a weekend pilgrimage

like thousands of hindu pilgrims before us, haridwar drew cole and i to the sacred site where the ganges leaves the mountains. with a vague idea of how we were getting to haridwar, we left king’s chambers in the rainy darkness at 6 am and met our taxi. on the road, we happened upon the bus to haridwar. our taxi driver signaled the bus and pulled over, and we hoped that the curly hindi letters said, “haridwar” and not some faraway land. cole and i packed ourselves into the seat, marveling at the apparent size of indian people’s butts. the 90 cent ride took us the hour-an-a-half on the bumpy road with the bus attendant shouting, “haridwar-haridwar-haridwar,” out the window at passing pedestrians. we arrived at the haridwar bus station during a torrential downpour. our rickshaw driver gave cole and i an umbrella to keep us dry as he pedaled us to our hotel in the bazaar. the seat of the rickshaw was so narrow that cole and i felt almost as if we were going to fall out into the lanes of buses, cars, mopeds and bicycles—another indication that indians must enjoy food less than said foreigners.

in the midst of the rain, we made our way to har-ki-pairi (the footstep of god where vishnus allegedly left his footprint) is the focus of pilgrimages. the power of the ganges to absolve sins at har-ki-pairi is believed to be unmatched. i guess washing my hands in the river could pardon me from some of my worldly deeds, so i can consider the trip a success. people bathed in the freezing water, men on near the ghat and women across the bank. others deified the ganga by pouring milk or dropped flowers into the rushing waters. sadhus (those who have given up the worldly to pursuer a spiritual quest) populate the banks, some with their faces painted like clowns and their hair matted into a single, spiked dreadlock. one sadhu with skin painted entirely white lived under the mangled, exposed roots of a tree near the banks of the river. the rest of the river is lined by individuals from all castes—from families adorned in rich fabrics to beggars huddled under sheaths of plastic, seeking refuge from the rain. because many who make the trip to the banks of the ganges are sadhus or impoverished devotees, men mill around the river and take donations to provide for the pilgrims. queues of people gather outside of restaurants on the river to collect food in bowls made of leaves.

following our trip to the ghat, we walked up about 1 km of stairs to the mansa devi temple. we tried to protect our prasad (donations to the goddess) from the monkeys eagerly watching people climbing the steps. we luckily met a kind indian family from britain who guided us through the temple, which seemed more an exercise in queuing and donating money than a religious experience. following our "religious" experience, i went into the bazaar to purchase fabric for a salwarcami, a long shirt worn by women that is sometimes accompanied by a shawl or matching pants. the shopowner eagerly threw fabric onto my lap, removing nearly 50 packages of cloth from the shelves. the shopping trip was almost akin to browsing in a store where the salespeople work based solely on commission.


at dusk the ghat is illuminated by the ganga aarti (the river worship ceremony) performed by priests. as we made our way to the river for the ceremony, we met with a parade, complete with a statue of ganesh (the elephant-headed god) and men playing brass instruments to celebrate ganesh’s birthday. i have a certain affinity for ganesh, so i will write more about him later. we arrived at the river and took a place amongst the other pilgrims and next to a small boy who loved speaking english with us. a small girl navigated through the crowd, placing bindis on peoples' heads and then charging a small fee for her work. that's really the main idea in india and in the hindu ceremonies we attended, give without asking and then charge a fee. as it grew darker, the security guards dispersed in the crowd, yelling instructions, orders, god-knows-what, in hindi. when the ceremony started, the priests outside of the ghat lit up the night sky with their torches. singing and chanting poured out of the loudspeakers, and cole and i clapped along with the crowd. sometimes people threw their hands in the air, crying out in hindi, so cole and i obliged as well. it's funny feeling a kinship with the people around you when you are sharing in an experience you don't completely understand. people placed small vessels constructed of leaves and flowers and lit by a small candle into the river, praying as the boat flowed downstream.

