in the changing scenes with eagerness.  The first sight of the Ganges, the majestic Shiva statue, couples along the banks (pavitr pyar ke liye sabse uttam sthal?)... And landscapes as soothing as a lullaby at times... no concentration was required for appreciation. Relaxation. Consequently, I found myself contemplating quite seriously about the implications of a sign behind a truck that we overtook that read 'bure najar wale, tera mu kala'... Would a booranazarene who also happened to be 'coloured' take that for a racist slur? Or were 'coloured' people the only ones with this capacity for boorinazarizm? Would the sign make any difference to an illiterate buranazarist? Would the 'kaalapan' show up in the Garnier scale, as advertised by John Abraham in that hoarding we passed - two shades down in two weeks? What exactly would be the purpose served by this blackening? Would the curse affect, shivers, myopic and hypermetropic people by default, or did they think of including their exemption as such in fine print before the proclamation?

Signboards on the Motichur Gohri route say that 'Elephants have right of way', which made my soporific brain think of pouting elephants who had been denied 'right of way' by mischievous children, and an elephant attorney arguing the case in court..."The law says that we do indeed have the right of way..."... I think I  caught Pappuji and Birenderji exchange concerned glances while I was chuckling away to myself...

And then silence. Till we saw a group of saffron clad monks walking up a winding road... "Not a single fat swami among them... Perhaps this 'ashram' in the hills and mountains was a ploy by the first of these people. They divined the later generations would get good exercise by just walking around... if it was the plains, and they were more sedentary, most of them would have got  high cholesterol before salvation..."

Arriving at the Omkarananda Sadan, I was shown to my old room. After dumping the luggage, went around for a walk almost immediately... went across the Ram Jhula, and took a ferry back to our banks... She was as cold as ever when I touched her during that boat ride, my dear Ganga... But she warmed me up as my hand trailed in her waters. She's magical like that.