Ganga Jal.

Where is the Ganga jal ? Ganga jal is in a small bottle in my puja room, in many bottles in the ‘temple shops’ ( the ones where we deposit our shoes and buy our prasadam before entering the temples). And yes, it is also in the river Ganga ,which flows from the great Himalayas to the gangetic plains . Ganga Jal, the water which purifies the body and mind of the believer, the water without which many rituals stand incomplete, the water which is perhaps the most significant spiritual thirst quencher, the holy water which can cleanse all unholy, the call out for such water …Where is the Ganga jal, is but obvious. And when someone had to go and get it, I took it upon myself to reach Ganga.

Thus the pious and yet not so pious husband and wife duo, that’s us, chose Rishikesh as an interlude vacation destination. To bring in thirty one years of togetherness we needed a getaway. Some eyebrows were raised in curiosity at our choice of place. I joked about doing a survey on the ashrams in the lap of Himalayas, booking a birth in advance for senior years. I have to mention here that The husband (who definitely feels much younger than I in mind and body ) wanted to go to Goa , but I wanted to get the jal. The battle between the sea and the river begun, but the pull of Ganga won over the sea and we packed out bags for a three nights two mornings holy day !

Ganga is flowing day and night for centuries to reach us, but the journey for us to meet Ganga was more simple. More so because we did not travel all the way up the mountains, to reach Gomukh, the place of Gangas origin, where it melts from glaciers to become a free flowing river. We chose to meet Ganga at Rishikesh. It took us a flight to Dehradun and from there a taxi ride for over an hour to reach the banks of Ganga. Away from the hustle bustle of Rishikesh town our home for two days was nestled in a beautiful place hidden between trees and hills. The soft breeze blowing the green curtains of leaves gave glimpses of Ganga just a few feet away. Where is the Ganga jal, the question resonated. There it was in all its pristine glory, flowing, gurgling, rushing ahead , totally unstoppable. I stood dumbfounded gazing at the river below and thought with what ignorance had I come to take Ganga jal home. The Ganga seemed to be roaring in laughter at my wish to fill it in our bottles and expect to contain it forever, I had many more lessons yet to learn in life. Ganga had to teach me some of them.

The hills stood in guard , allowing the river to run its course , youthful and energetic with joyous energy. The river returns the favor by making the hills lush with evergreens. When I am so close to nature something beautiful happens within me. As though someone presses the mute button and silences all my mundane , everyday chatter. Instead I start a conversation with the nature around me. I talk to the trees , the fruits, the flowers. The butterflies buzzing around , the birds perched on trees , they all seem to read my thoughts. But the glorious Ganga had it’s own message to convey to me. In those three days I sat by the ever flowing Ganga for hours and asked it so many questions. And then I cried unexplained tears of neither joy nor pain. I filled my cupped palms with Ganga jal and tried to wash away my tears. My tears mingled with the endless stream becoming one with something infinite. In letting go of my tears , in humbling my thoughts of self, in understanding the vastness of the life, I released my self to a new path of spiritual awakening.

My deep silence in these few days of tranquility suited my dear husband very much. He reveled in this respite from my constant chatter. He busied himself, with long walks, relaxing spa, listening to music and making friends with the local people. I find this befriending strangers a very endearing quality in him. He told me about the waiter who served us dinner , that the man lives in a village on the other side of the river. There are many rickety hanging bridges which connects the two banks of Ganga and also facilitate day to day life of the villagers. I learnt that the manager of our property had been living here for the last ten years and he loves his job. Then there was Pandeji, selling cardamoms and saunf on a thela , actually got his supply from his home town in Gaziabad. In this quest of finding locals, the husband befriended a tourist guide , who promised to walk us through Rishikesh. But his enthusiasm soon turned to silent anger when he discovered that we did not intend visiting temples and buying rudraksh and precious gems from the shop he recommended . The shopkeepers promised to bring changes in our life if we wore their stones. I let them know with extreme politeness that in this trip we were depending a lot on river Ganga to bring about all the changes in our life that needed to be changed.

