Page 11 of The Love Thief

The Ganges view from the lobby was beautiful, picturesque, like something out of a fairy tale with majestic hills in the distance. Two ultrasleek dark red sofas featuring gold-embroidered, multicolored silk sari pillows were perfectly positioned to look out upon the flowing river two stories below.

Gentle Indian tabla music was playing, and large copper bowls on the floor were filled with small, fresh flowers arranged in the shape of a mandala floating in water.

Through the floor-to-ceiling glass windows I could see, less than a football field away, a colorful reddish-orange suspension bridge that spanned the river.

From the window, I could see layers of ancient-looking fairy-tale pink-and-peach-colored buildings stacked up a hillside.

I later learned that this area was filled with mostly small shops and ashrams. It all looked and felt a bit otherworldly.

The few moments of enchantment ended abruptly when I arrived at my room on the third and top floor just before sunset.

I was instantly disappointed. It was basically four walls, and a tiled floor, completely lacking in personality, charm, or beauty.

I’m not sure what I was expecting for forty bucks a night, but this clearly wasn’t it.

For a moment, a scene in the plush Budapest hotel with Barry flashed before my eyes. Only, I was no longer in Budapest.

And I was no longer with Barry, for that matter.

I opened the drapes to discover a small balcony with a plastic chair and a view mostly of a crumbling building across the alleyway.

My view to the far left was what a New York realtor would generously call a “pocket view” on the river.

Too tired to think about unpacking, I took a quick hot shower with my mouth sealed shut, fell into bed (which was surprisingly comfortable) with my favorite travel pillow, and was asleep in seconds.

I fell asleep around 6 P.M. , exhausted from the more than 23 hours of flight time, only to be abruptly awoken four hours later by banging noises.

Someone was pounding on a shared wall with a hammer!

Then I heard what sounded like people moving furniture around.

For an hour, it was one big noise after another.

I finally got back to sleep around midnight, hoping that 7 A.M. , when I was told breakfast would be available, would come quickly.

By 6:55 A.M. I was dressed and headed to the lobby to find the dining room, only to discover that the floor I was on had a locked wrought iron gate, keeping me from the staircase.

Oh my God! I was locked in. Trapped. Hungry. Frightened. If there had been a fire, I could have been burned alive! Now I was furious—and did I mention also very hungry? Me at my worst . . . hangry .

How could they do this? I went back to my room and called the front desk and gave the young man an earful. He promised to come get me immediately.

I met him at the gate, which was now open, and he tried to convince me that while a padlock had been in place, it wasn’t locked, and it was there to keep out intruders.

It was a completely unbelievable story, but at least I was free.

That is when I discovered the dining room wouldn’t open until 8:30 A.M.

Desperate for a caffeine fix, I decided to take a walk just as the sun was beginning to rise in a sky of mist and clouds.

As I stepped outside in the faint morning light, I stopped at the front door to take a good look around in order to be able to find my way back.

Across the street was a mini-billboard that appeared to be a political poster of a middle-aged man in a turban wearing garlands of flowers around his neck.

Excellent, a landmark. My hotel was on a main road and the road traffic was light.

Somehow I found the beep beeps of the three-wheeled auto-rickshaws, some emitting a surprising “Land of Dixie” theme, oddly comforting.

I knew that if I turned right, I would be headed toward the bridge I had seen earlier from the lobby. As I began walking, I could faintly hear the sounds of chanting but couldn’t determine where it was coming from. How perfect , I thought in my recently missing feeling of optimism.

“My first morning in India, and holy music is welcoming me.”

I was thinking about the few people I had met so far and how kind, gentle, and caring they seemed to be.

There was a sweetness to them, and an unhurried way of being that was a new experience for me.

I loved how they greeted me with namaste , a gesture I made fun of when my mother dragged me to her yoga classes.

Here in Rishikesh, that simple act meant “the divine in me bows to the divine in you.” For the first time, I saw it as a truly authentic greeting.

Except for a few skinny cows and two mangy dogs, I seemed to be the only one walking around.

Within the first hundred yards, I came to a small village market area with a collection of clothing, jewelry, and snack shops on both sides of the street.

Even though everything was shuttered and closed, most of the shops sported colorful window displays that I planned to check out later in the day.

The chanting was now getting louder and was coming from behind me and toward me.

I saw a dozen chanting men, some in orange robes, some in white robes, all wearing turbans, walking briskly and carrying what looked to be a stretcher with a dead man on it—his face covered in ashes and his torso wrapped in an orange sheet.

I stepped aside. The only witness to the procession.

What the hell have I gotten myself into? I thought.

There was a break in the shops to my right and a wide asphalt pathway down to the Ganges. I could see a two-story building with “The Bliss Café and Spiritual Bookshop” painted on one side of the building with a steep, narrow wooden staircase leading to the entrance.

At the top of the stairs was a window-paned door with light shining through, and a sign above the door proclaiming to have the best coffee in Rishikesh.

Excited, I flew up the stairs and tried the door.

It was locked, but through the glass, I saw a sixty-something Indian man wearing a navy and yellow University of Michigan sweatshirt.

When he noticed me standing at the top of the stairs, he walked toward me.

He had a mane of salt-and-pepper-colored curly hair and a warm smile.

As he unlocked and opened the door with his left hand, he used his right hand to gently cover his heart as he bowed slightly, saying, “Welcome! We are not quite open yet, but please, come in.” He was fatherly and kind.

If only Auntie Geeta could meet someone like this , I mused to myself.

Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves covered the walls, with most of the shelves sagging from the weight of the books.

It was impossible to tell if the volumes were new or used, but I assumed they were a bit of both.

Behind the front desk, I saw a big pass-through window that appeared to be the still-dark café.

