The woman woke up in a cold room somewhere in Haridwar. It had dirty white tiles on the wall. It was December, and the floor felt like ice. The cold bucket shower didn’t help the situation, although it got her blood circulating. This was budget travel at its most inconvenient, but it was the least of her concerns. She’d just left a village in the hills above the town, walking out on a prospective guru because something hadn’t felt right. She had that now familiar sinking sensation of being back at square one and very much alone.
Having fallen out with Google Maps the day before, she set out without any particular sense of direction. It was a relief to find that it was warmer outside than in. She walked aimlessly, making mental notes of landmarks as she went.
In happier times, when the excitement of travel was still alive in her, she had loved these first mornings in an unknown place. Not knowing what might be around the next corner had been fun then, but her mind was preoccupied by her own troubles these days. 20 years of circling India, of entering and exiting ashrams, of hope and defeat, wasn’t going to be fixed with sightseeing or distractions today. Exhaustion and confusion bit into her as much as the cold air.
Still, she did note the beautiful old doorways on some of the buildings, and one that opened into a courtyard bordered by small shrines. It looked public enough, so she went inside. One of the statues was of a saint; it was pure white marble, but the eyes were dark and striking. She sat down on the ground in front of the murti, not even checking its name and began talking to it. Desperate people don’t mind looking a bit insane. She waited for some kind of divine revelation but the only wisdom she could pull up from the depths was the familiar refrain of “don’t give up, keep going, put one foot in front of the other.” With a sigh, she did just that.
Eventually, she reached the Ganges. This sacred Mother brought a little smile even in the inner gloom. It was good to see Her again; Her turquoise light brought back memories of Rishikesh and Varanasi and the early days of India when she’d had the wonderful illusion that she knew why she was here. She scoffed. Bitterness, sadness and disillusionment were competing for first place today.
Obediently putting one foot in front of the other, she kept going, stopping only for a chai. She took some photos; the charm of the old streets in the winter morning light couldn’t be completely ignored. Then she noticed a colourful doorway that looked like it might go into another temple or a ghat. A man was sweeping the street outside and, pointing to the entrance, told her, “Go on in.” Having no reason to argue, she followed his gesture and found herself looking down at a large ghat, a dhuni fire, and quite a few babas and locals sitting around it.
The setting was familiar enough; she knew she could at least sit by the river now and maybe even smoke a chilum in peace without upsetting anyone. The babas sitting on the raised asana asked her name; having been through quite a few gurus at this point, she could have picked from any number of names. This brought the sadness back to the surface. “I don’t even know my own name anymore,” but when she told them where she had arrived from, one of them had heard about her through mutual connections. That made everything more relaxed, and chai came promptly.
One of the babas on the asana introduced himself as Sandeep Puri. He smiled, and it reached his eyes. She told him random facts about herself like an awkward child, even her age for some reason. She also told him she was looking for a room. Had she been? The morning turned to afternoon, and she was still there. The chai kept coming, and bhajans came out over the speaker. The sun began to heat up, and she felt like a block of ice being thawed out. By evening, Sandeep Puri brought her upstairs to show her the rooms above the ghat. He was watching her reaction to the run-down building, but she was watching him, and knew she would have slept there even if there hadn’t been a roof. She moved in.
This was my first day in Haridwar, my introduction to Bhairav Ghat and the Naga Babas of Juna Akhara. I would make it my home. The faces I saw for the first time that morning would become as familiar as family and just as loved. On those steps, with the Ganga lapping at the edges, I would come back to life.
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