Garhwal lies in Uttaranchal, nestling prettily in the foothills of the Himalayas, one of the most revered stretches of land in India. For here, through forests and fields, along towns and temples, flows the sacred Ganges, the eternal river, the ultimate in holiness for millions of Hindus.
by phileasfogg on June 18, 2005
Garhwal has wildlife sanctuaries, temple towns, river camps, and spa resorts, and what we covered was a fragment of what the region offers. Hindu pilgrims would probably tour the Char Dhams (the "four sacred sites"- Kedarnath, Badrinath, Yamunotri, and Gangotri), or follow the trail of the Ganges through the Panch Prayag (the "five confluences"- Rudraprayag, Karnaprayag, Vishnuprayag, Devprayag, and Nandprayag). We decided to treat ourselves to a somewhat more materialistic holiday.We began with a quick trip to the quaint old town of Dehradun in the Doon Valley, a lovely, laid-back town with a distinctly colonial air about it. Dehradun’s best known for the Doon Boys’ School, the Indian Military Academy (both out of bounds for the casual tourist), Ellora Bakery (highly recommended, especially for rusks!), and the splendid Forest Research Institute. After Dehradun, a drive through the forests of Rajaji National Park (which we later visited) brought us to Rishikesh, a town that’s swarming with yoga schools and temples in about equal number. Twenty-five kilometers downriver from Rishikesh is Haridwar, which is equally sacred and always teeming with pilgrims, a dusty and crowded town on the edge of the plains.${QuickSuggestions} This part of Garhwal is replete with temples, ashrams, and monastic establishments of various kinds. Some are genuine, many are pure fakery. While we were staying at the Glasshouse on the Ganges, we saw, every evening at dinner, a saffron-robed sadhu, with a sari-clad blonde in tow. The sadhu would spout philosophy and the girl would hang eagerly on every word of so-called wisdom. When I mentioned it to a friend of mine (who was born and brought up in Haridwar), he guffawed. "That’s an old trick," he said. "I have loads of pals who are clean-shaven and hang around in jeans all through the off-season. As soon as it’s peak season and the foreigners arrive, they grow beards and don orange robes and start passing themselves off as sadhus. Very lucrative business." Don’t fall for upmarket sadhus pressing their philosophies on you - and don’t get coaxed into donating generously. The genuine ones are less inclined to be worldly. ${BestWay} Trains go till Haridwar; beyond that, it’s roads all the way. Most mountain roads, though narrow, are fairly good, well-tarred, and free of potholes. If you’re adventurous, you could try local buses: there are plenty of them connecting all the main towns in Garhwal. We weren’t that adventurous, so we stuck to our own car - and saw some rather frighteningly overloaded buses careening madly down the roads, horns blaring cheerily. For the more staid types, it’s probably better to hire a vehicle and get driven around at a slightly saner speed. Downmarket SUVs are available for hire both in Delhi, as well as in the larger towns of Garhwal, such as Haridwar and Rishikesh.Most towns themselves are so compact that you don’t need public transport to move around - your own legs will do just fine.
We began with a quick trip to the quaint old town of Dehradun in the Doon Valley, a lovely, laid-back town with a distinctly colonial air about it. Dehradun’s best known for the Doon Boys’ School, the Indian Military Academy (both out of bounds for the casual tourist), Ellora Bakery (highly recommended, especially for rusks!), and the splendid Forest Research Institute. After Dehradun, a drive through the forests of Rajaji National Park (which we later visited) brought us to Rishikesh, a town that’s swarming with yoga schools and temples in about equal number. Twenty-five kilometers downriver from Rishikesh is Haridwar, which is equally sacred and always teeming with pilgrims, a dusty and crowded town on the edge of the plains.${QuickSuggestions} This part of Garhwal is replete with temples, ashrams, and monastic establishments of various kinds. Some are genuine, many are pure fakery. While we were staying at the Glasshouse on the Ganges, we saw, every evening at dinner, a saffron-robed sadhu, with a sari-clad blonde in tow. The sadhu would spout philosophy and the girl would hang eagerly on every word of so-called wisdom. When I mentioned it to a friend of mine (who was born and brought up in Haridwar), he guffawed. "That’s an old trick," he said. "I have loads of pals who are clean-shaven and hang around in jeans all through the off-season. As soon as it’s peak season and the foreigners arrive, they grow beards and don orange robes and start passing themselves off as sadhus. Very lucrative business."
Don’t fall for upmarket sadhus pressing their philosophies on you - and don’t get coaxed into donating generously. The genuine ones are less inclined to be worldly. ${BestWay} Trains go till Haridwar; beyond that, it’s roads all the way. Most mountain roads, though narrow, are fairly good, well-tarred, and free of potholes. If you’re adventurous, you could try local buses: there are plenty of them connecting all the main towns in Garhwal. We weren’t that adventurous, so we stuck to our own car - and saw some rather frighteningly overloaded buses careening madly down the roads, horns blaring cheerily. For the more staid types, it’s probably better to hire a vehicle and get driven around at a slightly saner speed. Downmarket SUVs are available for hire both in Delhi, as well as in the larger towns of Garhwal, such as Haridwar and Rishikesh.
Most towns themselves are so compact that you don’t need public transport to move around - your own legs will do just fine.
