(We’ve been away from Internet access, or the time to access it, for a while, so I’ve got some catching up to do!)
After leaving the Andaman Islands, on April 9, David and I undertook the long trek up to Rishikesh for Passover. We’d originally planned to go to Dharamsala, home of the Dalai Lama, for the holiday, but a woman we met in the Andamans recommended we go to Rishikesh, “Yoga Capital of the World” instead. It was one of the best places she’d been in her seven months in India, and she assured us there’d be a big Passover gathering there. Thus, David and I hauled ourselves across the subcontinent with high expectations.
What we found fell short of what we’d envisioned. Nearing the end of the dry season, the green-forested hills our friend had described had turned dull and the rushing Ganges, on which she’d white-water rafted back in October, had slowed to a near crawl. The weather was hot and dry, and it was no fun to be outside for most of the afternoon. And this holy Ganges city, where the river prepares to meet the plains after its journey down through the Himalayas, couldn’t hold a candle to Varanasi. There were loads of pilgrims, holy men and river ceremonies, but we didn’t feel the magic we experienced in Varanasi.
In addition to Hindus, Rishikesh attracts spiritual seekers of all stripes who come to stay in ashrams and learn yoga, meditation and other paths to enlightenment. The result, as David and I experienced it, is a concentration of healy-feelies types. (As California residents, we’re well familiar with these folk.) One morning at breakfast, we sat and listened to the conversations at the tables around us: a woman talked about awakening her kundalini while one guy described how his yoga was inducing lucid dreams and yet another guy spoke of pursuing a path of discovery through sexual exploration. It was an eye-rolling morning for us.
On top of it all, the Passover Seder, held outside the Chabad House, was a bit of a letdown: three Chabadniks, as David called them, in their black hats and suits, blazing through the Haggadah at breakneck speed and not quite in unison while hundreds of staring Israeli hippies passed joints around. Fortunately, we were able to home in on the four other English speakers in the crowd—two Americans, an Australian and a South African—and we had a fun time visiting and sharing stories.
On the following day, a Thursday, David and I decided to head up to Mussorie, a hill station about three hours away, on Friday rather than sticking around Rishikesh any longer. That evening we went to one of the temples on the river to watch the Ganga Aarti, the evening prayer service, which was something we really loved in Varanasi; it was always such a peaceful time and always a great opportunity for people watching. We took a seat on the ghats as the sun began to set and the puja ceremony began, and were having fun discretely snapping photos of people.
I’d just taken a series of three cute kids—two little boys and what was clearly a bossy big sister (I know the type)—tossing stones into the river in the beautiful dusk light, when a woman stepped in front of us. A familiar face…but not quite right. After a moment of spinning, my brain cranked out a name: Jo. Yes, of course! Jo, of Jack and Jo, the American couple we hung out with in Sikkim and who celebrated David’s birthday with us. Jo, the field biologist who’s about my age. “But wait a sec,” my braid said. “Is Jo going to a Halloween party? She dressed like a mummy.” Indeed, she had a white bandage wrapped around her head and another across her chin. He eyes were ringed with makeup-perfect black-and-purple bruises. As the costume thought entered my mind, another one, right on its heels, said, “That’s ridiculous. She’s clearly been in an accident. Maybe she rented a moped and wrecked?”
David and I both sputtered, “What happened?” and her answer was more shocking than her appearance. While hiking in the forested hills above the city, an Indian man who befriended her along the way—who spoke good English and seemed very kind and respectable—assaulted her with a “walking stick” that he’d picked up along the way. He beat her repeatedly in the head and face until she fell unconscious. When she awoke, she was lying in a stream where she fell, her face covered in blood. Her daypack was gone, but her purse, which held her money and passport, was still strapped around her. She hid in some bushes for several hours, afraid that the man was still around and might attack her again. Finally, some women passed by collecting fodder, and Jo stopped them for help. She was taken to the public state hospital, where they did a rough and sloppy job stitching wounds in her forehead. They didn’t even clean the blood off her face before sending her off!
Fortunately, a doctor who was staying at the same ashram as Jo cleaned her up, added a few more stitches to her forehead and also stitched up a wound on her lip and chin. She received reiki and lymphatic massage from other people at the ashram too. (“I’ve been too hard on the healy-feelies,” I thought.) Two days later—after much bureaucratic rigmarole—she obtained an X-ray; she had a deviated septum and a blot clot, but nothing was broken. Jack had been spending some time in the eastern part of the country, near Sikkim, and was on his way to Rishikesh; Jo expected him the next day.
As Jo told us her story, I tried to push aside my shock and offer her some sort of comfort and support, but it was hard. How could this have happened? How could someone do something like this—what appeared to be a violent act for the sake of violence, an act of one man’s anger, aggression, insanity against one very kind woman? I was shocked, too, on a bigger scale: this event had shattered my image of India as an essentially gentle, even innocent, place. Pick pocketing, lies, cheating, swindling—this I was familiar with, this I could deal with, this didn’t involve a weapon. But what happened to Jo went far beyond what I ever expected to see happen to a tourist in this country.
We spent the evening with Jo, went to dinner at a quiet little place near her ashram, and then made plans to meet her for breakfast the next morning. We didn’t want to leave Rishikesh till Jack arrived, so we agreed to postpone our departure to Mussorie if necessary. I began thinking about the way things work out. How we’d come to Rishikesh, a place we’d had no intention of visiting, because someone we liked had recommended it. Before we left on this trip, David and I agreed that we’d allow our itinerary to be loose enough that if someone recommended a really cool place, we’d deviate from our plans and check it out. I think we’d expected to be rewarded for our spontaneity and ability to detach from plans and shift gears. I think we’d expected Rishikesh to really wow us, and for the Seder to be an amazing experience. Expectations blown. We’d both been chewing on those thoughts the evening we ran into Jo, and after dinner we began to wonder if Jo was the reason were set in the direction of Rishikesh. Sometimes the unexpected is too unexpected to be a random occurrence. I don’t know if our presence in Rishikesh was a comfort or support to Jo, but I’d like to think it was. Jo certainly made me feel like I belonged there.
Jack arrived early the next morning, and when we came to the ashram to meet Jo for breakfast, he was on the phone with the insurance company, getting the names of hospitals where Jo could get a CAT scan to be sure she hadn’t suffered greater damage. The four of us had breakfast together, and knowing that Jack was there and Jo would be receiving good care, we decided to head up to Mussorie. I just received an email from Jo—who, I should note, is one tough lady—and she’s doing much better. Tests revealed no internal damage, and she’s meeting with a plastic surgeon to find out about minimizing the scarring on her face.
What an amazing--and scary-- coincidence. There are some who believe that everything happens for a purpose(your being there, that is.)
Too bad your seder experience wasn't more to your liking. Next year it'll be better, tho you won't be in India. Enjoy your remaining time in India and have a safe journey home.
Love, Mom
Posted by: Dolores | April 23, 2006 at 12:50 PM