THE MAN IS SITTING cross-legged on a rock, intoning from an enormous book in front of him. Any time, day or night, that I pass a particularly shady spot by the River Ganges this wiry Indian, his wispy beard trailing on to the dusty page of Hindi script, is there. Wearing just a threadbare orange robe around his waist, he looks as if he has been there all his life. Is he half-mad? A step closer to nirvana? I can’t tell. But by the time I leave here I will have extracted a nugget of wisdom from this curious character.
I am in the holy city of Rishikesh, through which flows the mighty Ganges, the river revered by India’s 800 million Hindus. Holy men in orange robes, known as sadhus, are everywhere. Crumbling temples are adorned with garish images of Hindu goddesses; the sound of bells chiming and men chanting lingers in the air.
Rishikesh was made famous by The Beatles in 1968; after a retreat in transcendental meditation with Maharishi Mahesh Yogi they returned home with the White Album. Along with Haridwar and Varanasi, it has been a centre of pilgrimage for centuries. Hindus from all over India try to make the journey at least once in their lives to bathe in the sacred waters of the river they affectionately call Mother Ganga.
To add to the mix, Rishikesh also attracts backpackers, white-water rafters, trekkers and western yoga devotees. Lakshman Jhoola is the tourist heart of the city, where signs jut out from all angles, advertising New Age stuff. It is nothing short of a spiritual supermarket for western soul seekers. I am here to see if the city lives up to the hype as yoga capital of the world.
My curiosity for yoga was aroused a few years ago when I started going to classes in Limerick and was immediately hooked. Now I am curious to discover more about the discipline in the country where it emerged, more than 5,000 years ago.
My first impression of Rishikesh, which my guidebook has flagged as a chilled-out place, is that it is just like every other Indian city: loud, chaotic and mentally exhausting. Vendors on all sides jostle to try to sell me various materials that promise to fast-track me to spiritual ecstasy.
The din of autorickshaws, belching out noxious fumes, keeps me awake all night at Omkarananda Ganga Sadan, the first yoga centre I book into. Notions I had about Rishikesh being a place of contemplation are quickly scuppered.
Out on the bustling street the next morning rickshaw pullers beg for my custom. “You want cheap rickshaw, madam? You want cheapest rickshaw, madam?” they cry. I accept an offer from the least intimidating of them. The man is old and tiny, with muscles of steel. He plonks both me and my backpack on to a rickety cart and pulls me through the throngs, weaving past tea stalls and trinket kiosks. I feel like an animal on show as it is brought to a fair. Now I am in the pedestrian zone, where at least I do not have to contend with a streetful of ear-splitting autorickshaws.
I book into a guest house and drift into a nearby class at Trika Yoga Centre. Drop-in classes usually cost €1.50, a steal compared with the €12-€15 you will pay in Ireland.
I leave in disgust after the Indian teacher tells a roomful of western yoga devotees that the mind can be trained to be telepathic. I look around; everyone is nodding and scribbling furiously. I leaf through the brochure: “Trika is a practice in which sex can be fully and truly integrated, where a mastery and transmutation of sexual energy is achieved.” There are also references to the paranormal and time travel. I run for the exit.
Trika is hugely popular, however. The emphasis on sexuality is a huge draw, and trika is the hot topic at surrounding guest houses.
I next try out Phool Chatti Ashram, a few kilometres outside the city. An English woman who describes herself as the ashram’s spiritual teacher intones mysteriously as I book in: “You are supposed to be here. You know that miracles happen every day.”
As it happens, the only miracle is that I last a week. Phool Chatti is a place of communal living for those who want to dedicate themselves to spiritual life, and although the atmosphere is generally pleasant the routine of rising at dawn and eating lentils twice daily is after the fourth day intolerable. I find it impossible to understand the yoga teacher’s English and cannot deal with her teaching style, which includes allowing her students to chat during class.
I feel disappointed. I am supposed to be in the yoga capital of the world, but so far I am unmoved. Then a Swiss woman says she can sort me out with a great teacher.
The next day I indulge in western food – a glorious pizza – delighted there is not a lentil in sight. That evening three friends and I are introduced to Ravinder Jangra at Shiva Resort guest house. He is dressed in white and, as is common for Indian men, is wearing a shawl around his shoulders; his face is glowing with health. We are told that he does not teach beginners and that he has to meet students before allowing them into his class.
The Swiss woman is our intermediary; after she and Jangra consult briefly they return to the table. “How would 6am tomorrow suit you?” asks Jangra. I attempt to negotiate a more reasonable hour. No, 6am or nothing, he says. Agreed.
So for the next few weeks I and three others – a laid-back Californian, an Israeli and a New Yorker – get excellent, intensive hatha-yoga tuition.
Jangra has incredible mastery of his body; as he demonstrates postures we gasp at how elastic his limbs and graceful his movements are. “I will solution you,” he tells us in his imperfect English.
An orange dot on his forehead indicates that he is celibate, although I am not certain what this means in Hindu terms. He spent two years living as an ascetic in a hut on the banks of the Ganges. He lives on a yogic diet of milk, honey, rice, chapattis and dhal.
After Jangra has stretched me to my limits I head out of town once more, in the direction of Haridwar, and stay a while at Santosh Puri Ashram. It is run by a German woman who came to India in the 1970s, fell in love with her guru and built an ashram with him. It offers yoga, meditation, Ayurvedic cookery classes and a peaceful environment.
After Santosh Puri I have a last night in Rishikesh. There is one final thing to do: attend aarti, a Hindu ritual that takes place each day at sundown on the banks of the Ganges. It is an incredible sight, showcasing the best India has to offer in spectacle, mystique and music. A fire is lit. Hundreds of children in yellow robes sing and clap in praise of the Hindu goddess Shiva.
Kneeling down in my bare feet on the marble steps just as the sun sinks, I drop an offering of a lit candle set on marigolds into the Ganges. The singing reaches a climax as all the candle wreaths, a flotilla of light, bob downstream.
As I leave Rishikesh I pass my usual riverside spot, and there he is, the sage intently chanting from his book. Has he found enlightenment? What do I – or any of us – need to get there? After a few weeks in Rishikesh I am none the wiser.
But I solve one final riddle before I hit the road. I am curious to find out which book the sage has chosen to spend his life reading as he sits on a rock beside a river wearing half-nothing. I quietly ask other sadhus nearby. “Bhagavad Gita, Bhagavad Gita,” one of them says as his eyes light up.
And so with the name of this ancient Hindu text etched in my memory, I leave Rishikesh behind me, its heady mix of chaos and mysticism still lingering.
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