Having decided to travel to India on my own, I needed more direction. Fortunately Moti, with whom I had worked all summer, offered suggestions regarding my itinerary. This globetrotter had spent many years traveling to The Motherland from his home in Berlin. I had great confidence in what he laid out for me after he sorted my pile of notes about ashrams and gurus into northern and southern locations. He also educated me as to which gurus were called by several different names – more than one was beloved as Papaji. His advice was helpful and clear:
“I suggest that you begin in northern India and attend the Divine Mother Festival of Lights which is held every October in the Himalayas,” he advised, outlining a “man of few words” four-step itinerary:
“1. Fly to New Delhi at the end of September.
2. In New Delhi, take the night bus to Haldwani.
3. In Haldwani, go to Patel Chowk and
meet Shri Muniraji, mentioning my name.
4. Shri Muniraji will direct you to the Babaji Ashram
where the seekers gather before going
to the Divine Mother Festival of Lights.
Period.”
Was that all there was to getting started in India? Could I do it? I could do it. I had less than a month to get organized: to acquire my one way ticket from the US, visa and vaccinations, buy a backpack, and sell my car. I drove back East, this time to Cleveland and my brother’s home where I unloaded what remained of my life’s possessions from the back seat and stored them under his cellar steps. None of us expected it would be five years before that area saw the light of day again.
Knowing I would be living more simply in India, to state the obvious, while traveling without my beloved Toyota which had held provisions for all occasions, it was necessary to pack only what I could carry on those buses and trains I would be using to gypsy around Asia. That meant living out of a single backpack and small daypack, plus the gifted fanny pack for my passport, shot record, airline tickets, one credit card, access to savings, and some cash.
Convinced that travelling light would be much more fun and more spiritual, not to mention mandatory for a budget traveler, I went shopping at a nearby REI for the gear. I was overwhelmed by the selection of backpacks. My first choice was a bright backpack in spiritual purple which turned out to be too conspicuous looking and much too heavy to carry when packed. I returned it, stopped by a New2You store, and found a used slender navy blue one with straps that folded in, making it look more like a suitcase.
I packed and repacked until somewhat satisfied with having fit in one black cotton dress, a long T-shirt to sleep in, a sweater and a shawl, flip-flops, and a poncho which also was to serve as a mattress cover for budget hotels. Some vitamins, anti-malaria pills, aspirin (before I knew about Arnica), suntan and skin lotion, shampoo, toothbrush and paste, dental floss, hand towel and washcloth, a bar of soap, writing paper, pen and address book were each tucked into the compartments. My travel outfit was a two-piece rayon geometric print. It didn’t quite go with my Teva sandals which are standard apparel for India’s potholed streets and monsoon season. I thought it wise to be more practical than put-together.
I left behind my Loving Care hair coloring lotion. After eight years of retaining my auburn color, I was done with that vanity. I took only an eyeliner pencil as makeup, since women in India accent their eyes. Within easy reach in the front pocket, I packed The Lonely Planet Guide to India, the bible of the day for budget travelers, which would serve as an answer to my prayers in many of the strange places I found myself.
Ready, set, go. My brother delivered me at the Cleveland airport with a going away present from his wife: a miniature sewing kit I hadn’t even realized I would need. I was too excited to be nervous, look back, or even doubt my decision as I made stopovers first in Boston, then in London for quick, brief but loving visits with my daughters. Though glad to be with me and share my excitement, they seemed not at all concerned with my launch on an unusual journey. I delighted in finding them involved in their new careers and doing well. Without worrying about them, I was free to focus on my mission. Clutching my one way ticket to India at the departure gate at London’s Heathrow Airport, I sang to myself as I boarded the Boeing 747: “I’m leaving on a jet plane, don’t know when I’ll be back again…”
No. 1: ”Fly to New Delhi at the end of September.”
Getting off United Airlines flight #486 in New Delhi on September 26th, 1991 was the first step successfully completed; but I couldn’t savour it as the reality of the sweltering heat made me feel heavy with perspiration and fear. My fellow 500 disembarking passengers swelled into thousands waiting to go through customs. It was even more nightmarish after getting my backpack from Baggage Claim as I moved into the chasm where arriving and departing travelers merged and juggled to find their direction in and out of this old-world terminal. There were bodies to be pushed against, bodies to step over, and then two bodies I recognized!
With The Lonely Planet Guide in hand, I moved toward the handsome Dutchman and his supple Duchess with whom I had chatted briefly at the London airport before departure.
“Best get some rupees before you head off,” suggested the hunk.
“Will do,” I replied, checking the security of my fanny pack.
“You know where you are spending the night?” his braless partner inquired, looking at the book in my hand.
“Come with us,” they said in unison to my unsure response. “We’re heading off to an inexpensive hotel where we always stay when we fly in. We’ll catch a bus to Shakti Road, much less hectic than trying to bargain with taxi drivers.”
