Easter Saturday 31st March
Up early today (4.45!) to catch the Jan Shatabdhi Express to Haridwar. Dawn had yet to break. Bleary eyed we bundled out at the station with our luggage and found a porter. To our absolute astonishment he placed some extra cloth over his turban and hoisted one of them on to his head whilst towing the other by hand. Neither of the bags was light. We then waited on the platform, observing. Our friend also waited, busy on his phone, keen to get us on the train and get paid.
Rather as in the Golden Temple, people were quite happily sleeping out on the dirty station platform. It must be very hard down there, I thought. Indian stations are clanky and incomprehensible. It’s difficult to work out the announcements and there is no Departures Board. You need to have booked in advance and have your paper booking with you. Quite often people can’t be bothered to board a train from the opposite side so they simply step across the tracks and hoist themselves in that way.
Our train arrived on time. With much heaving and shoving our friend placed our bags overhead and left us. We were in the Air Conditioned carriage which was comfortable but filthy. Then we settled down to watch the Punjab roll by; field after field of fertile tended ground full of crops. Every few minutes someone came through calling ‘chai’ or bearing food of some description: anything from crisps to Biryanis. We’d sort of made a pact not to eat train food but it was jolly tempting after one white bread sandwich for breakfast! Eventually the awful moment came when I had to go and use the facilities. Nothing easy about those! Apart from being awash with water both on the floor and in the blocked sink, the loo seat had been bolted on the wrong way up. This would have entailed perching on the equivalent of speed bumps had one dared to sit on it. I eschewed that pleasure and contented myself with merely hovering, the yawning gap of the toilet bowl and the speeding ground visible beneath me. Quite a challenge to perform at all in those conditions! I shall never complain about Virgin Trains again.
Seven hours later we drew in to Haridwar. It was extremely hot. This station was even more packed than the previous one, and our nascent shoving skills had to be deployed. There were people on the ground everywhere so that it was difficult not to drag one’s heavy bag right over them. A friendly face greeted us however, and ushered us to our taxi: a cycle rickshaw!
I could not believe my eyes as he piled all our bags on the back and invited us to hop on. He pedalled us like royalty down the street, merrily ploughing through the crowds which miraculously parted, in the nick of time.
Slight case of spot the tourist, but I am very glad of my travellers trews, which allow ‘freedom of movement’ and possibly the waistline?!
It was heaven to arrive at the old style Haveli Ganga. Ours is the pink building, second floor up. It is a beautiful old palace right by the Ganges. Our room is nearly at the top and you can see straight out on to the vast streaming river ripping past at a great rate. It is a blue green colour, a swelled by melt water from the Himalayas.
Above is the internal courtyard.
After a late lunch of thali and a brush up (even a quick massage for me) we were taken to see the ‘Aarti’ (a divine Hindu ritual where light is offered to the deities in the forming of burning wicks inside little boats of flowers). We were excited to attend but the numbers of people to wade through exceeded even those of yesterday at the stadium, and it felt very pressed. On arrival at the appointed spot we had to remove our shoes and slip slap barefooted down to the waters edge. I was quite fearful of someone pushing that bit too much and us all plunging into the Ganges, but they didn’t! Then began the ceremony of light and letting go. A pedestal of burning wicks was waved around perilously close to us towards the end. The crowd joined in loud chanting and prayer, raising their hands too sometimes. We were being engulfed by aromatic black smoke which smelt of incense. With ringing of bells and drum beating, the ceremony closed and one giant flower basket was released into the river. I felt a lump come to my throat. This was so elemental… fire, water and the concept of letting go of those we loved. We have to release. It was a reminder of mortality, and our smallness.
Here’s me cradling my own basket. It felt like a baby, like carrying my whole family.
We stood agog amidst the sweat and fire.
We waited a while and were then able to release the little flower boat along with blessings for our parents, now gone, and long life for our children. More tears and overwhelm.
In my blind naivety I fell for giving the person making us recite the blessings rather too many rupees which he took with alacrity, eyes wider than a Disney cartoon. I felt so foolish, but was swiftly relieved of the lump in my throat.. rot em!
Thrusting our way back up the steps we trod over the sodden debris to retrieve our flip flops and then fought, literally, through the hordes back to the Haveli Hari Ganga. The garish displays of tacky sparkling goods and profusion of every kind of goods leapt at one from every corner. We made it back and fell into the shower, pleased to wash off the street dirt and some of the crowds with it. After dinner Jeremy strolled back out again, leaving me to catch up on my recordings. I fell asleep with the incessant noise of tooting and shouting continuing far into the night.
Stoke Tours 