March 1995

Devotional Odyssey in Hindu Snowlands

By Anandhi Ramachandran, Madras, India

A ten-year dream was at last coming true. A pilgrimage to four of the most revered, fantastically landscaped and trekked-to locales in the central Himalayas: Gangotri, Yamunotri, Kedarnath and Badrinath. Gangotri and Yamunotri are spiritually charged headwater caches of the Ganga and Yamuna Rivers. Kedarnath is a high Siva temple-and mountain-at the glacial source of the Mandakini River that feeds the Alakananda River, itself pouring into the azure green Ganga. Badrinath-a Vishnu temple/ town-perches near the Alakananda River. All four are in a region called Uttarkhand, the alpine rim of India's northern state Uttara Pradesh. Each year, from May to October, two million pilgrims walk, ride mules and are carried in baskets slung to the backs of bearers over the rollercoaster route.

Friends from different walks of life and homelands had come to Delhi to make this trip. Seven from London, two from Canada, four from the U.S. and nine from a buffet of states of India. The four younger persons were looking forward to having a good, adventurous time. The young couple from London lugged expensive video gear to try making a documentary. The older members were looking forward to washing away accumulated karma in the waters of the Ganga and Yamuna. The devotees of the party were looking forward to the darshan of Kedarnathji and Badrinathji. But we arrived in Uttara Pradesh in the midst of a burgeoning state secession movement. Little did we realize how this would avalanche on our spiritual odyssey.

When I saw what was being given by the tour guides to the travelers, my heart sank. Long lengths of rope and a plastic bag. Here I was thinking we were going to travel by a luxury bus. "Do we have to climb, really climb, mountain faces to reach Gangotri?" I panickly thought. With some hesitation I asked our tour manager, "What are these for?" He quickly replied, "Put your suitcase in the plastic bag and tie it up with this rope. They will be on the top of the bus. It is to protect your clothes from getting wet." The excitement gone I felt a little disappointed. Didn't seem very adventurous. But adventurous it turned out to be. One added perk for the women pilgrims was food. The pilgrimage tour company takes care of it totally. It is wonderful to forget about kitchen work and cooking for about two weeks. It was obvious in the ladies' cheerful faces.

Our schedule was to go to Hardwar, stay overnight and proceed toward Yamunotri, the first pilgrimage rendezvous. But already curfews in towns were preventing a direct journey to Yamunotri. It would have to wait for later. After a few days in Hardwar and Rishikesh we went to Rampur, a journey of almost a day. The mountain roads were narrow but maintained well. Landslides were being repaired. The reason for the unusual fastidiousness is Uttarkhand is close to China and the roads are well groomed for defense personnel. After the rainy season the hills were astonishingly green. The road winds along with the Ganga. Yet there were no dense forests that we expected to see. There are dozens of waterfalls splashing down hillsides. We reach Devaprayag where the rivers Bhagirathi and Alakananda converge. One of the most sacred parts of this pilgrimage is to bathe here, but it is very dangerous to brave the rushing waters-impossible to stand and get a foothold. A platform overlooks the river meeting, and this is where pilgrims swing up bucketfuls of water to pour on each others' heads.

Night drops suddenly in the Himalayas and the green slopes darken into a painted look. Rushing for Rampur it was almost dark when we ran into a landslide, the road washed and crumbled away for a good hundred feet. Our bus lurched to a standstill. But even in this tight squeeze-unbelievably-a car went around us. There was a small aisle of maneuvering room and our bus slowly moved forward, but slipped into a ditch. We could feel the stones turning underneath. Then we climbed. We were all very tense, and when the bus reached the road we all spontaneously applauded. We reached Rampur: very dark, but not cold. Rampur is on the shores of the Mandakini river which flows from Kedarnath mountain. The accommodations were bad and there were no lights. We used our torch lights. The thought of going to Kedarnath was exciting. We were all tired from the day-long bumpy bus ride, but I couldn't sleep.

Before sunrise we rode the bus to Gowrikund-the last point of bus transport-from where we would climb 14 kilometers to Kedarnath. The place was so crowded we couldn't get out of the bus. The pony-wallas and phalakiwallas surrounded us. Phalakis are a kind of chair, or palanquin, carried by four men. Some of us wanted to ride the ponies. The older people had to go by phalaki. One of our fellow travelers-a 70-year-old man-decided to walk. The pony-wallas were vying with each other to get a rider, and our guide was driving them with a stick in his hand. This was shocking, but there was no way of controlling them. He turned to us and said, "Don't give your bags to anyone. If you do, the bag will be lost and you too will be lost."