I did not meet or see any Rishi in Rishikesh, but there were many men in orange robes, matted hair and designed tilaks on their forehead walking on the roads .They were ready to be photographed albeit we put some money in their jhola. I would not question their choices in life but surely my curiosity was awakened. The cows, the two wheelers, the orange robed sadhus, and locals and tourists crowded the narrow lanes of Rishikesh. As per mythology, Lakshman ( the brother of Lord Rama of Ramayana) had crossed the river with two jute ropes (information courtesy, google),and later when the bridge was built it was named after the mythological character and is till date famous as the Lakshman jhula. About two kilometers ahead of Lakshman jhula another identical bridge was constructed, known as The Ram jhula. These hanging bridges are just wide enough for two lane walking, but the two wheeler traffic on the bridge kept me being pushed to the edges and hanging on for life. I understood why they were called ” jhula” ( swing) and not bridge . Another very common activity in Rishikesh was white water rafting. Between delightful squeals of adventure lovers and the swift turn of the rapids it made an exciting sight to see the rafts getting tossed around in the river. As evening approached the ghats of Rishikesh got into readiness for Ganga Arti. A solemn and beautiful scene to witness. The chants of slokas, the lights of diyas, and the orange of the settings sun reflecting in the flowing Ganga made the noisiest tourists quiet with a few moments of introspection and devotion.

If Ganga is worshipped as a deity so be it. I do not have it in my capacity to belittle faith. Water after all is the life giver to mankind. The river cleansed us and we in return filled it with our dirt for centuries. We have done our bit by polluting the free flow of rivers and streams with our garbage. We have built dams and redirected the flow of water. We have choked the rivers and tributaries thoughtlessly. The river suffers our irresponsible behavior, but doesn’t deny us from water. When we make our water dirty we will get back dirty water in return . We get what we deserve. Beyond my conception of time the river has been flowing, continuing its free flowing journey despite all obstacles. I have no qualms in bowing with reverence before this source of life, river, water, Ganga, Ganga jal, call it as you please.

So the question was ‘ Where is the Ganga jal ?’ After living by the river side for three days, I think I have my answer now . Ganga jal cannot be contained in a bottle or two, Ganga jal cannot be brought back home in jars to be kept in Puja rooms forever. I have to seep my inner self with those cool ever flowing waves of Ganga , that is the only way to keep Ganga within me. I cannot wash away my sins with one dip in the Ganga, I have to let Ganga cleanse me every day by letting it into my thoughts. My tears of joy and pain has to be offered to Ganga as my final homage.

The city of Kolkata was getting dressed with lights, bamboo pandal structures, hoardings, happy faces and all the other ingredients of festivity. And amidst this fervor of preparations to welcome Ma Durga, I was packing my bags to leave Kolkata. This feeling was somewhat like getting a ticket for the show, entering the theater, seeing the stage, and then having to come out before the show began. So what do I do, I plan to visit the green room itself.

The green room of Bengal’s biggest religious show is called Kumortuli. In Bangla, Kumor is the person who gives shape to clay and Tuli is where people live as a small community. In the by lanes of north Kolkata there live the Kumors, the skillful artisans of Bengal and the place is known as Kumortuli. Long before the shiuli blooms or the kash turns marshy lands into golden yellow the Kumors of Kumortuli start kneading clay.

Their hands give shape to Durga Protima ( the idol) and soon mere clay becomes Goddess. In the green rooms of the theater the make up artists dress up men and women to play their part of make belief on stage. And in this green room of Kumortuli the Kumors were making the Gods ready to play their part on the stage called Pujo Mandap. The audience in both the theaters perhaps want the same, the escape from reality for a few hours or days, to look in amazement at the stage and believe in the unbelievable.

I stood transfixed in front of the men at work. Hours of bending painfully to give the Gods a human form, to get the perfect stroke of brush on each protima, to bring that hint of a smile on the Goddesses’ face, to fill with light and depth those soul searching eyes, it is a craft indeed and something more surreal. Who is the creator after all was a silent question that kept enveloping my mind as I walked through those lanes of Kumortuli.

The artisans of Kumortuli are simple, poor, seasonal wage earners. Their homes and studios (quite a fancy word for such work place) reflect the simplicity and poverty of its dwellers. The houses had not been painted in years, the electrical wires overhead were all tangled up but surprisingly did supply electricity. I thought to myself that true genius thus resides in this maze of lanes and by lanes, hiding their poverty in the sheer brilliance of creativity. They are not celebrated everyday, but the yearly recognition of their craft, the coverage by news channels and print media gives them some borrowed time of celebrity status . Their hand to mouth existence does bring to mind some pertinent questions but nothing so strong that cannot get blinded by the dazzle of the flashbulbs! The constant stream of visitors, tourists and locals alike, capturing the images, colors, and work-in-progress moments brings a smile on their faces. Ask them once, and they willingly allow you to take pictures. After posing for the camera they get back to their work with undivided attention. I come back home filled with images both in my mind and in my camera. This year when I will stand in front of Ma Durga with folded hands and chant ” Rupam Dehi, Jasho Dehi ” my mind will certainly pause and think of the Kumors of Kumortuli.

When Chalk & Cheese entered New York City the second time within fifteen days, it almost felt like home-coming. The sight of two bright happy faces eagerly waiting for us at the airport made the picture complete. My son had flown in from India for his sister’s convocation, and here he was greeting us with a smile and already looking quite a Yankee.

