The following morning after a breakfast of fruit, yoghurt and bread, Al took a stroll around the town. It seemed very old. The streets were crowded with people going about their days amidst the cows.
After a while he found a bridge over the river Ganges. It looked greener on the other side, with trees to sit beneath and watch the powerful currents pass.
So he crossed the bridge and turned right to follow a rough path running besides the River.
He spotted an orange-robed elderly and bearded man sitting cross legged beneath a tree, a semi-circle of younger people sitting facing him.
Al knew that they were called Baba's, as he himself had been called a few times.
“Maybe he's one of those guru teachers,” Al thought.
Back in England Al had read about the pop group The Beatles who had taken up with a Guru called Maharishi Mahesh Yogi who had taught them how to meditate and himself gained great publicity and popularity. Maybe it was something to do with that?
The orange-robed 'teacher' shouted something and motioned to Al to go over and join them and sit down. Al complied.
The elderly teacher smiled and asked Al where he was from and why he was in Haridwar, in a broken English with an almost German accent.
Al explained that he had travelled overland from the UK, simply on an adventure and that he was here because he had met a Spanish man in Delhi who had recommended it as a good place to stay for a while.
The teacher laughed and from under his robes produced a chillum. The chillum was prepared, wrapped in a “safi”, a small piece of cloth that served as a sort of filter, the tobacco hash mixture poured in and the lit chillum passed around so that everyone including Al had a good puff.
Al stayed a short while and as nothing was being said and he was quite high on the hash, he said his goodbyes and left, carrying on in the same direction as before.
Within minutes he was sitting with another group under another tree, smoking, buying, smoking again.
“This is the good life!” thought Al, so high that he was beginning to feel like he was in a Holy city in India.
“By the Ganges!”
Al left the second group and walked some hundred yards before he had the idea that immersing oneself in the Ganges was supposed to purify the soul.
“Well,” he mumbled under his breath so only he (and I) could hear, “Why not, it's hot and I'll soon dry off.”
Across the river he could see a long walled building complex with steps going down to the River.
As he got closer he could see steps going down on this side too. A few steps, “I should be OK.”
The water was moving very fast. Al thought maybe he would not immerse himself, just splash himself all over. “After all, I can't swim.”
So he put down his bag, took me off his head and put me on his bag, took off his sandals, and stepped down and into the water.
With some hesitation, one step, second step, third step – then his feet were swept from under him. He felt himself falling backwards into the water which he knew would sweep him away. Too high to feel real fear, he envisioned the situation if he was to be swept down the Ganges he would have to try to float. He had to hope he would be saved, but who would swim in this? How many bodies had ended up like this. Was this really Holy Water?
As he fell he reached out and somehow managed to grab a chain that was attached to the land, maybe for mooring a boat. He grabbed the chain but the force of the water was now tugging at his body like a hungry monster and now splashing his whole body with his head about to go under. As his head went under he felt a wrenching on his arm but he pulled stronger, now his head was out, now his body, now he was clambering up the steps, drenched and coughing up Holy Water. He made it to the grassy bank and collapsed on the ground.
I felt so many emotions and thoughts and images flooding Al's brain.
“So fucking stupid! I could have died.”
“Am I cleansed? Am I saved? Don't feel any different.”
“God I'm stoned! I shouldn't have done that. What would have happened if that chain wasn't there?”
“Glad I took Myhat off!”
So was I.
Had I been in that water I would surely have been swept away for ever.
But it wasn't long before Al was dried out and sitting with yet another group smoking another chillum.
After a while, that particular teacher said that they had seen Al go into the River and now his soul was clean. That was about all he said, except he asked Al if he wanted some chai and said that “Mahatma is coming, he will take you for chai.” Al liked the spicy milky tea drinks.
Al wondered if this was the Maharishi Mahesh Yogi or maybe some local lord or lord's son, a rich man probably. Everything was so strange that Al did not know what to expect next. I was wondering about who this "Mahatma" was - maybe he made hats?
After a while a man in orange robes accompanied by a small group of Indian-looking people approached. Apparently he was the Mahatma. He exchanged words with the teacher under the tree and said to Al: “OK, you come now for chai and this evening we will do our 'Arti' parade through town and then you join us and come to Ashram maybe?”
They walked a while, crossed a bridge and entered a small chai shop where the Mahatma said something to the owner or waiter – who did not look too pleased. He was pointing at Al and the chai was seemingly somewhat disgruntled. He delivered to his table with "no charge Sir" and the Mahatma and his entourage left, saying “Join is for Arti parade.”
There was still a few hours before evening so Al decided to go and wait on his bench back at the railway station.
That was when everything changed.
I sensed that Al's head was spinning, not like it had been after drinking alcohol and nothing like the hash or opium he had smoked or eaten; not even like the blues that he had swallowed in Lahore.
This was different, not at all pleasant.
Suddenly Al jumped up and ran to the edge of the platform. He vomited onto the ground. He started to sweat profusely. He felt the need to rush to the toilet which he found just in time and his bowels emptied over the hole in the ground. He was sick again.
A while later he cooled down and felt a little better.
He returned to his bench. He was thinking that he had so little money and so few possessions but he had never set out to be a Sadhu, and people called him “Baba” too!
Nw he was ill – he had no idea where Keith was and Miriam was probably in Nepal. He had little or no contact with anyone in the UK. He didn't even really know where Haridwar was. He didn't know where Prem Nagar was. He would have to miss the “Arti” parade.
Was it the holy Ganges water that made him vomit like this, or the reluctantly-given Chai?
Now he was sick. He would have to try to get the train back to Delhi and hopefully, some money.
And that is how I, Myhat, felt, like the head, Al, thatI went with.
And felt I did as felt was part of my fabric.
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