The Neemrana Group of Hotels typically runs heritage hotels: medieval forts, palaces, and mansions that are elegant, comfortable, and homely. The only hotel (or non-hotel, as they refer to it) that isn’t old but still evokes a sense of history is the 21st-century Glasshouse on the Ganges.Not that it really looks 21st century. The red-tiled verandahs, the sloping roofs, the elegant central drawing room… all have a distinctly old-fashioned aura about them. The upholstery’s bright, beautiful block prints; there are fireplaces (winters are chilly up here in the Himalayan foothills); and the large glass windows offer awesome views across the surrounding hills, forests, and river.We’d asked for a double room for 2 nights, but this was peak season, and though they could manage a room at Rs 2,500 for the first night, the second night, we’d have to move to another room at Rs 2,200. We didn’t have much choice, so we took the rooms - and liked them. The first was a lovely one on the first floor called Narmada (all the rooms at Glasshouse on the Ganges are named after Indian rivers). With its windows overlooking mango and lychee groves, Narmada’s decorated all in muted reds, beige, and brown, beautifully warm tones in cane and bamboo. Exquisite, as was the room the second day, which was called Godavari. This one was a smaller room, but (like Narmada) had a very comfortable double bed, dressing table with mirror and chair, luggage rack, wardrobe, and attached bathroom. All in shades of blue, and perfect.Breakfast was served, buffet style, in the main verandah of the property. We took our breakfast - toast, omelette, tea, juice, and savoury puffed rice (an addictive dish called poha, with onions and peanuts) - off to the far end, where we sat, watching tiny yellow Oriental white eyes twittering and flapping about in the lychee trees. Tea, lunch, and dinner - buffet, with a mix of continental and Indian food - were also served in the verandah. All in all, the food wasn’t too good, but the Indian stuff was definitely a deal better than the continental, which tended towards floury sauces and stringy chicken.Easily, the best thing about Glasshouse on the Ganges is the location. It’s fabulous. The mango and lychee orchards around the property once belonged to the Maharaja of Tehri Garhwal (the district where the property lies), and just below the rooms is a beach where you can sit and dangle your feet in the cold waters of the Ganga as it flows past. You hear the dull roar of the river all the time, until it becomes a soothing murmur that literally lulls you to sleep, and when you wake up in the morning, the first thing you hear is birdsong mingling with the sound of the Ganga.A great place. The flipside? I found a tiny scorpion amidst the pillows on the second night. Dust out the sheets before you get in.
Not that it really looks 21st century. The red-tiled verandahs, the sloping roofs, the elegant central drawing room… all have a distinctly old-fashioned aura about them. The upholstery’s bright, beautiful block prints; there are fireplaces (winters are chilly up here in the Himalayan foothills); and the large glass windows offer awesome views across the surrounding hills, forests, and river.
We’d asked for a double room for 2 nights, but this was peak season, and though they could manage a room at Rs 2,500 for the first night, the second night, we’d have to move to another room at Rs 2,200. We didn’t have much choice, so we took the rooms - and liked them. The first was a lovely one on the first floor called Narmada (all the rooms at Glasshouse on the Ganges are named after Indian rivers). With its windows overlooking mango and lychee groves, Narmada’s decorated all in muted reds, beige, and brown, beautifully warm tones in cane and bamboo. Exquisite, as was the room the second day, which was called Godavari. This one was a smaller room, but (like Narmada) had a very comfortable double bed, dressing table with mirror and chair, luggage rack, wardrobe, and attached bathroom. All in shades of blue, and perfect.
Breakfast was served, buffet style, in the main verandah of the property. We took our breakfast - toast, omelette, tea, juice, and savoury puffed rice (an addictive dish called poha, with onions and peanuts) - off to the far end, where we sat, watching tiny yellow Oriental white eyes twittering and flapping about in the lychee trees. Tea, lunch, and dinner - buffet, with a mix of continental and Indian food - were also served in the verandah. All in all, the food wasn’t too good, but the Indian stuff was definitely a deal better than the continental, which tended towards floury sauces and stringy chicken.
Easily, the best thing about Glasshouse on the Ganges is the location. It’s fabulous. The mango and lychee orchards around the property once belonged to the Maharaja of Tehri Garhwal (the district where the property lies), and just below the rooms is a beach where you can sit and dangle your feet in the cold waters of the Ganga as it flows past. You hear the dull roar of the river all the time, until it becomes a soothing murmur that literally lulls you to sleep, and when you wake up in the morning, the first thing you hear is birdsong mingling with the sound of the Ganga.
A great place.
The flipside? I found a tiny scorpion amidst the pillows on the second night. Dust out the sheets before you get in.