After I was carried for about one kilometer by the skinny men from Nepal I got down from the phalaki and walked. I was ashamed to be carried by these small men. Anyone who wants to go on this trip must wear comfortable shoes. My shoes were killing me. I tried climbing short cuts to the road above but after one steep climb I gave up. The hills around on all sides were green and water was oozing everywhere. As we went up we could see the change in vegetation. The trees became shrubs, the shrubs became weeds and the weeds were blooming. Everywhere there were small white flowers with a tinge of purple. I was looking for brahmakamal, the large, almost translucent flower that is regarded in folklore as yogis doing penance. After climbing for three hours, I couldn't walk. I stood on the rock edge and enjoyed the scene around me. The Mandakini flowed down below. It was bright sun light when we started on the trek and now the clouds were following us from the valley. There was a slight drizzle which made me tremble. A more beautiful scenery cannot be imagined. Breathing was getting difficult, and my Nepalese friends insisted that I should get into the chair. We were turning left from Garud Chatri-one of the route's resting places-when I witnessed a moment that is permanently etched into my memory. At a distance I could see Kedarnath temple and a few houses on what appeared to be a huge platform hanging from the skies with snowclad peaks for a backdrop. Through the mist and clouds I could see a cobbled winding road going up. It was like a dream.

By this time my head was feeling funny. When I reached the mutt we were staying in overnight, I saw the younger ladies running from room to room. Two of the travelers had fainted with exaustion. Our tour manager had injured his leg badly and could not walk. As a precautionary measure, he had brought oxygen cylinders. I felt as if I was floating. We were above 11,750 feet, and the oxygen level was low at that height. A little later we decided to go to the temple. We had come for that, and we were not going to miss the evening arati. Naturally it was biting cold. We were close to the snow peaks.

The Kedarnath temple is small, damp and cold. Yet there was an atmosphere charged with devotion. People have worshiped here for at least the past 16 centuries. After standing in the queue we had darshan of the jyotirlinga. It was covered with flowers and offerings. A copper umbrella hung from the ceiling. We sang bhajans for a long time, and it made us feel warmer. The priest did the evening arati first inside the temple to Kedarnathji and then came out of the temple and again showed the arati in four directions. The lights being waved up and down in the darkness of the night and the sky line of the white peaks at the back and the temple silhouetted against it had a magical effect. When the winter season comes-the day after Deepavali-the priests head down to their villages and the temple is snowbound.

I still had not seen the brahmakamal flowers. But mysteriously a swami approached me, gave me some of the precious flowers and said in Tamil, "This is the prasadam of Iswara." The flowers were shaped like a lotus, but pale green in color. One stalwart Siva devotee was playing a drum in front of the Nandi bull. He was wearing only a dhoti, no shirt. It was amazing that he was able to stand bare-bodied with only vibhuti ashes to protect him from the bone-numbing winds. I offered my shawl to him and he smilingly accepted it.

After breakfast we started the climb down. The phalaki-bearers nearly run down, making the descent rather scary. Soon I bravely exchanged the phalaki for a pony. Try getting on a pony with a mind of its own in a sari. Everyone was watching me, making it worse. Finally, I was on the small horse.

After a day's rest in Rampur we started for Badrinath. It is many mountains away, and we end up backtracking to catch a road that follows the Alakananda River. When we reached Badrinath, the bus drivers were on strike as part of the general unrest in Uttar Pradesh. One driver was beaten by the police and died. The other bus drivers decided not to leave, so Badrinatha was choked with hundreds of buses. We had to sit in the bus for an hour, squashed between other buses, breathing exhaust fumes. The smoke hung like a mist. Unlike the trip to Kedarnath, this was exhausting. Why allow so many buses onto a high mountain peak? The buses should park several kilometers below and the pilgrims walk up. We went straight to "Devalok," our accommodations, and ate dinner by candle light.