“My name is Deepak. What has you up so early this morning?”

“Thanks for allowing me in, Deepak. My name is Holly. I just arrived late yesterday from San Diego, California, and I am desperate for some coffee,” I said without taking a breath.

As Deepak slowly turned toward me, I could immediately sense a warmth wrapping around me. It felt both foreign and familiar at the same time, and I sensed it wasn’t merely the heat pushing the morning air through. I felt at peace.

“Regrettably, the coffee won’t be ready for a bit,” Deepak replied. “But I just made a fresh pot of masala chai. Would you like a cup?”

“Thank you.” I smiled, suddenly regretting my boldness for storming into his place in my typical tsunami-like fashion. “I’d love it.”

Deepak walked back into the darkened café area, presumably to find a cup for me.

When I first walked in, I noticed he had been standing in front of a small, framed photo of himself, surrounded by what looked like a holy woman and a holy man, both in orange robes.

I couldn’t help but stare at his Michigan sweatshirt, a familiar item in America juxtaposed with a new and foreign place.

Auntie Geeta owned more than one of them herself.

An ironic sense of synchronicity appeared at the edges of my imagination.

Holly, you’ve been in India for less than twenty-four hours. I chastised myself for being so foolish. You cannot expect a miracle the minute you arrive. Why do you always want so much? The familiar voice of self-doubt and loathing flooded my brain.

Deepak interrupted my thoughts as he handed me a steaming cup of chai.

I breathed deeply, turning my attention to the kind man before me.

“Does it contain sugar?” I asked him as politely as I could.

Standing in front of this stranger felt like wearing a new pair of shoes.

It was both pleasant and unusual. I shifted my weight from one leg to the other.

His face read that “crazy American” reaction I imagined he was thinking. I chewed my bottom lip, inwardly kicking myself for making such a fuss.

“Don’t worry. I always make it with honey.” He laughed, quickly putting me at ease. “Are you a diabetic?”

“No,” I replied. “But sugar is a form of poison I avoid like the plague.”

“Well,” he started slowly. “Honey represents the sweetness of life. A cup of masala chai with honey in the morning is like a prayerful blessing for a good day and a good life.”

Okay, then Deepak, I’m in. In one sip, it became one of the most delicious things in a cup I had ever tasted. This fragrant, satisfying cup of deliciousness was warming my tattered soul.

“Have you come to Rishikesh to attend a yoga teacher training?” Deepak asked casually as he sorted the cups before him.

“Definitely not,” I blurted, my face immediately turning red. “Um, I mean, I realize this is the ‘Yoga Capital of the World,’ but I don’t particularly enjoy the practice. Besides, I recently broke my wrist, so I don’t see any downward dogs happening in the near future.”

Deepak laughed heartily, which gave me the confidence to continue my story. In my usual TMI mode, I told him about the accident and my other injuries, but I left out the Barry part. It was humiliating enough to share what happened with a good friend, let alone a stranger I had just met in India.

I was slightly nervous about prying, but my curiosity was piqued, and I finally asked him how he came to have a Michigan sweatshirt. He gave me a giant smile and said, “It’s my alma mater.”

Before he could say more, the door opened with the sound of clinking bells, and in walked one of the café workers.

Deepak introduced me to the young man and told me that if I wanted to wait fifteen minutes, I’d finally be able to have that cup of coffee.

The chai had worked its caffeine magic on me, and I decided to continue for a little more walk and then head back to the hotel for breakfast. Before I left, I noticed his business card in the little container next to the cash register.

It read “Deepak Kumar, Ph.D., Purveyor of Fine Books.” I took one as I walked out the door.

At exactly 8:30 A.M. , I arrived back at the hotel and found my way downstairs to the dining room.

I was surprised to see that I was the only guest. A server greeted me with a menu and asked if I would like coffee or chai to start.

I ordered coffee and scanned the menu, hoping for eggs.

The menu was a hodgepodge of Asian-like dishes, most with rice or noodles with veggies but no eggs in sight.

I asked my server about the possibility of eggs, and he explained to me that Rishikesh is 100 percent a vegetarian city and eggs were not possible.

How did I not know this? Three weeks, no eggs? No chicken? No anything I usually eat? He quickly suggested his own favorite item on the menu, the masala breakfast dosa. He described something that sounded like a crepe, so I agreed to just go for it.

Minutes later, a gigantic crispy crepe arrived—overhanging both sides of the plate by several inches—filled with lumpy mashed potatoes and some bits of green veggies I didn’t recognize.

A few side sauces and yogurt came with it.

From the first bite, I was hooked. I later discovered the dosa shell/wrap was created from ground rice and lentils.

I finished every delicious bit of it and nearly asked for another order, but decided to see how I digested this one, first. It certainly felt good in my mouth and tummy.

I made a mental note to ask to learn this dish in cooking school.

After breakfast, I headed back to my room and was shocked to discover a family of monkeys on my balcony.

Ridiculously loud and bouncing around, as monkeys are known to do, the biggest one pressed up against the glass window and seemed to dare me to engage with him.

Not my idea of fun. After the noisy night of banging, the now chattering monkeys, and the discovery that I had been locked into my floor and could have died if there had been a fire, exhaustion began to cover me like a wet blanket.

In the midmorning light, the view from my room was a bit depressing.

It overlooked a string of old weathered buildings with peeling paint and old-fashioned antennas on the roof.

My “pocket view” of the Ganges was too narrow to be inspiring or enchanting.

I began to think I should ask for a different room or even move to another hotel.

Perhaps for lack of attention, the monkeys didn’t stay long, and with the combination of interrupted sleep and jetlag, I crawled under the covers and took a nap.