A childhood visit to the FRI left behind memories of parquet floors and greenery, memories to merit a revisit en route to Garhwal.Founded as the Forest School in 1878, the institute was later named the Imperial Forest Research Institute. It acquired its present name in 1906 and stretches across 450 hectares of parkland, bamboo groves, tree-lined avenues, and imposing colonial buildings. The FRI’s six museums lie in a huge building of brown-red brick, cream-coloured domes, and massive columns surrounding grassy courtyards with weeping willows. We first went to the Pathology Museum, which was (literally!) rot: dry rot, fungus, horrid growths eating away at the heart and surface of trees. It was dusty and badly maintained - avoidable. The Social Forestry Museum was worse. It’s a vast hall filled with dull photographs and amateurish models depicting the adoption of social forestry programmes in rural India. Commendable - and boring.The Silviculture Museum was better, with its watercolours of Indian wildlife, each creature painstakingly labelled Schedule I, II, or III (endangered, threatened, or rare). Also resident are a 10-foot long stuffed tiger and some pathetic dioramas depicting the results of deforestation.But the Timber Museum’s worth it all. A glorious treat, this is a beautifully maintained gallery of wood and more wood. There are photographs, samples, and depictions of geographical spread for a vast number of Indian trees. Neat paintings and models show how wood’s processed (two glass jars show the comparative amount of water in wood - 1 cubic metre of green wood contains 16 litres, and the same amount of seasoned wood contains just 2.7 litres). And there are dozens of samples of timber: diapers (a revelation; nothing to do with babies!!) made of tiny scraps of waste wood, parquet boards, inlay boxes, tables, chairs, dressers, and suitcases (including one of golden bamboo). Near the main door is a tiny wooden room, panelled ceiling, floor, and walls, with furniture, a mantelpiece, chessboard, et al - all of warm brown-gold seasoned sissoo wood.But the crowning glory is the huge circle of deodar at the end. It’s a cross-section of the grandfather of all deodars, a 704-year old giant planted when Delhi’s Qutub Minar was built in 1215. The tree was already 300 years old when the Mughals arrived in India and was finally cut down in 1919. Magnificent!The Non Wood Forest Products Museum isn’t as good, but is well-stocked. This one has samples of forest products- tanning agents, dyes, gums and resins, drugs and spices, sandalwood, fibres, grains, nuts, fruit, and whatnot, virtually everything from shellac to limes. Many samples date from 1910 to 14; the limes were pickled in 1892!The last museum was the Entomology Museum. We took a peek but retreated quickly - it’s an eerie, large hall crammed with graphic descriptions, oversized models, and photographs of trees devastated by bugs. Very ugly.See the museums, if for nothing else than the splendid buildings, the Timber Museum, and the spectacular grounds of the FRI. Entry is Rs 10 per person for all six museums combined.
Founded as the Forest School in 1878, the institute was later named the Imperial Forest Research Institute. It acquired its present name in 1906 and stretches across 450 hectares of parkland, bamboo groves, tree-lined avenues, and imposing colonial buildings. The FRI’s six museums lie in a huge building of brown-red brick, cream-coloured domes, and massive columns surrounding grassy courtyards with weeping willows.
We first went to the Pathology Museum, which was (literally!) rot: dry rot, fungus, horrid growths eating away at the heart and surface of trees. It was dusty and badly maintained - avoidable.
The Social Forestry Museum was worse. It’s a vast hall filled with dull photographs and amateurish models depicting the adoption of social forestry programmes in rural India. Commendable - and boring.
The Silviculture Museum was better, with its watercolours of Indian wildlife, each creature painstakingly labelled Schedule I, II, or III (endangered, threatened, or rare). Also resident are a 10-foot long stuffed tiger and some pathetic dioramas depicting the results of deforestation.
But the Timber Museum’s worth it all. A glorious treat, this is a beautifully maintained gallery of wood and more wood. There are photographs, samples, and depictions of geographical spread for a vast number of Indian trees. Neat paintings and models show how wood’s processed (two glass jars show the comparative amount of water in wood - 1 cubic metre of green wood contains 16 litres, and the same amount of seasoned wood contains just 2.7 litres). And there are dozens of samples of timber: diapers (a revelation; nothing to do with babies!!) made of tiny scraps of waste wood, parquet boards, inlay boxes, tables, chairs, dressers, and suitcases (including one of golden bamboo). Near the main door is a tiny wooden room, panelled ceiling, floor, and walls, with furniture, a mantelpiece, chessboard, et al - all of warm brown-gold seasoned sissoo wood.
But the crowning glory is the huge circle of deodar at the end. It’s a cross-section of the grandfather of all deodars, a 704-year old giant planted when Delhi’s Qutub Minar was built in 1215. The tree was already 300 years old when the Mughals arrived in India and was finally cut down in 1919. Magnificent!
The Non Wood Forest Products Museum isn’t as good, but is well-stocked. This one has samples of forest products- tanning agents, dyes, gums and resins, drugs and spices, sandalwood, fibres, grains, nuts, fruit, and whatnot, virtually everything from shellac to limes. Many samples date from 1910 to 14; the limes were pickled in 1892!
The last museum was the Entomology Museum. We took a peek but retreated quickly - it’s an eerie, large hall crammed with graphic descriptions, oversized models, and photographs of trees devastated by bugs. Very ugly.
See the museums, if for nothing else than the splendid buildings, the Timber Museum, and the spectacular grounds of the FRI. Entry is Rs 10 per person for all six museums combined.
