Tours n Travails - Rishikesh. Part 4 of 4

The following interior monologue is based on personal experiences except the parts that might get me into trouble. Those are purely fictional. This is more true in this post than any other.

Remember. Say No to Sandwiches.

This is finally, the finale

We finally reach the end after two and a half enthralling hours. I didn’t fall of the raft even once and I begin considering a career in water adventure sports. I now deduce that the intense sunbeams had made me delusional. On the ride back to the office, we ask Avnesh what else there is to do in Rishikesh keeping in mind that we have only till late evening and that none of us are the worshipping types. He tells us about this run down ashram, across the river, called the Maharishi Mahesh Yogi ashram, the place where the Beatles had stayed when they came to India. The same place where many of the songs from “The White Album” had been composed. We had to go. Wild Ganges river dolphins (which is, by the by, India’s national aquatic animal and sadly an endangered species) couldn’t keep me away. The thought of standing in the same place where Paul McCartney had probably thought up “Blackbird” was too compelling. (Interesting piece of trivia is that he wrote the song, one early morning after a chirping bird outside the ashram had woken him up.)

But before we could get to that there was the trivial matter of lunch. After rowing for so long we were so hungry that we could, others figuratively and I quite literally, eat a cow. But a cow was not to be had. We were suggested Hotel Ishaan, restaurant and German bakery, renowned for its continental food and frequented by the white people. I was disappointed on not seeing any form of meat on the menu but after a quick conversation with my stomach I was convinced that this was not the time to be picky and so I settled for the lasagna followed by the chocolate pudding for dessert. Both were scrumptious and equally satisfying and would have been even more so had P.B’s and S.L’s spoon not fallen into my pudding, repeatedly so over and over again. Hotel Ishaan is most definitely gaining an entry into the, yet unpublished but widely awaited, “Rohan’s Guide to Eating Anywhere in India” under the “No Choice But Veg” section.

At about 5p.m. we leave to the find the now renamed (by me)- “Beatles ashram”. We learn that we have to cross Lakshmana-Jhula a hanging bridge built upon the spot where the mythical Lakshmana crossed the Ganges using jute ropes. He must have been a die-hard Beatles fan too. The bridge is only wide enough to let pedestrians and two-wheelers cross which means that on the other side, where life is bristling with its markets and temples, there’s not a single car to be seen which is again quite fascinating. (By now you will have noticed two things- 1) things I find fascinating are actually quite boring, 2) there’s no mystery behind me being single). The bridge is extremely congested but I don’t mind since we are less than an hour away from visiting a place entrenched in Beatles folklore. S.L has no clue as to whom I’m talking about and I take it upon myself to educate him.
“So this John guy lives in that ashram?”
“No S. No he doesn’t.”
“Then what’s the point?”
That was the end of that.

We pass by and evade cows, hippy tourists, homeless Babas but none make me slow down. That is until I hear “Would you like some ‘Sandwiches’ Sir?” I stop dead in my tracks. I’ve never had anybody address me as sir and ask me to buy Sandwiches. I turn around and see this extremely unkempt yet cheerful Baba covered with a layer of dirt acting as a second skin. His brown, braided hair and beard give him an almost Rastafarian look. I half expect him to break out into a Bob Marley number. He puts his hand out for a shake. Now I don’t normally go shaking homeless peoples hand, which is unfortunate for more reasons than one, but I want what he has to offer and so I shake reluctantly. I inquire discreetly about the Sandwiches; he tells me loudly that the stuff is good. I am forced to wait while he buys a cup of tea at the local cigarette and paan shop. The shopkeeper shouts at him for trying to sell Sandwiches so openly but he keeps smiling. I realize that he’s “full”. I don’t mind. If I were selling Ferraris I’d take a spin once in a while.

He takes us to his humble abode; which is nothing more than a tattered mat at the side of the road. The only sign of furniture is a worn down bag from which he extracts a plastic pouch and pours out a Sandwich. He extracts two seeds and hands it to me, telling me that the produce is fresh. I had unfortunately missed the Sandwich appreciation classes held in college and merely nod in agreement. He quotes an unreasonable price. And we begin haggling on the middle of the road, it being quite obvious to everyone who passes as to what we are up to. But nobody raises more than an eyebrow, the act not meriting lifting both. He eventually agrees for less than half of the originally quoted cost in addition to two filtered cigarettes. Dad would have been proud. Bargaining for fish at the local market is something I learnt from him. So that makes two things.

As we walk towards the Beatles ashram I notice that eating Sandwiches is the norm. There are rather a lot of holy homeless Babas sitting by the roadside munching away, as a pleasantly intoxicating sweet smell spreads into the general surroundings. No better way to achieve inner peace if you ask me.

As the sun is about to set we reach the gates of the ashram. We see a couple of tourists leaving the place and nonchalantly walk in. Unfortunately there’s a gatekeeper to this enchanted place. He doesn’t allow us passage, saying that it’s too late and hence too dangerous to walk up the hill and enter the ashram least we get eaten by tigers or leopards. I tell him in no uncertain terms that I’ll take my chances and besides I had a sandwich on me, which I could use on the leopard. But he obviously hadn’t seen “Harold and Kumar Go To Whitecastle”. Now, we were informed before hand that we might have to give this chap a few bucks. So I’m more than ready with a crisp note of the freshest fifty you’ve ever seen, but no, he seemed to have cultivated a sense of duty since the last tourist walked out. I plead, I bribe, and I cajole but to no avail. We are forced to leave without praying to the Beatles, which some might say actually defeats the whole purpose of coming to Rishikesh.

But it does actually give me another reason to visit again. Rafting, Sandwiches and the Beatles. I don’t really need anymore.

Oh and as for water. I get a feeling that it’s cleansed me of my all my sins too. Now I have to start all over again.

The End

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