Page 16 of The Love Thief

CHAPTER ELEVEN On the Banks of the Ganges

After leaving Divya’s with a belly full of the delicious khichri we’d made, I was feeling both peaceful and energized.

I completely understood why khichri is known as a panacea.

It’s kind of like calling chicken soup the Jewish penicillin.

And, I thought to myself, Maybe there really is something to this infusing food with love concept!

As I walked toward the river, the dusty ground crunched beneath my feet and reflected the light of the sun towering above me.

The occasional breeze cooled my face before sweat could form on my forehead.

Equally grateful for the sun’s piercing radiance and the gentle breeze, I breathed deeply at the polarity of nature.

When I reached the water’s edge, I decided I would try taking the small ferryboat across and purchased my ten-rupee ticket.

There were a few Western faces on the boat, but mostly it was extended Indian families.

The Ganga River was flowing swiftly and, in the afternoon light, it was the most gorgeous celadon color, a color I didn’t think Crayola had yet created for their big box.

It also reminded me of my favorite ring that featured a large oval chrysoprase gemstone.

The entire ride lasted less than two minutes.

An unusually healthy-looking brown-and-white cow greeted me at the dock.

I sidestepped her and quickly walked up a flight of stairs, passing a variety of vendors hawking unusual-looking edibles or small woven baskets with flowers called puja baskets.

At the top of the stairs, I had two choices: I could turn right and head toward the ashram and the site for aarti, or I could turn left.

Since I had extra time, I decided to turn left and explore the area.

I found myself walking a shady tree-lined path along the river.

There were few people, it was mostly quiet, and I could hear the rushing of the water, birds singing, and faint chanting off in the distance.

There was a palpable serenity and beauty, and I began thinking about what the palm reader had said to me, suggesting that Ganga would provide me with healing.

Although this sounded strange, I began to wonder if that was possible and, if so, how would it happen?

He never mentioned that I needed to actually go into the water, so how would I get healed unless I soaked in the river with its healing properties?

Maybe this was different from an Epsom salt bath for sore muscles.

Or, maybe this was a question for Deepak in the morning.

Eventually, I turned around and headed in the other direction. This path merged up and to the left, and I made a hard right turn onto a small paved lane with a variety of shops, street food vendors, cows, and some of the most unusual-looking people I had ever seen.

One man in faded robes had dreadlocks nearly brushing the top of his feet.

With a dazed, possibly crazed, look on his face, he stood perfectly still with his palms outstretched, seeking donations.

Another holyman type wearing a colorful turban had set up shop on an equally bright blanket under a shade tree with a big sign that read, “Meditation Man, Enlightenment Lessons.”

Hmm, I wonder if he has a “blue light special” for instant access to Shangri-La or if there is a package deal to reach Nirvana , my snarky self mused.

I took my time strolling through the area and ducked into a few of the better-looking jewelry stores.

When I exited the nicest of the shops, I realized that I was standing exactly where I needed to be, right in front of the Parmarth Niketan Ashram, the site of the aarti ceremony.

There was a large seating area directly on the river, facing a huge Shiva statue on a platform placed in the middle of the Ganges.

A few hundred people were already sitting on the steps, or what they call the ghat .

Everyone was barefoot or in socks, so I placed my shoes alongside the others before walking down the shallow steps and sitting down in the middle of it all.

A few minutes later, I began to hear the music behind me, and when I turned around, I saw two boys, maybe ten or twelve years old, in marigold robes.

One was playing the tabla, and the other the harmonium, a cross between an accordion and a child-size piano.

Then a procession of more than a hundred boys just like them came walking down the steps.

They passed me and then formed two groups with a fire pit separating them.

Behind the boys, I saw the holy woman and the holy man from Deepak’s photograph arrive.

They walked straight toward me and then sat down next to me. Holy shit! Had I inadvertently placed myself in the middle of their place of honor? The woman seemed to have read my mind. She reached out, smiled at me, grabbed my hand, and simply said, “Stay.”