The Rajaji National Park, an 820km stretch in the Shivalik hill ranges, was created in 1983, when the Rajaji, Motichur, and Chilla wildlife sanctuaries were combined. Rajaji’s never quite managed to top the lists, partly because the nearby Corbett National Park is everybody's favourite. Also partly because Rajaji’s been plagued with problems- encroachments, poaching, and elephants getting hit by a passing train. This isn’t an exemplary sanctuary; a highway and a major railway track run through part of it, and there are thousands of visitors, not very keen on animals, who come because they happen to be in the vicinity, paying tribute to the Ganga at one of the nearby pilgrim towns.Despite all that, the crowds, the traffic, and the distinctly step-motherly treatment meted out by government, wildlife authorities, tourists, and just about everybody else, Rajaji’s worth a visit.We were returning from Glasshouse on the Ganges and reached the first of Rajaji’s three gates - the one at Motichur - some distance beyond Rishikesh. The guard (very generously) informed us that the road didn’t exist till a little beyond the gate. "Go to the Chilla gate," he suggested. "It’s better there."The Chilla Gate lies next to Haridwar. Just beyond Haridwar town, on the road to Delhi, there’s a traffic island, from where a longish bridge leads off to the left; at the end of the bridge, you again turn left and then follow the road into the reserve. After losing ourselves at various places along the way, we finally managed to reach.To deep disappointment. We were too early for the elephant safaris through the park; the minibus would go only if there were a minimum of 10 passengers; and the private vehicles for hire would charge 600 rupees for 3 hours. We couldn’t afford to spend 3 hours racketing about inside Rajaji, so we decided to take our own car.Half an hour’s drive took us fairly deep along a mud road (rough in patches), into the forest. The jungles are mainly of sal trees, with stretches of grassland in places - and a dry riverbed (which fills up during the monsoon). Rajaji is renowned for its elephants and is supposed to have a small population of tigers and leopards. We were realistic enough to not expect to see any big cats, but we ended up not seeing any elephants either. Yes, we drove over lots of elephant shit, and we saw a tree trunk stripped neatly of its bark by a wandering pachyderm, but we didn’t actually see any elephants.Not that it was all disappointment, though. We did see loads of wild boar (including a herd of mothers and babies scurrying frantically up an earthbank) and spotted deer and plenty of birds. There were red-vented bulbuls, pied wagtails, sunbirds, and - best of all - Indian rollers, a noisy trio of squawking, blue-winged birds that swooped and whirled above us in a dead tree, weaving in and out between the bare branches faster than I could focus my camera. Delightful!
Despite all that, the crowds, the traffic, and the distinctly step-motherly treatment meted out by government, wildlife authorities, tourists, and just about everybody else, Rajaji’s worth a visit.
We were returning from Glasshouse on the Ganges and reached the first of Rajaji’s three gates - the one at Motichur - some distance beyond Rishikesh. The guard (very generously) informed us that the road didn’t exist till a little beyond the gate. "Go to the Chilla gate," he suggested. "It’s better there."
The Chilla Gate lies next to Haridwar. Just beyond Haridwar town, on the road to Delhi, there’s a traffic island, from where a longish bridge leads off to the left; at the end of the bridge, you again turn left and then follow the road into the reserve. After losing ourselves at various places along the way, we finally managed to reach.
To deep disappointment. We were too early for the elephant safaris through the park; the minibus would go only if there were a minimum of 10 passengers; and the private vehicles for hire would charge 600 rupees for 3 hours. We couldn’t afford to spend 3 hours racketing about inside Rajaji, so we decided to take our own car.
Half an hour’s drive took us fairly deep along a mud road (rough in patches), into the forest. The jungles are mainly of sal trees, with stretches of grassland in places - and a dry riverbed (which fills up during the monsoon). Rajaji is renowned for its elephants and is supposed to have a small population of tigers and leopards. We were realistic enough to not expect to see any big cats, but we ended up not seeing any elephants either. Yes, we drove over lots of elephant shit, and we saw a tree trunk stripped neatly of its bark by a wandering pachyderm, but we didn’t actually see any elephants.
Not that it was all disappointment, though. We did see loads of wild boar (including a herd of mothers and babies scurrying frantically up an earthbank) and spotted deer and plenty of birds. There were red-vented bulbuls, pied wagtails, sunbirds, and - best of all - Indian rollers, a noisy trio of squawking, blue-winged birds that swooped and whirled above us in a dead tree, weaving in and out between the bare branches faster than I could focus my camera. Delightful!
Hindu mythology never seems to think below thousands. And the birth of Hinduism’s most sacred river too lies in an unbelievable number of myths and legends. Some believe that the holy waters of the Ganga were born of the goddess Parvati, consort of the destroyer Shiva. Others believe that the river came to earth as Jahnavi, or "of Jahnu," the sage who swallowed the river in his rage at being disturbed by the roar of its waters. That he then let the waters flow out of his ear allows for the fact that the river still flows, deep and broad and beautiful.But most well-known is the story of Bhagirath and his long penance to save the souls of his ancestors. The legend goes that the ruler of Ayodhya, Sagar, performed the Ashwamedha yagya, a sacrifice in which he released a horse to roam the world, a symbol of Sagar’s own powers over the Earth. The horse roamed free 99 times around the world, until the deity Indra, jealous of Sagar’s powers, abducted the horse and (with a sneakiness one doesn’t usually connect with gods) planted it in the hermitage of the sage Kapila Muni.Sagar’s 60,000 (!!) sons, all hot-blooded and breathing fire and brimstone, set out on a quest for the precious horse, and soon ran it to earth in the sage’s hermitage. Without much thought, they assaulted the sage - and paid dearly, for Kapila Muni gathered up all his powers and reduced all 60,000 of them to ashes.The actual story now