Masala Vagabond: Haridwar/Rishikesh II: How to Pay Your Priest

1. In Search of Something Holy

Searching for something holy in Haridwar is a bit like searching for hay in a haystack. You just have to watch out for rat droppings.

As we check into the ashram, we're asked to put our information into the guest book: Name, address, phone, father's name, father's occupation (believe it or not, these are common questions for this kind of thing here), then religion. I pause. To my left are the murti, statues of deities, which seem to be watching me appraisingly at that moment. I'm like the deer who's trying to figure out if the headlights are God.

“Um, you can just leave that blank,” says Virali.

So here we are, in Haridwar, with a camp set up in a funny little ashram and one of the holiest spots on Earth to explore. Our itinerary?

“Take us to the temples,” Virali tells the driver in Hindi. After all, this is a pilgrimage.

We wind through the narrow streets of Haridwar, traveling through the sea of marching pilgrims (wearing orange and carrying objects of devotion) and salespeople, dangling malas (prayer beads), flowers, statues, and plastic bottles (to fill with the river's water) in front of the noses of the pilgrims. Every so often, we pass an aged sadhu leaning on his walking stick or serenely sitting on the sidewalk. There are few of these sadhus who seem to live in the alley outside the entrance to our ashram; I'm still having a little trouble differentiating between these renunciants and your run-of-the-mill homeless person. They both seem to just lean and wait for money to be placed in their cups (or, if feeling a little vivacious, come and knock on the car window). Well, they look awfully holy at least (and maybe they're sneaking off in the wee hours of the morning to do yoga and the rest of the impressive spiritual practices you see in the documentaries).

A short while later, the car pulls off the road and we're faced with two gaping mouths; apparently an entrance to a mandir. “This is a temple?” I ask, and Virali shrugs. We remove our shoes, do a few ritual gestures, and enter to find large plaster casts of various Hindu deities. Six rupees later, we're walking down the hallways of this “temple,” regarding the images, colorful casts of mythological scenes, with a bit of confusion. Every so often, part of the scene moves- Krishna's head, someone's arm. As we travel through, I have a flashback of the “It's a Small World” boat ride. Are we supposed to bow or giggle?

We walk past the next ornate entrance, but are gestured onward by the waiting driver, until we come to a temple intricately decorated with collaged glass. On the way into the main shrine room, we see a few more of these animatronic scenes, feeling a little wary of our choice.

Back to the car, and this time with more specific instructions. Big temples, famous temples. Chandi Devi Mandir. Maya Devi Mandir. Mansa Devi Mandir.

Three major temples are settled on the hilltops of the foothills surrounding the city of Haridwar; we purchase tickets for a lift, watching other pilgrims below our feet hike the steep, snaking path, past all the monkeys.

As Close As I'm Gonna Get

Why yes, I did say monkeys. After a few weeks of the disappointment (monkeys, it seems, are pests to be pushed out of nice cities like Chandigarh) of seeing monkeys only through car windows, I'm finally in a place where they're as common as squirrels. On the way out of one of the temples, I stop to snap a photo of one of these tan macaques, who grumpily sits on her red fanny. Suddenly, there's a tiny baby macaque drinking from a fountain, and our cameras appear in our hands, like guns from their holsters. A sound of appreciation (aww!) escapes Virali's lips.

Never say cute to a monkey.

We're in deep trouble. Mama monkey makes a run at us, baring her fangs, making aggressive noises. We take off, but it seems that I really have nothing to worry about; it's Virali she's after. After a few yards, Mama monkey stops and grunts, satisfied, while the baby runs after us, with an expression that I read as “take me away! My mom's crazy!”

A Pepsi Temple?

2. Feed Your Soul, Twopence a Bag!

I should add an alternate title: How I Got Sick of Hindu Mandirs in 24 Hours.

Or: Why Hinduism Isn't for the Faint of Heart (or Light of Wallet).

