DEIRDRE MULROONEYvisits Rishikesh in India, where the Beatles sat in meditation pods, grew beards and immortalised their guru on the 'White Album'
COMING DOWN from a family wedding in Darjeeling, the lure of the Beatles' ashram in the late 1960s had my cousin Niamh and I seeking out the overnight train from Delhi to Rishikesh. We were heading to where The Fab Four sat in meditation pods, grew beards, and immortalised their guru on The White Albumfor making inappropriate advances at Mia Farrow in Sexy Sadie.
Old Delhi train station plunged us into a contemporary version of Dante's Inferno. Searching out our train to Hardiwar, we carefully picked our way over wall-to-wall bodies surrounded by their meagre worldly belongings.
Noxious odours rose up from cooking pots. Lively lizards danced their zig-zag scurry up sticky walls, providing a welcome distraction from a flasher. You soon see why most Westerners hire a private driver. We figured we’d save precious rupees by getting the overnight train.
At dawn, frazzled, narky and the worse for wear, we landed in the pilgrim city of Rishikesh, near the source of the Ganges. Following the scribbled advice from a random kind backpacker I struck up a conversation with in a cafe in Darjeeling, we managed not to fall out of the auto-ricksaw as it puttered up precipitous mountainsides to High Bank.
The driver abandoned us at the foot of a long driveway, and refused point- blank to carry my ridiculously heavy bag up one final hill. The rest is a blur. I just remember collapsing on beds for €2 per night.
That evening, we took a stroll around the hillside compound, and all changed utterly. Our bags were mysteriously carried up to the big house at the top of the hill, and we were given the magnificent Maharani Room, with balcony.
Our own man-servant promised us cooking lessons. Huh? We were told to make ourselves at home. Curiouser and curiouser. For €4 per night, we were in the lap of luxury, and even had a bathtub – unheard of in Indian backpacker-land.
Apparently, the boyish High Bank owner, Nandu, who kept a collection of teddy bears and liked to sleep out on his (adjoining) balcony, had taken a shine to us. Well, who were we to look a gift horse in the mouth?
In the adjacent purpose-built yoga hall, Yogi Upandra mellifluously sang us through twice-daily, two-hour €2 yoga classes – “Relaaaaaax your body, total relaaaax”. We did as we were told and, well, relaxed totally.
Once a blissful state was attained, we decided it was time to venture out by auto-rickshaw into the town – to be among the people. As expected, Laxman Jhula – Rishikesh is divided into two sections, Ram Jhula and Lakshman Jhula – was coming down with ashrams, yoga centres, pilgrims . . . and monkeys. The suspension bridge across the Ganges was draped in monkeys. Niamh’s irrational fear was vindicated when one of them swooped on her and made off with her newly-purchased books and fruit.
We didn’t exactly blend in, what with our freckled skin and fair hair. As we circumvented holy cows and avaricious monkeys, entire families would suddenly form a tableau around us, while one popped out to take a picture.
We found ourselves in the middle of an evening puja by a massive statue of Shiva on the banks of the Ganges. As Rishikesh is India’s answer to Lourdes, this was a bit like an Indian version of the charismatic renewal.
Afterwards, we wandered into the guru’s ashram. Why not? It was a bit of a phantasmagoria, dotted throughout with Americans as well as Indians.
Before we knew where we were, we found ourselves ushered in to the private sanctum of the guru, who sat cross-legged, like the Buddha himself, basking in the unconditional love of his devotees. We were beckoned up to the front row. A young American girl sitting knee-to-knee with him broke down and sobbed, “I can see love everywhere, I just can’t feel it!” We were next.
Uh oh. I felt it would be rude not to speak, so when he looked in my direction from under his long, bushy hair and very long beard, I offered, lamely, “Very nice place you have here”.
He sussed us out fairly fast. “This is our version of happy hour,” he smiled. “Other people go to bars and nightclubs” (not looking at anyone in particular) “but this is our nightclub”. I nodded and gave him my best effort at an enigmatic smile. So did Niamh. Later, Nandu informed us that that we had come knee-to-knee with one of the biggest gurus in Rishikesh.
Our charmed Rishikesh existence, continued as we set out for the abandoned Beatles’ ashram. It was boarded up and overgrown, as we expected, with a sign warning, “No entry”. A man appeared out of nowhere with a key, and for the modest fee of 40 rupees (€0.60) unlocked the door to the snake-ridden ashram.
We walked past grimy meditation huts, derelict houses, and other ruins of the 1960s. We ran into a living Maharishi acolyte from Cologne with his young hippy wife who told us of meeting the guru, and of his eventual demise and departure to England.
Mission accomplished. Now back in Dublin and listening to the White Album,it's comforting to know that in a parallel universe on the sub-continent, happy Rishikesh springs eternal.