begins.A descendant of Sagar, Bhagirath, decided to do something about saving the souls of his ancestors. Kapila Muni, perhaps in a fit of remorse, had divulged the fact that the waters of the Ganga, if brought down from heaven, would bring the dead princes to life. Bringing the river down from heaven was no mean feat, but Bhagirath put his heart and soul into it - and finally succeeded in his penance. Unfortunately, what he hadn’t taken into account was that his puny mortal shoulders wouldn’t be able to bear the burden of the thundering waters of the river. The river descended to Earth, but with such a cataclysmic roar that Bhagirath realised he’d never be able to contain it.He prayed for help, therefore, to the god Shiva (the Destroyer - the same deity who, if you believe the other myth, is the husband of Parvati, mother of the Ganga. All very complex).Shiva, for once not the Destroyer but rather the Preserver (a role that is typically assigned to the deity Vishnu), spread his matted locks and caught the waters of the river in them, gentling her flow and controlling her power so that she ascended to Earth quietly, a peaceful and life-giving river instead of a catastrophic deluge.And, of course, a river that’s surrounded by a strange, alluring mist of legend and reality, tranquility, and vigour, a river that nurtures and destroys, a river that stands at the very core of spirituality for millions of Indians. It’s supposedly so holy, its waters so pure, that millions believe, even today, that just a single dip in the river can wash them of the sins of many a lifetime. The lucky folk who live by the riverbank and have easy access to its waters feel themselves privileged - and those who live farther off make other arrangements. The largest single pieces of silver in the world, interestingly enough, are a pair of 6-foot-tall Gangajalis - urns made especially to hold Ganga water - that reside today in the City Palace Museum in Jaipur. One of the erstwhile maharajas of Jaipur, a staunch believer in the purity of the river, never drank anything but Ganga water, and never ate anything that had been cooked in any other water. This was all very well while he lived in India, but when he was forced to go on a state visit to England, he was faced with the horrific prospect of having to sully his body and soul with (God forbid!) - what was it? Thames water? Whoever came up with the idea of taking hundreds of litres of good, holy Ganga water to England must have been richly rewarded.Which just goes to show.This river, rising in the Himalayas at the Gangotri glacier, flows down, past about 52 cities, 48 towns, and countless villages on a 2,500km-long course that takes it to the Bay of Bengal, where it joins with another mighty river, the Brahmaputra, to form the world’s largest estuarine delta, the Sunderbans. On its way, it gives rise to India’s richest alluvial plains and creates the Upper Gangetic Valley, home to a wide range of wildlife: tigers (though fast disappearing), leopards, elephants, wild boar, deer, and more. And there are, of course, the species that are found nowhere but in the waters of the Ganga itself: the Gangetic dolphin, the Ganga mahseer, and the Gangetic ghariyal.But most people do not equate the Ganga with animals; they think of it as Ganga maiyya, Mother Ganga, the source of life. They follow its course, trekking (if extremely orthodox) all the way to the Gangotri glacier, or maybe even just doing a circuit of the Panch Prayag, the five confluences. For the Ganga is not really one river, but many. It flows in the form of tributaries and streams that meet at prayags or confluences, until the wide and deep Ganga is formed. At Vishnuprayag, the Alaknanda meets the Dhauli Ganga; at Nandprayag, the Alaknanda meets the Mandakini; at Karnaprayag, the Alaknanda is joined by the Pindar; at Rudraprayag, the Alaknanda once again meets a truant stream of the Mandakini; and finally, at Devprayag, the Alaknanda and the Bhagirathi come together.That isn’t all, of course; there are dozens of other towns - Haridwar, Rishikesh, Allahabad, Varanasi among them - where the Ganga flows, and where it is literally choked with pilgrims, people coming to wash away their sins, beg for salvation, and consign the ashes of their dead to the river.There are 108 names, or so they say, for this river: Jahnavi; Jahnuputri (daughter of Jahnu); Siddha; Sita (furrow); Salil-vasa (water-dweller); Purna (complete); Punya (merit); Punya-vaahini (possessor of merit); and Swarg-sopaan-sarani (stretching as a staircase to heaven). And dozens of more names.But call it what you will, this is a river like none other. There’s an impressiveness, a grandeur, a beauty about this river that goes way past its spirituality. You don’t need to be a Hindu to admire it. You don’t even need to be vaguely religious.
But most well-known is the story of Bhagirath and his long penance to save the souls of his ancestors. The legend goes that the ruler of Ayodhya, Sagar, performed the Ashwamedha yagya, a sacrifice in which he released a horse to roam the world, a symbol of Sagar’s own powers over the Earth. The horse roamed free 99 times around the world, until the deity Indra, jealous of Sagar’s powers, abducted the horse and (with a sneakiness one doesn’t usually connect with gods) planted it in the hermitage of the sage Kapila Muni.
Sagar’s 60,000 (!!) sons, all hot-blooded and breathing fire and brimstone, set out on a quest for the precious horse, and soon ran it to earth in the sage’s hermitage. Without much thought, they assaulted the sage - and paid dearly, for Kapila Muni gathered up all his powers and reduced all 60,000 of them to ashes.
The actual story now begins.
A descendant of Sagar, Bhagirath, decided to do something about saving the souls of his ancestors. Kapila Muni, perhaps in a fit of remorse, had divulged the fact that the waters of the Ganga, if brought down from heaven, would bring the dead princes to life. Bringing the river down from heaven was no mean feat, but Bhagirath put his heart and soul into it - and finally succeeded in his penance. Unfortunately, what he hadn’t taken into account was that his puny mortal shoulders wouldn’t be able to bear the burden of the thundering waters of the river. The river descended to Earth, but with such a cataclysmic roar that Bhagirath realised he’d never be able to contain it.
He prayed for help, therefore, to the god Shiva (the Destroyer - the same deity who, if you believe the other myth, is the husband of Parvati, mother of the Ganga. All very complex).