We've been to Gurudwaras. We've been to ISKCON mandirs. We've even been to the Golden Temple. But there's nothing to empty one's pockets like a Hindu Mandir.

Visiting a Indian mandir in Haridwar is a bit like visiting a Strip Club. You'd better be prepared with a roll of small bills.

I should probably be clear here: it's not the religion that's the problem. It's those darn priests. You see, everywhere we went, no matter how hard we were focusing on the temple or the darsan or the puja, we were accosted by priests. Let me give you some examples.

At the first few Temples, we dole out change freely and are relatively free to enjoy them on our own. As time goes on, we're both running out of change, but there are still many, many more temples to see. We climb to the top of one tall temple (with gigantic deities surrounding it; it was actually quite fun looking up from the lap of Hanuman and climbing through 1.5'x1.5' tunnels with stone facades to get into the shrine rooms). At the top awaits another murti (deity statue) I don't recognize this one, but that's no surprise, since there are said to be something over 30 million Hindu deities. A priest holds his hand out for me to shake it, asking me the normal questions (“Country?”) and, as Indians do, holds on to my hand for far too long. The space in front of the murti clears, and I go to move up to it. “Is Brahma-Ji,” he tells me with a huge smile, “He created all.” No wonder I didn't recognize you, Brahma-Ji, you're hardly ever seen in temples. “Understand? Brahma-Ji? Brahma-Ji?”

Yes, yes. I'm trying to escape and follow Virali down the ramp. “Brahma. Yes.” Only then do I realize that his eyes keep darting toward the donation box. So that's why I'm still here. Okay.

On the hilltop, two priest stand at the entrance to the temple. Their faces and bodies are painted so that they resembled Kali-Maa and Hanuman, the ferocious dark Goddess and the Monkey Lord. As visitors enter, they bless them with marking their foreheads with orange dots. By this point, we're getting a bit tired of doling out change. Virali stealthily ducks out of the way as the priest goes to dot her forehead, knowing that once it is done the priest will inevitably ask for more and more rupees.

“What do you care about money! You're the Kings daughter!” the priest exclaims, chasing her.

We know it is time to end the temple tour when I'm roughhoused by a priest. I stop at the entrance to donate and get a blessing, and move on to the first murti, Durga. I've been caught up in the crowd (by this time, the temple is so crowded that one can barely think) and I just bow quickly before moving toward Virali to catch up. The priest grabs my arm, having seen me donate to the priest before, and says something along the lines of “Durga! You must bow!” He's grabbing my arm and shoulder and pushing me downward in a bow.

Now, there's nothing in the rulebook that says that a cursory bow isn't just fine. In fact, most people just give little bows of respect as they go through the temple; elaboration begins when one is before a preferred deity. No, I'm not being made to bow because it's what's right. It's because I might be carrying American dollars.

A dozen or so temples, several priests cursing behind us, and I'm spent.

Priests on platforms waiting to take your $$.

Down at the river is only a little bit better. Priests wait on platforms to do puja, charging more and more each minute. While we're waiting for aarti (a type of worship) to begin that evening, we start to chat with a group of Indians from South Africa. After about half an hour of What's with these priests?, we learn that they were charged 10,000 rupees for a ceremonial shaving of the head (the price of our whole 3 day trip!). “They're such a problem,” says one woman, “I can hardly remember my prayers!”

3. Welcome to the Spiritual Materialism Supermarket

Meanwhile, it seems as though the whole city is one giant, holy-riffic market place. Everywhere you look, people are putting items in your face that you, as a good Hindu, should buy. Baubles, knick-knacks, statues, jewelry: just about anything you can think of is being waved under your nose. I try not to look the shopkeepers in the eye or let them notice me looking at their wares; every time I do, they yell, “Come in, Madam! Madam? Madam!? Hello?” I picture them kicking the dirt, hands in pockets, behind me. Aww, shucks.

It's not just shops. They're on the riverfront, walking through the streets with their wares attached to their bodies, waiting outside the temples.

Buy something, p-p-p-please?