we departed for our journey home and reaffirmed the notion that in india, much of the adventure is in the transit. notably, our second bus was delayed from departing the dehra dun station because a baby boy was relieving himself on the sidewalk alongside the bus. what’s not to love about india?

a day in the life

though i have been living and teaching in mussoorie, india-- situated in the foothills of the himalayan mountains-- for over a month, the novelty has yet to subside. i often awake to pouring rain or scurrying monkeys drumming on the roof of my apartment, ironically dubbed king’s chambers. while not the poshest dwelling, king’s chambers boasts a porch with a breath-taking view from which i love to drink my morning coffee, a bread man who awakens me every monday with freshly-baked loaves of cinnamon bread and a menagerie of stray cats, monkeys and spiders.

woodstock campus is situated 500 feet down the mountain from my humble abode. clouds roll into the classrooms of my eleventh grade ap microeconomics students and twelfth grade ap american history kids. when the dreariness of monsoon seeps into their brains, i teach them 1990’s dance moves in between conversations about the elasticity of demand and debates regarding rent control, the party stances of federalists and democratic republicans or the concept of “who is an american?” the radiance of my host teacher, shonila—a strong-hearted indian woman from punjab who has been teaching for over 25 years—and her flowing saris, brilliant gray hair and maternal nature is another aspect of woodstock that never grows old. the word on the street is that, “ms. humm makes us work really hard, but it’s okay, because class is actually really cool.” and, let’s be honest, when i spend 3-5 hours writing some lessons, it had better be cool.

mussoorie itself is known as a favorite indian honeymoon destination for its quaintness and location above the sweltering heat of the plains. one of my favorite things to do in mussoorie is run errands. though it may sound mundane, it is just the opposite. a quick trip (which actually equates to 45 minutes because nothing is really quick in india) to the market can lead to hours spent chatting with the local merchants and townspeople. the tailor, who reportedly says the best part of his job is talking to people while the worst part is that, “sometimes he has to make clothes,” often offers me a cup of tea during our chats about mussoorie, india, cars, america and music. the man from who i buy kitchen supplies (tea pot, breadbox and the like) inherited his store from his father, who now owns the convenience store across the street.

mussoorie consists of multiple bazaar areas, one of which is the home to the healthiest (and likely holiest) cow i’ve ever seen. local merchants feed the cow as she roams during the day while she smartly sleeps in a bus stand each night. the upper bazaar is punctuated by the honking horns of cars and motorcycles trying to squeeze through too-tight spaces, sometimes with just one or two inches of leeway. the lower bazaar, a pedestrian walkway, is home to the tastiest indian food in town. best dish: chicken kedai (tomato-based curry with green peppers and onions) from four seasons with a fresh sweet lime soda to refresh your palate. the bengali sweet shop is a great after dinner stop. best indulgence: gulabjamin, donut-hole-like sweets bathed in sugary goose. if you are in town long enough you will surely hear one of the five daily calls to prayer from the mosque located on one of the side streets.

evening runs are another highlight of my life at woodstock. last night i went for a sunset run on the shucker, a road that circles two mountains about 500 feet above king’s chambers. during my jaunt, i was called out of my state of almost-meditative-relaxation by calls of, “hello! hello!” i looked up to see two boys scurrying down from their house toward the road to join me on my run. we jogged together for about two blocks, just enough time to share names, ages and giggles. other than my two new little friends, i typically share the road with families of rhesus (small, brown devils) and longher (large and graceful) monkeys, groups of men smoking cigarettes and seemingly-gossiping women in colorful, flowing saris out for afternoon strolls, kids riding bikes in school uniforms and bell-clad cows loping about. on clear evenings, the snowy himalayan peaks are visible from the tree-lined shucker. yesterday as the blazing red sun faded beneath the horizon a brilliant orange streak across the horizon remained, punctuated by an immediate line of near-blackness; leaving the impression that the world dropped off into oblivion like the sea fading into the distance.

the day i found out i was student teaching in india, i received a fortune cookie with the following, “travel to appease your restlessness.” i feel i have done just that.