Shiva, for once not the Destroyer but rather the Preserver (a role that is typically assigned to the deity Vishnu), spread his matted locks and caught the waters of the river in them, gentling her flow and controlling her power so that she ascended to Earth quietly, a peaceful and life-giving river instead of a catastrophic deluge.
And, of course, a river that’s surrounded by a strange, alluring mist of legend and reality, tranquility, and vigour, a river that nurtures and destroys, a river that stands at the very core of spirituality for millions of Indians. It’s supposedly so holy, its waters so pure, that millions believe, even today, that just a single dip in the river can wash them of the sins of many a lifetime. The lucky folk who live by the riverbank and have easy access to its waters feel themselves privileged - and those who live farther off make other arrangements. The largest single pieces of silver in the world, interestingly enough, are a pair of 6-foot-tall Gangajalis - urns made especially to hold Ganga water - that reside today in the City Palace Museum in Jaipur. One of the erstwhile maharajas of Jaipur, a staunch believer in the purity of the river, never drank anything but Ganga water, and never ate anything that had been cooked in any other water. This was all very well while he lived in India, but when he was forced to go on a state visit to England, he was faced with the horrific prospect of having to sully his body and soul with (God forbid!) - what was it? Thames water? Whoever came up with the idea of taking hundreds of litres of good, holy Ganga water to England must have been richly rewarded.
Which just goes to show.
This river, rising in the Himalayas at the Gangotri glacier, flows down, past about 52 cities, 48 towns, and countless villages on a 2,500km-long course that takes it to the Bay of Bengal, where it joins with another mighty river, the Brahmaputra, to form the world’s largest estuarine delta, the Sunderbans. On its way, it gives rise to India’s richest alluvial plains and creates the Upper Gangetic Valley, home to a wide range of wildlife: tigers (though fast disappearing), leopards, elephants, wild boar, deer, and more. And there are, of course, the species that are found nowhere but in the waters of the Ganga itself: the Gangetic dolphin, the Ganga mahseer, and the Gangetic ghariyal.
But most people do not equate the Ganga with animals; they think of it as Ganga maiyya, Mother Ganga, the source of life. They follow its course, trekking (if extremely orthodox) all the way to the Gangotri glacier, or maybe even just doing a circuit of the Panch Prayag, the five confluences. For the Ganga is not really one river, but many. It flows in the form of tributaries and streams that meet at prayags or confluences, until the wide and deep Ganga is formed. At Vishnuprayag, the Alaknanda meets the Dhauli Ganga; at Nandprayag, the Alaknanda meets the Mandakini; at Karnaprayag, the Alaknanda is joined by the Pindar; at Rudraprayag, the Alaknanda once again meets a truant stream of the Mandakini; and finally, at Devprayag, the Alaknanda and the Bhagirathi come together.
That isn’t all, of course; there are dozens of other towns - Haridwar, Rishikesh, Allahabad, Varanasi among them - where the Ganga flows, and where it is literally choked with pilgrims, people coming to wash away their sins, beg for salvation, and consign the ashes of their dead to the river.
There are 108 names, or so they say, for this river: Jahnavi; Jahnuputri (daughter of Jahnu); Siddha; Sita (furrow); Salil-vasa (water-dweller); Purna (complete); Punya (merit); Punya-vaahini (possessor of merit); and Swarg-sopaan-sarani (stretching as a staircase to heaven). And dozens of more names.
But call it what you will, this is a river like none other. There’s an impressiveness, a grandeur, a beauty about this river that goes way past its spirituality. You don’t need to be a Hindu to admire it. You don’t even need to be vaguely religious.
It’s past 6 in the evening. We’ve had our tea at the Glasshouse on the Ganges, and the obvious sequel to that is to wander down to the river to trail our feet in the water. My husband tries it for a while, and when his toes start freezing, he moves off and stretches out on the silvery sand. While he’s busy reading the Collected Short Stories of Roald Dahl, I sit on a rock and swing my feet about in the swirling waves of the Ganga.And it’s then that I notice the bird across the river. It’s a large black bird, with a distinctively curved neck and big wings that stick out idiotically on either side of its slender body. It looks rather as if the bird had been all geared up to fly off when it decided not to - and never got around to lowering its wings. Even as I look at it, I’m reminded of a glimpse from National Geographic about Ukai, cormorant fishing in Japan. The show had an image - I remember it well - of a cormorant sitting on a rail and drying its wings by flapping them. The cormorant, said the narrator, must get its wings dry; otherwise, it’ll have serious problems in flying.This one’s a cormorant, and it’s drying its wings, too. It’s sitting on a rock just slightly above the surface of the water, flapping its wings patiently. I watched a bit, then chatted with my husband for a while, and looked back. The cormorant’s still there. I look out over the river at the village perched on the hillside across us, at the garden and the lychee orchards above and behind us. I spend a long time watching a couple of peahens picking daintily around the scrubby vegetation across the river. And when I finally look back - the sun’s set long ago and the light’s fairly dim now - the cormorant’s still there, drying its wings for all it’s worth.I watch it till I’m bleary eyed and numb-toed, and finally, after a good 40 minutes of flapping its wings, the cormorant gives them a final shake and folds them in."Look!" I tell my husband, "It’s finished! It’s finished drying its wings!" Major excitement in life.My husband looks; both of us peer through the gloom and watch eagerly as the cormorant gives a self-satisfied little wriggle and dives into the water. Whoever first equated dumbness with being a birdbrain was uncannily right. True, I’ve always believed fervently that some birds, crows, mynahs, kingfishers and hoopoes among them, are fairly bright and have plenty of character. But the majority of our feathered friends are