The holy woman, who appeared to be around my age and definitely American, in spite of the orange robes, spoke into her microphone and welcomed us all in English, and then the holy man spoke in Hindi and began chanting, and pretty much everyone joined in.

Even though I didn’t know the words, I began to feel as if the music and the words were pulsating inside me.

The sun was now low in the pink-and-red-tinged sky, the river was flowing past, and the fire pit was shooting orange-and-yellow flames.

I felt transported back into a magical and mystical place and yet I was aware that I was fully present in a way I had never experienced before.

There were several more chants, and at one point, about a dozen people were given brass lanterns emitting a flame that they moved in large clockwise motions.

The entire aarti ritual lasted about thirty minutes and, before it ended, the holy woman invited everyone into the ashram to attend a satsang in English, where she would answer any and all of our spiritual questions.

I picked up my shoes off the rack and followed the holy woman, and several dozen other people, through the entry gates to the ashram that spilled into a large rectangular garden peppered with statues of deities and was surrounded by two- and three-story buildings.

We were guided into a large, carpeted meeting room that offered seating on the floor and a few chairs for the older devotees.

The musician boys had quickly relocated from the aarti ceremony location and were softly playing their instruments here.

As I scanned the room for a place to sit, a tall African American man with a friendly face, probably in his late fifties, approached me.

“The floor can be pretty hard.” He smiled, offering me his jacket as a cushion.

I craned my neck upward, taking in his lean six-foot frame.

His dark glistening eyes emanated a kindness much like Deepak’s.

For a second, I froze, not knowing what to say.

After all, the last time a man had made such a gesture, I had gotten into a heap of trouble, falling head over heels in an instant.

Pushing Barry’s memory out of my mind, I inhaled deeply, returning the man’s polite smile, and gratefully accepted.

“That’s very kind of you,” I said quietly.

“The mind can only absorb what the backside can endure,” he said, then clasped his hands in a namaste and made his way toward the back of the room, where a group of younger people each offered him a warm embrace. He then settled onto the floor next to me.

When the room filled to capacity, the holy woman arrived and sat on a slightly raised platform in the front.

She was friendly and cheery and introduced herself as Sadhvi Bhagawati Saraswati and, in a warm, friendly voice, directed us to close our eyes for a few minutes of meditation before taking our questions.

Fortunately for me and my uncooperative monkey mind, the meditation lasted just a few minutes.

Sadhviji then told us she had received a few questions from the ashram’s Facebook page, but before she would answer them, she asked if anyone had a question to begin the session.

I quickly raised my hand and, as if anticipating I would be the first one to ask, her assistant handed me a microphone.

“Hi,” I said a bit shyly. “Thank you for the lovely aarti ceremony and for this opportunity to meet with you. My name is Holly. I am new to all of this.” I turned my head toward the kind man who had approached me before the ceremony began as if to gather some assurance that I wasn’t making a fool of myself.

He smiled broadly at me, giving me an encouraging wink. I smiled back before continuing.

“In the few days since I arrived in Rishikesh, I’ve been told a few times that the Ganges River will be my healer. Can you help me understand this?” I could feel the blood racing to my cheeks in a blend of anxiety and desperation.

She laughed and said, “This is one of my favorite questions. Let me begin by telling you the story of Mother Ganga. She is the most sacred riverbed in the world and cuts through the foothills of the Himalayas, originating at a glacier that is more than thirteen thousand feet above sea level. The Goddess Ganga is the daughter of King Himavat, the king of the Himalayas, and Queen Meru, and is the sister of Uma, Bhagawan Shiva’s divine consort.

It is said that the Goddess Ganga gracefully departed from Her Heavenly abode and took the form of a flowing river that has descended upon Earth, an act of grace and compassion to bring healing and liberation to Earth rather than decimation. ”