At dawn I peeked out to see the Nilakantha mountain that rises above Badrinath. But it was veiled by clouds. We went down to have the customary ritual bath in the hot water springs. We crossed the bridge and saw smoke coming from under a tin roof. Startled, I realized it was the sulphur springs, and not a tea shop as I first thought. There was a men's and women's hot spring and the crowd was suffocating. I pushed my way through. The water was steaming. Women were falling over each other in the struggle to dip a mug or vessel into water and pour it over their heads. The water-regarded as curative-was running back into the pool after dripping from people's bodies. I hesitated to bathe. Then I steeled myself and dipped my plastic mug into the sulphorous waters. I had to stand firm so I wasn't pushed into the tank.

After these ablutions and an anscestral ceremony by the menfolk we walked to the temple. The image of Badrinathji is seated in the lotus position on a lotus flower. Some say this temple was originally Buddhist. When we stand in front of Badrinathji, He is covered with silks and jewelry, barely visible. We have to move on. The sanctum is calm in spite of the crowd. We circumambulate the shrine. Later we walk to the last village before the Chinese border. A little beyond it is the famous "Bridge of Bhima." From the bridge we have a dazzling view of water foaming crystal white, almost like milk, flowing out of a cave. This is regarded as the Sarasvati River, but geologically it bears no relation to the Vedic Sarasvati River that disappeared several thousand years ago. Several steep kilometers further was the cave of Vyasa. Again it was not what I expected to see because devotees for some reason alter and build and change places of worship. The cave was dark, and the priest lit lamps as we entered. He did an arati to a small image of the sage. The highpoint of this pilgrimage was sitting in this cool cave and meditating upon the greatness of Vyasa, codifier of the Vedas.

The next morning we embarked for Yamunotri. On the way we visited another important place, the Jyotir Mutt. This is one of five mutts established by Adi Sankara. There is a tree behind the mutt where Adi Sankara is believed to have stayed. There are images of Adi Sankara and the spatika (crystal) lingam he worshiped close by. Driving toward Yamunotri, but dogged by the widening ripples of civil unrest we stopped in the sleepy town of Uttar Kasi near the Bhagirathi river. Our best hour here was ablutions in the river which flows from the Gomukh glacier through Gangotri where Bhagarati did his penance. Near our lodge the river flowed about four feet deep in a semicircle around a tumbling mound of stones. Every stone, big and small, was smooth and well-rounded. We couldn't even stand in ankle-deep water, the force tugging strongly at our feet. We wanted to see the evening arati to the Bhagarati River, but when we went to the temple all the shops were closed and there was an eerie quiet. The temple doors weren't open. Someone informed us there was going to be a blackout as a protest against oppression in Uttarakhand. We returned to our lodge with frustration in our hearts. Our pilgrimage was being thwarted by political issues. That night after dinner we discussed our plans for the next day. We were told that going to Yamunotri would probably be unusually challenging. Buses were grounded. The walk was grueling. Phalakis may or may not be available. The older members had had enough. They voted against taking a risk to go to Yamunotri. We decided to reverse course and go to Sahasradhara (thousand streams) and wait to see if the curfews lifted. While traveling we heard of police atrocites about 40 kilometers away. We stayed at the Hotel Trishul Breeze with a spectacular 7,000 foot view and very pleasant weather. With four days left on our schedule we learned that Yamunotri may not be impossible to reach. We decided to try our luck. We had to go through Champa town and found the road blocked by angry youths who were stopping all vehicles. The morning newspaper had arrived and carried news of deaths of some of the town's youths in nearby violence. We were, of course, very worried. Our driver tried reasoning with the mob, but we ended up being turned back to the Trishul Breeze with a sinking conclusion that we were not destined to reach Yamunotri and Gangotri. If we had started two hours earlier, before the newspapers reached Champa, we might have made it to Yamunotri. Still, the pilgrimage had to be concluded in the proper fashion-by returning to Hardwar. There are many temples and ashrams in Hardwar but the most beautiful sight is the evening arathi to the Ganga River. As darkness fell the full moon poured milky white light on everything and the ripples became melted silver. The priests waved the tiered lamps with tiny flames that danced by the circling motion and slowly grew into bigger flames and finally merged into a single big jyoti. It appeared symbolic of the many little jivatmas becoming one with a great jyoti. This was nature worship at its best and a fitting finale to our pilgrimage.