woefully low on brainpower. All I have to do is listen to the mindless and incessant cooing of the blue rock pigeons that roost next to our bedroom window and I’m ready to strangle the blasted birds.But the Glasshouse on the Ganges, thankfully, has no pigeons.But what it doesn’t have in pigeons, it makes up for in other birds. Outside the main dining hall at the hotel is a framed list of the birds commonly seen in the vicinity of the Glasshouse. I’ve brought my bird book along (Birds of India, by Martin Woodcock, a delightful and very useful book), and we quickly riffle through it, picking out birds we’re hoping to be able to see during our sojourn.We end up seeing nowhere close to all of them, but not for lack of trying.The very first evening, when we head down to the river, we see two pretty pied wagtails hopping about amidst the rocks by the water’s edge. They’re stark black and white - very smart. Unfortunately, in our photographs, they blend in very neatly with the pebbles in the background. Anyway, we get a thrill out of watching them till it’s nearly dark, when we head back to our room.The next morning, there’s a pleasant surprise in store for us: the sudden glimpse of a great barbet. It’s sitting in the crown of a papaya tree not too far from our window, and considering the fact that barbets are so difficult to spot - they hide in leafy trees - this is a real bonanza. It’s also an example of another stupid bird; the papaya tree is notoriously low on sheltering foliage. The barbet’s actually not even a particularly attractive bird: an ungainly and ill-proportioned mass of grass green feathers, with a yellowish-brown head and fat beak. Not pretty, but we’re very excited about it all.And breakfast in the verandah at the Glasshouse yields more to get ecstatic about. While we’re tucking into our meal, a pair of Oriental white-eyes hops daintily about in the orange-flowering creeper next to us. They’re a dreadfully nervous pair, and even though I inch my way to the camera, they whirr off as soon as I take off the lens cover - and return as soon as the camera’s replaced on the table. Wicked!Right after breakfast, another and totally different species puts in an appearance. Unlike the tiny yellow-feathered Oriental white-eyes, the common babblers are large, dull brown in colour, and very audacious. They squawk and chatter incessantly and go so far as to hop up onto the backs of chairs that have been vacated by human occupants. But yes, as soon as the camera emerges, they too fly off with horrified cackles, scandalised at our presumption in assuming they’d like to be photographed.Through the day, our wanderings through the lychee and mango groves at the Glasshouse bring us into contact with some more delightful birds. There are the red-vented bulbuls, with their little crimson patches and their cocky black crests, swooping down and perching on the wooden post next to the verandah. They seem to like sitting on the post best of all, and if I’m not wrong, they take turns at it!In the late afternoon, another species emerges: the white-throated laughing thrush. There seem to be literally dozens of them, much brighter and more attractive than their relatives, the common babblers. These birds have lovely rust-red bellies and brownish backs, with (what else) white throats. And despite the fact that they’re supposed to be laughing thrushes, they’re surprisingly silent. Not a cackle, not a whisper of mirth escapes them as they flap their way, picking for insects, through the flowerbeds and below the trees. I follow them for a few minutes, trying to get a good photograph, but it isn’t easy.And it isn’t just at the Glasshouse on the Ganges that we see birds. They’re everywhere, sitting on bare branches, on the odd telephone pole, even standing in fields or along the banks of the river. Blackbirds, jungle crows, red-vented bulbuls, sparrows, rock chats, and birds that flit away quicker than I can pull out my bird book and identify them. At the Rajaji Park, we stop the car and gawk as three Indian rollers tumble and swoop in a flurry of bright blue feathers through the bare, stark branches of a dead tree.And farther on, down in the plains past Haridwar, we see more birds. Cattle egrets grub their way through freshly ploughed fields; Indian swallows sit on telephone wires; and mynahs - bank mynahs, common mynahs and the striking black-and-white pied mynahs - hold sway in each village we pass by. They seem to lord it over the local markets: each stall covered with fruit, vegetable, sweets, or anything that’s edible, has its accompanying mynahs, bickering belligerently over every scrap that falls.We see a peahen picking her way delicately through a field; a lone hoopoe sitting on a fence; and a pair of red-wattled lapwings flying overhead, their distinct "tee-tee-heee-reee" call resounding in the dusk. A flock of green parakeets, squawking for all they’re worth, roost in the trees by the roadside, oblivious to the traffic below.And I wish I could be back in the hills, even if it’s just to meet up again with a cormorant that’s very low on brainpower.
And it’s then that I notice the bird across the river. It’s a large black bird, with a distinctively curved neck and big wings that stick out idiotically on either side of its slender body. It looks rather as if the bird had been all geared up to fly off when it decided not to - and never got around to lowering its wings. Even as I look at it, I’m reminded of a glimpse from National Geographic about Ukai, cormorant fishing in Japan. The show had an image - I remember it well - of a cormorant sitting on a rail and drying its wings by flapping them. The cormorant, said the narrator, must get its wings dry; otherwise, it’ll have serious problems in flying.
This one’s a cormorant, and it’s drying its wings, too. It’s sitting on a rock just slightly above the surface of the water, flapping its wings patiently. I watched a bit, then chatted with my husband for a while, and looked back. The cormorant’s still there. I look out over the river at the village perched on the hillside across us, at the garden and the lychee orchards above and behind us. I spend a long time watching a couple of peahens picking daintily around the scrubby vegetation across the river. And when I finally look back - the sun’s set long ago and the light’s fairly dim now - the cormorant’s still there, drying its wings for all it’s worth.