My Tom and Jerry, (the children) who had come to receive Chalk and Cheese at the airport wanted to do things their way, and we happily gave in to the plans of the TJ club tour operators. Their arrangements were not lavish but loving, not perfect but exciting, not easy but thoughtful.  Keeping with their plan the airport to hotel ride had to be taken on a bus. To get the local feeling they claimed, to save the dollar – I thought with a smile. So, there I was sitting in bus number M 60 holding on to my suitcase on wheels with one hand and my hand bag with the other, smiling apologetically each time my suitcase rolled forward to hit and nudge the man standing in front of me. Two years back I had send my daughter to this city with a ‘suitcase full of love’ and endless uncertainties of a mother’s heart. Today as I sat balancing my little suitcase and bag my mind went back to those memories. My little girl had become a confident City person, guiding our way; time sure changes the equations of life. Today I need to hold her finger when walking on a busy street, my young boy scolds me more often than I ever scolded him. My children have really grown up, though Chalk doesn’t seem to agree as much, maybe he is not ready yet to give up his throne to his rightful heirs!

Chalk and Cheese soon realized that their children had kept two words, ‘rest and recoup’, out of the to-do list of things. From long walks at Central Park to midnight chilling at Times Square, from meeting old friends over dinner to shopping at Macy, from museums to metro, Chalk and Cheese were kept on constant march under Tom and Jerry ‘s strict regimen. They took us to China Town of NYC to eat at an authentic Chinese restaurant. In fact, it was so authentic that other than us all other guests were Chinese, and the person taking the menu for us looked lost when we spoke in English. What was he expecting? We speak in Cantonese! My taste buds were loyal to the sweet and sour flavours of Mainland China, and any other taste could not match up for me. But of course, experiencing China Town in New York was different. My crazy family planned a late-night Hindi movie in the city, in an empty hall, more for the fun of the experience than ” Meri Pyari Bindu”.

We took a ferry to the Liberty island, to see Lady Liberty up close. The colossal statue does get bigger and bigger as one approaches the island, and then a dwarfing sense of self takes over as you stand near the statue. The Freedom Tower on the other hand stands tall reflecting the endless sky, the very way freedom is supposed to be, endless and shining.  As we stood by the memorial of terror attacks a sense of grief gripped us. We saw how each name was lovingly remembered, how memories were preserved. Terror can wipe away years from our life but the resilient strength of man to fight back terror makes us the survivors, the real heroes. A friend of mine had once said about America “Where liberty is a statue and freedom is a tower”, but it is this liberty and freedom that draws people to this country. This is a country that nurtures dreams, and a land where one can fulfil dreams if you have the potential and strength to achieve those goals.

Traveling in this city most of the time by metro made me come up with a catch line ‘ I do not like going underground ‘, but my protests fell on deaf ears. One-night Chalk and Cheese got lost simply by exiting through the wrong exit of the subway. And then we walked and walked for over an hour to reach our hotel which was ten minutes from the metro station. Chalk thinks, if you have a good pair of shoes, and healthy knees, you can walk for miles without complaining. He forgets that I am Cheese, I was not born and raised into the military. I preferred hailing a yellow taxi to getting on the metro. I preferred walking in the Central Park than making round and round circles of similar looking blocks and streets at midnight.

On the day of the convocation ceremony we woke up early and reached the daughter’s dorm room to get her ready in a saree. It was a joint family effort to drape the nine yards around our small bundle of joy.  I have no skills at this very authentic Indian saree draping art. I manage my own but cannot help others. Thus, the brother, father and I joined together in this complicated art of folding pleats, making the perfect ‘pallu’ and finding the ever-elusive safety pins to keep the saree in place. All through she stood like a scare crow arms outstretched, giving orders.  Today she could get away with anything, and a little indulgence from family was pretty okay.

Once the drama of ” dressing the girl ” was over, we hurriedly got into our ceremonial best and reached the venue within the university campus to occupy our twenty-third row right most corner seats! My brother, his wife and daughter had driven down to cheer their niece, and to make the day very special for all of us. We were in the audience sitting in anticipation to witness that one moment of honour when one’s child walks up on stage to receive her degree. These young people are the trendsetters, shaping our today for a well-meaning tomorrow. It was one of those days when one was allowed to splurge on emotions, to feel blessed with a gift called life. After the presentation was over amidst much hurray and cheering, our daughter gave us a tour of Columbia University campus. She showed us her classrooms, libraries, cafeteria and seminar halls. We walked the corridors our daughter had walked for two years, learning and earning her way to find her path in life. It takes hard work, and perseverance to achieve the dream, the months of burning the mid night oil, the long hours over the laptops, the rigor of academics, all of it is a uphill task, and when they reach the summit of their dreams, the smile on each face speaks of fulfilment.

