Even Grander Rapids
Most recent days the monsoon sends a sheet of drizzly clouds up from the plains around mid-morning, and it hangs around until late afternoon, clearing just in time for the sun to redden the sky before it passes behind the ridge. Mornings, I’m told, are the brightest, clearest time of day; they’re just not a very alert time for a dorm parent who begins his work day at four p.m., so I haven’t been seeing as much clear sky as I could use.
Today, though, was different: I spent the morning riding down the hillside in a taxi with Hannah and our friends Audrey, and William. This weekend we’re taking some high schoolers rafting on the Ganga (Ganges is the Anglicized word). There was some doubt about the river’s safety, so the rafting company offered to take William, a rafting “expert” for free to check things out. So after two hours riding down a sunny hillside, into the green Doon valley, through a forest to Rishikesh, and after an hour of searching for a German bakery that William swore he knew he remembered,
I cupped my first handful of Gangajal.
Let me tell you about it: It wasn't clear, at all, but the water smelled clean, and probably was, since Rishikesh is the first city it reaches after tumbling out of the mountains. It had a lot of sediment in it, including glittery silver flecks that also sparkle on the sandy banks. I don't know if it purified me, but I'm still open to the possibility.
Religion fascinates me here, perhaps more than any other aspect of Indian culture, and I'm not sure why. I'm sure that Jesus has caught me for life; it's not that I'm looking for a religion to call home, but I can't wait to learn about the iconography of Hindu temples, can't keep my eyes off long-haired holy men, can't keep my ears from perking up at the sound of the Muslim call to prayer being broadcast across the hillside.
I like the idea of pilgrimages as much as anything religious here in India. My reformed education tells me that, because every inch of the world is holy and God-touched, there's no need to trek up mountains or to ancient cities--you won't find anything there that you can't find at home. I don't like that idea. There's so much appeal in trying to link spiritual movement to physical movement, maybe because sitting with books is the only way I know how to seek spiritual movement. Maybe it reminds the pilgrim that spirituality needs to happen within the incarnate world, and that's the part I like. Maybe I'm short-changing reformed doctrine, and you can correct me on that.
Anyway, back into that physical world from which I'm so prone to stray: the rafting was great fun. It was warm down there, we rafted and joked with a British guy and a South African who were in town to study yoga (Rishikesh is famous for that stuff), and our time on the water barely exceeded our time stopped for lunch--tasty rice, dal, and flat bread, compliments of the rafting company. This weekend is quarter break, and we head back with 40 kids, spending the night on the river. We'll get a couple hours in town after the trip, and I'll be looking for the German bakery again.
Today, though, was different: I spent the morning riding down the hillside in a taxi with Hannah and our friends Audrey, and William. This weekend we’re taking some high schoolers rafting on the Ganga (Ganges is the Anglicized word). There was some doubt about the river’s safety, so the rafting company offered to take William, a rafting “expert” for free to check things out. So after two hours riding down a sunny hillside, into the green Doon valley, through a forest to Rishikesh, and after an hour of searching for a German bakery that William swore he knew he remembered,
I cupped my first handful of Gangajal.
Let me tell you about it: It wasn't clear, at all, but the water smelled clean, and probably was, since Rishikesh is the first city it reaches after tumbling out of the mountains. It had a lot of sediment in it, including glittery silver flecks that also sparkle on the sandy banks. I don't know if it purified me, but I'm still open to the possibility.
Religion fascinates me here, perhaps more than any other aspect of Indian culture, and I'm not sure why. I'm sure that Jesus has caught me for life; it's not that I'm looking for a religion to call home, but I can't wait to learn about the iconography of Hindu temples, can't keep my eyes off long-haired holy men, can't keep my ears from perking up at the sound of the Muslim call to prayer being broadcast across the hillside.
I like the idea of pilgrimages as much as anything religious here in India. My reformed education tells me that, because every inch of the world is holy and God-touched, there's no need to trek up mountains or to ancient cities--you won't find anything there that you can't find at home. I don't like that idea. There's so much appeal in trying to link spiritual movement to physical movement, maybe because sitting with books is the only way I know how to seek spiritual movement. Maybe it reminds the pilgrim that spirituality needs to happen within the incarnate world, and that's the part I like. Maybe I'm short-changing reformed doctrine, and you can correct me on that.
Anyway, back into that physical world from which I'm so prone to stray: the rafting was great fun. It was warm down there, we rafted and joked with a British guy and a South African who were in town to study yoga (Rishikesh is famous for that stuff), and our time on the water barely exceeded our time stopped for lunch--tasty rice, dal, and flat bread, compliments of the rafting company. This weekend is quarter break, and we head back with 40 kids, spending the night on the river. We'll get a couple hours in town after the trip, and I'll be looking for the German bakery again.
posted by Jonathan Hiskes at 7:03 PM
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