I watch it till I’m bleary eyed and numb-toed, and finally, after a good 40 minutes of flapping its wings, the cormorant gives them a final shake and folds them in.
"Look!" I tell my husband, "It’s finished! It’s finished drying its wings!" Major excitement in life.
My husband looks; both of us peer through the gloom and watch eagerly as the cormorant gives a self-satisfied little wriggle and dives into the water.
Whoever first equated dumbness with being a birdbrain was uncannily right. True, I’ve always believed fervently that some birds, crows, mynahs, kingfishers and hoopoes among them, are fairly bright and have plenty of character. But the majority of our feathered friends are woefully low on brainpower. All I have to do is listen to the mindless and incessant cooing of the blue rock pigeons that roost next to our bedroom window and I’m ready to strangle the blasted birds.
But the Glasshouse on the Ganges, thankfully, has no pigeons.
But what it doesn’t have in pigeons, it makes up for in other birds. Outside the main dining hall at the hotel is a framed list of the birds commonly seen in the vicinity of the Glasshouse. I’ve brought my bird book along (Birds of India, by Martin Woodcock, a delightful and very useful book), and we quickly riffle through it, picking out birds we’re hoping to be able to see during our sojourn.
We end up seeing nowhere close to all of them, but not for lack of trying.
The very first evening, when we head down to the river, we see two pretty pied wagtails hopping about amidst the rocks by the water’s edge. They’re stark black and white - very smart. Unfortunately, in our photographs, they blend in very neatly with the pebbles in the background. Anyway, we get a thrill out of watching them till it’s nearly dark, when we head back to our room.
The next morning, there’s a pleasant surprise in store for us: the sudden glimpse of a great barbet. It’s sitting in the crown of a papaya tree not too far from our window, and considering the fact that barbets are so difficult to spot - they hide in leafy trees - this is a real bonanza. It’s also an example of another stupid bird; the papaya tree is notoriously low on sheltering foliage. The barbet’s actually not even a particularly attractive bird: an ungainly and ill-proportioned mass of grass green feathers, with a yellowish-brown head and fat beak. Not pretty, but we’re very excited about it all.
And breakfast in the verandah at the Glasshouse yields more to get ecstatic about. While we’re tucking into our meal, a pair of Oriental white-eyes hops daintily about in the orange-flowering creeper next to us. They’re a dreadfully nervous pair, and even though I inch my way to the camera, they whirr off as soon as I take off the lens cover - and return as soon as the camera’s replaced on the table. Wicked!
Right after breakfast, another and totally different species puts in an appearance. Unlike the tiny yellow-feathered Oriental white-eyes, the common babblers are large, dull brown in colour, and very audacious. They squawk and chatter incessantly and go so far as to hop up onto the backs of chairs that have been vacated by human occupants. But yes, as soon as the camera emerges, they too fly off with horrified cackles, scandalised at our presumption in assuming they’d like to be photographed.
Through the day, our wanderings through the lychee and mango groves at the Glasshouse bring us into contact with some more delightful birds. There are the red-vented bulbuls, with their little crimson patches and their cocky black crests, swooping down and perching on the wooden post next to the verandah. They seem to like sitting on the post best of all, and if I’m not wrong, they take turns at it!
In the late afternoon, another species emerges: the white-throated laughing thrush. There seem to be literally dozens of them, much brighter and more attractive than their relatives, the common babblers. These birds have lovely rust-red bellies and brownish backs, with (what else) white throats. And despite the fact that they’re supposed to be laughing thrushes, they’re surprisingly silent. Not a cackle, not a whisper of mirth escapes them as they flap their way, picking for insects, through the flowerbeds and below the trees. I follow them for a few minutes, trying to get a good photograph, but it isn’t easy.
And it isn’t just at the Glasshouse on the Ganges that we see birds. They’re everywhere, sitting on bare branches, on the odd telephone pole, even standing in fields or along the banks of the river. Blackbirds, jungle crows, red-vented bulbuls, sparrows, rock chats, and birds that flit away quicker than I can pull out my bird book and identify them. At the Rajaji Park, we stop the car and gawk as three Indian rollers tumble and swoop in a flurry of bright blue feathers through the bare, stark branches of a dead tree.
And farther on, down in the plains past Haridwar, we see more birds. Cattle egrets grub their way through freshly ploughed fields; Indian swallows sit on telephone wires; and mynahs - bank mynahs, common mynahs and the striking black-and-white pied mynahs - hold sway in each village we pass by. They seem to lord it over the local markets: each stall covered with fruit, vegetable, sweets, or anything that’s edible, has its accompanying mynahs, bickering belligerently over every scrap that falls.
We see a peahen picking her way delicately through a field; a lone hoopoe sitting on a fence; and a pair of red-wattled lapwings flying overhead, their distinct "tee-tee-heee-reee" call resounding in the dusk. A flock of green parakeets, squawking for all they’re worth, roost in the trees by the roadside, oblivious to the traffic below.
And I wish I could be back in the hills, even if it’s just to meet up again with a cormorant that’s very low on brainpower.
http://www.igougo.com/journal-j43950-Uttarakhand-Garhwal_A_Glimpse_of_the_Ganges.html
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