The evening of the graduation was like a memorable dream in blue. We walked on Brooklyn bridge seeing the city lights in all its splendour, climbed the highest floor of The Empire State Building which was lit with the colours of the Columbia University, blue. A city honouring its graduates in this illuminated manner for one evening was something I had never seen before, this is what makes the difference between ordinary and brilliance. The stars that shined brighter than the one’s in the sky that night were in the eyes of the brilliant young people who had just graduated.

The next morning we took another early morning flight (the woes of this before dawn flights chased me all through my journey) to Orlando. My nephew who lived in Tampa had driven all the way to Orlando to receive us. The children had planned a detailed itinerary for their day at the Universal Studios. Chalk joined the three young people, matching their enthusiasm pace to pace. A day was all we had, though it was not enough to see everything in such short time, but a plan of sorts was made with mutual consent of the three young people.

In the Wizarding World of Harry Potter, as we the muggles lined up to board the smoke trailing Hogwarts Express, the feeling was like…” We are off to see the wizard the wonderful wizard of Oz“. The world that JK Rowling has created in our minds has become in many ways a real world where we draw parallels with these characters. My son who wears glasses since childhood has long been called Harry Potter by family and friends. And our Harry Potter was the most excited person in this world of Hogwarts. As we walked down Diagon Alley, leading upto the world of Jurassic Park, reaching Superhero Boulevard, he became a kid once again.  Universal studios recreated a world where grown-ups easily shed off all pretences of adulthood and joined the gang. We felt like we had not had as much fun since we were kids. Chalk and Cheese forgot to agree to disagree. From butter beer to frog shaped candy we shared the fun together in this wonderland.

My nephew’s home in Tampa felt like an extension of my own flat in Mumbai. Chalk and Cheese enjoyed playing house, right from cooking, rearranging shelves, to doing laundry. The young man was more than happy to let us meddle with his house keeping for a day or two while he enjoyed some relaxation time with his brother and sister. Two days of home stay did wonders to my mood, with comfort food of ” sheddo bhaat ” and freshly laundered clothes in the suitcase I was ready to hit the road again.

We drove out of Tampa one early morning (yes once again that before dawn hour), driving through Florida highways to reach the white sands of Miami beach. The white sands immediately calls out to kick off the shoes and walk the sand; the beautiful blue of the ocean calls out to jump into the clear water and play with the waves; the warm sun calls out to give a tan you will regret for weeks. So many invitations cannot be ignored, not when you are in Miami, not when you are Cheese. Chalk knows Cheese is crazily in love with the sea, Chalk knows Cheese will not float away, Chalk knows Cheese always comes back. I wish I could bring back home a fist full of sand so white and water so blue and then colour my oceans in a different hue.

Miami made me want to come back again. It seemed one enters this city only to holiday, to let your hair down, and to feel high on life.  Having dinner late into the evening in one of the many diners on Ocean drive I felt as though the whole world had got here tonight just to make merry, laugh, drink, smoke cigars, drive fancy cars, walk hand in hand in designer clothes, totally oblivious to the world around them.  If there is a place to sing, ” har fikr ko dhunye mein ura ta chala gaya “, this would be the place, by the ocean, with the lined-up yachts of the rich and famous, a life surreal in many ways, but worth seeing indeed. A big hug and thanks to my nephew for making this joyous Florida experience so fantastic in every way.

Saying goodbye is the toughest part when holidays come to an end. The children have grown up and are well settled in their adult life but every time I have to say goodbye the pangs of separation weighs down the heart. There were so many joyous moments and hours packed up in those few days of holiday, that it seemed to burst from the seams. I just had to pick up a few memories very special and put them in this album of Journey Journal, to be cherished when memories fade. Hoping that these musings will someday fill my hours quite in a Wordsworth style ” For oft, when on my couch I lie in vacant or in pensive mood, They flash upon that inward eye, which is the bliss of solitude. ” My memories are my Daffodils, bringing a smile even as I write this last chapter of the journey.

As Chalk and Cheese settled down in a homeward fight, flying above the continents, above the breathtakingly magnificent snow-capped Alps, I felt my senses numbed as though in opium drunk. I stole a glance at Chalk to see him deep in sleep, perhaps dreaming about the united colours of a nation so different. For the first time in many nights, I remembered my bed. A clear sign that it was time to return to base. This indeed would be a summer to remember forever, Chalk and Cheese will travel together many more times, making their own journey journals, but sharing this one with our friends made it very special. Hasta Maniana till we meet again.