Rolling on the Holy River Ganga

After the light show in Amritsar, I headed toward the the epicenter of inner light: Rishikesh. Famous in the East for its ashrams and prime location on the Ganga and famous in the West for the Beatles and the Maharishi, Rishikesh is beautiful, serene and peaceful. There's definitely an international set of travelers here, but the Indian tourists, pilgrims and ascetics come in droves as well, not like in Dharamsala where Western seekers of enlightenment seemed to outnumber the Indian and Tibetans. Rishikesh and the nearby holy site of Haridwar are the famous points where the Ganga dumps out of the mountains into the plains of India.

I decided the rigidity of an ashram stay might be a bit much for me so I opted instead for the Yoga Niketan Guesthouse where I could cherry pick from the yoga and meditation offerings at the ashram across the street without the minute-to-minute schedule. Plus, I had a magnificent view of the Ganga from my balcony.

Mary Baker Eddy spiritually defines river as a "channel of thought," which I've always found to be a powerful description, but it is especially potent when contemplating the Ganga. This river is a fundamental source of inspiration for Hindus. It's more than a significant part of the Indian landscape; the river's current corresponds with the lives of many Indians. They bathe in it, drink from it, wash clothes in it, lead animals to it, pee in it, play in it, pray by it and release their dead in it. Pilgrims travel for miles to make offerings to it, tourists take countless photos by it, and parents dunk reluctant, crying children in it to assert their purity. Its a source of atonement and necessity, but also, as I found, adventure.

When I got tired of twisting my body into a pretzel and quietly contemplating nothingness, I decided to find adventure on the mighty Ganga and head out on a half-day rafting trip. I joined a sweet Gujarati family, who could hardly contain their excitement for the trip. Each time the calm current of seafoam green water gave way to the choppy whitewater, they forgot to paddle and would wave their paddles in the air like lassos shrieking, "Wahoo!" We shot like a pinball through some hairy class III+ and IV rapids and passed through the splendid lush, green Rishikesh valley, waving to the pilgrims on the shore and the Westerners sunbathing ("Hippies!" yelled the Gujaratis with delight). It was quite a rush, as rafting always is, but especially to know that I was letting a river of such importance splash over me.