True Tales

Oh I love the pictures of Hemkunt Sahib. Thank you. It’s so true that a picture is worth a thousand words! The photos brought back such vivid memories of my three trips to Hemkunt Sahib in the 1970’s.

 

The yatra really began with the harrowing bus ride from Rishikesh where I feverently and white-knuckle prayed to God all the way as the top heavy bus careened up the narrow, windy, rock slide strewn road with hundreds maybe thousands of feet sheer drop off the side with no guard rail. Whew!

 

Then the little outpost gurdwaras where all the pilgrims slept in some freezing cold dark room on cement floors, side by side like little sardines, and the early morning call of hot tea brought around in buckets by the sevadars wearing just kurtas and kucheras, their twig like brown legs darting about in deceptive strength and endurance. And all of us hale and hearty American yogis, so full of our pride and superiority, shivering in down jackets, failing after the first few steps, loading up our over abundance of "gear" on the tiny little sherpas (I was embarassed even then) and, speaking for myself, whimpering all the way. Shown up by so many devout Indian Sikhs years older than we were scrambling up the mountain in their sandals and shawls, chattering and chanting all the way.

 

It was only the first trip that I "hiked" the whole way, aided by my dear friend Ram Das Kaur (Rami from Tucson now) and those last thousand steps to the very top when the sevadars from the little  Gurdwara there came scrambling down like a mountain goats and helped me up every step saying "Wahe Guru" and infusing me with a strength that was far beyond my ability or desire to even move my limbs. Ah, the unbridled zest of the sevadar.

 

Between the exhaustion and the extreme altitude changes I was out of my mind most of the way. The lake at the top felt beyond freezing to me, but I thought if I didn’t take a dip I’d regret it always, aside from which Ram Das Kaur pretty much pushed me in. Bless her heart. My next two trips were on donkey back, one time carrying Guruperkarma’s baby because she was so deathly ill, and the last time just riding because I could and knew I would never make it on my own. I feel sorry, even now, for those little Indian burros with the big sad eyes and mangy fur, hauling hundreds of pounds up and down the mountain, their little hooves slipping on the sharp rocks. In India, and with these little burros especially,  the concept of reincarnation was made tangible by the sadness and resignation that eminated from these little burdened creatures and drove home the point of how blessed we are to be in human form. If only I remembered that more often. But that is the beauty of India, God is visible and in the senses everywhere from the fruit in the market to the burros on the mountain; from the echo of kirtan across misty sarovars, to the steaming hot prasad dripping down your hands; in the fabulous blend of spices in the food to the exotic embroidery of  ragas in the air. India certainly was for me a divine and sublime experience nearly every time, punctuated of course by many maddening, frustrating and pushing beyond capacity moments. It’s all really a kundalini yoga class or white tantric yoga course, isn’t it?