"All people who come to Pushkar have happy love for each other." My friend Laura (another solo girl I met from Denmark) and I met Rakesh the day of the monkey vs. camera near disaster. Speaking perfect English that he had only learned from befriending travelers as he sat in his little shack selling CDs and handmade bracelets at the foot of the mountain, he offered to take the two of us to the little Shiva temple 8 kms up the road on his moped. Up for an adventure, we agreed to meet him at his 'shop' at 8am the next morning to head off into Pushkar's hills. The next morning, the three of us piled on to the little bike and sped off for the temple, passing through tiny hillside villages and goats on their way up the mountain for breakfast. We arrived at the tiny temple and sat on the cool marble floor as Rakesh told us stories upon stories ranging from his arranged marriage at the age of 16 to funny encounters he'd had with travelers over the years. He spoke of the connection that many travelers in Pushkar have ('very happy love') and the way that the magical town seems to seduce some into passing months before moving on. I thought of the friendly, funny people I had met over the last two days (a few of which I will be traveling with for the two days) and decided that this Rakesh's 'happy love' is indeed in the air. He described it as a good friendship with people you've only known for minutes- one of my favorite things about travelling. Before we knew it, 4 hours and 3 cups of chai from the tiny chai shack had gone by so we again squeezed onto the bike and retraced our hill-carving trail.
Due to the incredible heat, I am lucky if I can sleep past 6:30am before I am drenched in sweat. Awake at the crack of dawn this morning, I decided I would wander down to the ghats and watch some morning prayers as the sun rose. When emerged from the sleepy market street onto the wide hot steps of one of the ghats, I was faced with more life than I could've imagined! Women washing their saris and drying them in the wind, families bathing, priests doing pooja, and small circles chanting sacred prayers. At first intimidated by the amount of activity and ease at which they simultaneously took place, I sat away from the main ghat to watch from afar. After watching for a few minutes, I couldn't help the urge to wander in and immerse myself in the colorful celebration of life, death, and cleansing. I stopped at the Bathing Ghat (where photography is not allowed) and sat with my feet in the pool-like area among the many that poured buckets over their heads, swam in the dark green water, and washed the feet of their elders. Although the men wore nothing more than thin loin-cloth like fabric as they bathed, the women wore full saris! I was soon surrounded by a group of old ladies in their soaking wet saris who asked me endless questions about my life, family (husband), and whether or not I knew their uncle who plays traditional Indian music at a restaurant in New York. I ended up sitting down in the ghats for close to three hours as the sun took its place over the lake and threatened the bathers with its nearing 110 degree temperatures.Despite the hoards of people, the sounds of the flocks of pigeons flying over head, mumbled prayers, temple bells clanging, and wet saris slapping against the hot steps hummed together into the most peaceful rhythm I have ever heard in my life.
Due to the incredible heat, I am lucky if I can sleep past 6:30am before I am drenched in sweat. Awake at the crack of dawn this morning, I decided I would wander down to the ghats and watch some morning prayers as the sun rose. When emerged from the sleepy market street onto the wide hot steps of one of the ghats, I was faced with more life than I could've imagined! Women washing their saris and drying them in the wind, families bathing, priests doing pooja, and small circles chanting sacred prayers. At first intimidated by the amount of activity and ease at which they simultaneously took place, I sat away from the main ghat to watch from afar. After watching for a few minutes, I couldn't help the urge to wander in and immerse myself in the colorful celebration of life, death, and cleansing. I stopped at the Bathing Ghat (where photography is not allowed) and sat with my feet in the pool-like area among the many that poured buckets over their heads, swam in the dark green water, and washed the feet of their elders. Although the men wore nothing more than thin loin-cloth like fabric as they bathed, the women wore full saris! I was soon surrounded by a group of old ladies in their soaking wet saris who asked me endless questions about my life, family (husband), and whether or not I knew their uncle who plays traditional Indian music at a restaurant in New York. I ended up sitting down in the ghats for close to three hours as the sun took its place over the lake and threatened the bathers with its nearing 110 degree temperatures.Despite the hoards of people, the sounds of the flocks of pigeons flying over head, mumbled prayers, temple bells clanging, and wet saris slapping against the hot steps hummed together into the most peaceful rhythm I have ever heard in my life.
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