cooksinindia

Saying goodbye to a friend

A couple of weeks ago I went to Haridwar, which is about 240kms. North-East of Delhi. It’s said to be the holiest of cities in India, an honor I thought belonged to Varinasi. I booked a second class ticket on the train, and at 6:30 am on a Friday we glided out of Delhi’s station. The train was a lovely experience. Porters whisked about bringing tea and food, which is included in the 2nd class fare (and which ran me about ten bucks each way for a five hour trip: fair enough, I say). Mostly fields and villages along the way. Rice crops. But Haridwar marks an end to the plains. Here begin the foothills of the Himalayas.
My reason for going was two-fold. On a very selfish level, I simply needed to get out of Dodge, especially out of the dust and smoke of Dodge. I needed to smell air. And I was hankering for a little bit of small-er-town India. But there was another, more driving force which took me to Haridwar, and specifically to the Ganges. In my bag there was (appropriately enough) a small whiskey flask. In the flask were some of Bill O’Connor’s ashes. Kris came dashing through our door back in September on the morning we left for India. “”Here,” she said, handing over the flask. “I almost forgot to give you Bill. Find a nice place for him in India.” I may not have perfectly captured Kris’s words, but those of you who know Kris probably drew up an accurate picture on the etch-a-sketch of your mind the Kris we all know and love. Kris at 6:00 a.m. makes coffee look like mother’s milk. But I regress.
I booked a room in the town square at the Hotel Kailash. The term ‘faded glory’ springs to mind when I think back on my temporary digs. But ‘glory’ is too strong. Perhaps 'faded ambition’ more accurately depicts the Hotel Kailash. Once upon a time, it tried. Then-apparently-it threw in the towel. Rooms were Rs. 300, and I had to bring my own Toilet Paper, but the water was hot and there was lots of it. (You can see my view of the town square from the balcony if you scroll down the last couple of entries in the blog. To the right in one of the pictures is the hotel’s sign. The other picture is of a cow. Go figure. )
I strolled about a bit, and soon had the lay of the land pretty well sussed-out. The river is rather fast and furious in Haridwar. Voluminous. And it has also been diverted into a channel which runs the length of town. There are Ghats, or steps leading down to water’s edge, and metal bars to hold onto in order to keep from being dragged downstream. (It really clips along.) Most pilgrims take the plunge along these ghats. The air was chilly, and so was the water (I stuck a tentative toe in) but such was the fervor and ecstasy of said pilgrims as to render them oblivious to elemental hardship. I found myself engaging in a bit of mental conversation with Bill as I walked about. “What do you think, lad? Up for a swim?” He wasn’t terribly pumped. Somehow this didn’t feel just so, and I decided to sit on the problem.
Later that day I took a stroll up a hill that looks out over the town. It was quite a ways up, actually, to a large Hindu temple. There were monkeys all along the route, and at one point along the ascent I bought a small red plastic bag of offerings for the Gods up top, but the bag never made it. A big, tough, dude-monkey faced me down mid-road and showed his teeth, which are surprisingly large and pointy and which, frankly, freaked me out a bit. He then charged me, and at the last minute swung to my left, nipping the bag of treats from my hand. I opted not to give chase. But once I achieved the Temple, I was rewarded with ‘the big picture’ of the Ganges, Haridwar, and the hills which stretch to the North. Quite breath-taking, actually. And educational. I heard a voice in my head suggest, “What about that broad, meandering part of the river? East of town and the channel? I might enjoy a dip there.” Sure enough, there appeared a piece of the Ganges that was left to its natural inclinations. And so I resolved on the morrow to make my way hence.
The day dawned cool but clear. Blue skies have become something of an act of faith in Delhi. One feels the heat, and reasons there must be sky somewhere above the haze. But to actually see them is a treat. And there they were. I stopped at a small street stall next to my hotel and ordered up a couple of roti with dal and curry. A lovely breakfast. I sat on a small bench and watched the flow of humanity work its way riverward, sopping up curry and dal as I did so. When the guy told me the cost (Rs. 10) I thought I heard Bill’s voice again, this time coming from the flask, nestled in my shoulder bag. “Now that’s what I’m talking about. The people know how to eat.” Word. (Did I mention my recent shift toward ‘native’ stature? No? Well, I suppose something needs be held in reserve. A bit of mystery, eh?) Bill and I brushed ourselves off and headed out in search of the river Ganges.
It didn’t take long. I worked my way past the usual ‘Holy men’ who were after donations, and soon found myself working up a sweat. Across two bridges, along a bit of road, down some rather crumbly steps and I found myself looking out over an expanse of rounded stones with their terminus the banks of the river.
A couple of village women were slapping laundry against some rocks, and across the way were donkey carts hauling gravel and water from the river’s edge, but for the most part, it was quiet. I wandered until I came to a point where the water ran clear and deep. And cold. One is faced with certain challenges in this life, and I’d like to fancy myself up to any task. I stood in thigh-deep water and watched the swirls it made around my legs. Then, just as I lost all feeling in my feet, I gathered a deep breath and took the soul-cleansing plunge. In the Hindu faith, one must clear the cobwebs of sin before executing any holy act. Not that there was much to be cleared from my attic. But just to be safe…
Back on shore, Bill rested in his flask. He was smiling. And so I came ashore, gathered him up, and walked him into slightly-more-gentle waters. I stood for just a minute in the knee-deep current and enjoyed flashes of memory. One day, years ago, Bill and I fished the Escanaba for trout. I had on my red ball rubber waders, but Bill would have none of that. He simply donned an old pair of cotton pants and tennis shoes. And we worked the stream. That was a good day. As I poured him forth into the current, I looked at the large pieces as they settled to the bottom, and at the finer, dust-like pieces that spread a small cloud downstream. Then something nice happened. I lingered once again over the heavier pieces, and my eye caught a flash. A small fish, working its way upstream, passed over Bill and darted between my legs. Kind of gave me the shivers, but I also felt oddly light and buoyant. I said a last goodbye, and began my walk back to town. That, too, was a good day.