So it’s the Fourth of July here in India and we’ve decided to celebrate by going to a town called Hardivar roughly 80km south of Mussourie (the mountain town where we live currently). Hardivar is a holy town located alongside the Ganges River which hosts a number of festivals, pilgrimages, and temples. The pilgrims dress in a very distinct orange color with layers of fabric draped over their bodies.
Leaving Louis at home to celebrate the Fourth in a more traditional way, a group of my fellow students and I arrived in Hardivar seeking out a certain Ashram (a spiritual house) to sleep in that night. Since we did not have an address or a phone number, we decided to stay at the “Hut Hotel” that was pressed up against the Ganges. The seven of us squeezed into a four person “hut” after some complaints about personal space. Such complaints proved to be of no serious obstacle as we booked our cherished hut and took off for the town. After desperately attempting to order food in a small hole-in-the-wall (where the menu was in Hindi), we were swarmed by beggar children as we took the stairs down to the Ganges.
It was a truly stunning sight. The river was full of people, probably in the thousands, swimming and socializing in the intense summer sun. I was on the far left side of one of the main bridges over the river,waiting for the group to finish taking photos, when a small beggar kid came up and yelled, “HELLO!”, motioning for me to give him a hand shake. I shook his hand and greeted him, which triggered a platoon of young Indian men to stand in a semi-circle around me. They must’ve noticed the five American women that were in my company since they were staring at them in complete captivation. “What did they say?” asks one of the girls. I replied, “Um…well…they haven’t really said anything. They seem to be in awe.” This would happen the entire day we were in Hardivar.
We broke away from our small crowd of young men and walked down to a concrete platform in the middle of the Ganges. Every 2-3 minutes we would be stopped to have pictures taken with peoples children, mothers, uncles, aunts, grandmothers, everyone. Some were so determined they would chase us for three blocks just to get a “snap”. Along the river the concrete platform had steps going into the water where Indian men of all ages were splashing, bathing, wading, and swimming. Well, not exactly swimming. The Ganges is a powerful river, the current strong enough to carry the adventurous Indians and the confused American (me) straight down the river. Foreigners are not terribly common in this area, and even less got this close to the river (at least we didn’t see anyone else). The other boy in the group and I went into the water, and I got swept into the current which was a tad stronger than I had anticipated.
Next thing I know I’m floating down this river with tumbling, giggling Indian boys. They were terribly entertained to see me drifting down the river with them, screaming in Hindi and laughing. All of a sudden they all grabbed chains that were attached to the concrete platform and pulled themselves out of the river. I wasn’t sure why, until I looked down river and saw some kind of gratting that was trapping trash in the river. In a slight panic I flounder like a cat in water for the platform. After much effort and a significant loss of dignity I reached the platform and walked up the steps. Wiping the water off my face, sporting wet jeans and American flag boxers (it was the Fourth of July, a necessity in my book), I walked back towards my friends as I noticed the entire Indian crowd around me staring. Oh, that’s right, I’m white as freshly made paper. I smile, say “Namaste” and returned to the group to a chorus of giggles.
We were riding a wonderful cultural high and decided to retire to the hotel room. Following a great nap, the group rose again to participate in the “Fire Ceremony” in the very spot I had previously been swept into by the river. We stood on a set of stairs directly above the river, and as the sun began to set people from the crowd would emerge with a basket made from a leaf containing flowers and a candle, muttering a prayer, lighting the candle, and letting the vessel sail on down the Ganges. Two of girls decided to partake, rushing down to the river and joining in as they made friends with some Indian ladies. I took video of the ceremony as I made friends with the Indians standing around me. My favorite was a man named Raiput (sorry Indian community for the gross misspelling) who had never talked to a non-Indian before. As we were talking a fire priest came out of nowhere with a platter that was on fire. After he emerged from thin air people flocked to him, thrusting their hands palm out into the fire, then pushing their palms against their foreheads. I asked what religion this was for, Raiput told me: “It is simply worship. The fire is spirituality and your hands connect you to the spirit.”
And there you have it. Not a bad way to spend Fourth of July, I’d say.
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