Accepting their guidance, I found the shortest Currency Exchange line and traded a hundred dollar Travelers Check for a pile of brightly coloured, different sized, dirty bills and a few odd-shaped coins. Following my saviours out into the muggy night air, I stayed close behind as they sought out the correct bus to board among the dozens revving their engines ready to depart. I was most grateful for this random act of kindness as they encouraged me to board first, after pointing out the required coins for the fare.
Even with the door closed, the sensations of the surroundings rattled me as much as did the ancient vehicle in which we traveled. I heard the honking of the impatient drivers in the traffic jam. I saw people sleeping in the meridian. I felt the sticky bodies of fellow passengers. I imagined I could taste the curry I smelled on my seat partner’s breath.
“Here’s where we get off,” whispered my lifesaving guides, pointing this drowsy one in the direction of the door. Out on the avenue, my backpack felt rock solid heavy as I lifted it and my legs over a male body sleeping on the curb. Maybe he was dead; could that be? We crossed the four lanes and turned left into a much narrower street, its entrance marked by a flickering streetlight. Relatively quiet and devil dark, this alley doubled as another bedroom of the impoverished. As my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I looked at the tunnel of side-by-side doors and shuttered windows.
“I would not have found this place by myself,” I admitted.
Halfway down the alley, out of the pitch and in the quiet, we heard the sound of hooves before we sighted the herd of five spooked cows on a rampage, heading towards us. We fell flat back against the walls witnessing something not described in any Indian travel guide I’d read.
“Whew,” the Dutchman said, “That was a one and only, thank Krishna.”
Peeling ourselves and our backpacks off the shutters, we stepped back into the lane and perused the barrage of signs for #29, the Shri Shri Hotel, our destination.
“Right, here it is, and locked as usual at this hour,” the Dutchman said as he knocked on the window to rouse one of the Indians sleeping on the floor of the ten foot wide lobby. The others didn’t stir as we stepped over them to get to some standing space. After registering for side by side rooms, we climbed four flights of the dimly lit, windowless stairway to our floor, where I said a hurried goodbye and thank you, admitting that I really had to pee.
I unbolted the outside slider and entered a small single, heading for the promised bathroom to find a hole-in-the-floor toilet just like I had used in the Greek countryside, but hardly expected on the fourth floor of a big city hotel. There was no toilet paper, as forewarned, but rather a plastic cup and water from the tap sticking out of the left-side wall about a foot off the floor.
After a shower from another pipe coming out of the wall at eye level, I felt better, but very thirsty. I filled my water bottle with tap water from the small sink by the bed and added an iodine tablet, having to look up in my bible how long to wait before it was purified enough to drink.
It eventually dawned on me to bolt the door on the inside. I was somewhat worried, wondering whether someone could bolt the door from the outside also and lock me in this cell forever.
This is what I signed up for, I told myself: guru shopping in India on $10 a day, so I’ll live (or die) with it. Perhaps the window as an escape? I checked out the glassless opening: it wasn’t big enough to crawl through, even if it hadn’t had bars. At least that was assurance that I would not have any guest entering through that portal.
Before crawling into bed, I put my plastic poncho over the mattress, but under the sheet, as suggested by previous ‘been here / done this’ budget travelers who had experienced bed-bugs. I turned on the ceiling fan which, though noisy, didn’t do much to muffle the street sounds and chanting below. No problem, I was tired enough to sleep soundly and gratefully.
I assumed my neighbors had departed before I awoke, so I had to summon up my courage and take charge of myself. I packed up, descended the four flights, and checked out.
“Where is the nearest place to eat?” I asked the desk clerk.
“Just three doors to the left. Very good food, yes, yes.” The hard part was next because the lane, so quiet the night before (except for the sacred cows), was shoulder to shoulder with a wide palette of local color. I felt quite conspicuous in my white jet lagged body dressed in backpacker basic, totally out of place in this neighborhood scene.
I forged ahead, ignoring six beggars, four bicycle rickshaw drivers, and some overly persuasive vendors, while silently repeating my mantra, “I am divinely guided and protected.” It didn’t seem like my future was more wonderful than I could imagine at this moment, no matter how many times I said that other mantra.
I dashed into the so-called restaurant, which was more like a hallway with a row of tables along one wall. Not understanding the menu, I ordered plate after plate of white buttered toast and more and more sugary chai in order to comfort myself and stall before making the next move on Moti’s list.
No. 2. “In New Delhi, take the night bus to Halwani.”
OK, I knew what to do, but how best to do it was another issue. Full of sugar energy if not enthusiasm, I paid my bill, handing over a colorful but dirty note and getting a handful of coins in return. Picking up my backpack, I walked out of the restaurant and jumped into the first bicycle rickshaw I saw.
“Take me to the bus station.” How brain-lagged I was! There must be 500 bus stations in New Delhi, and I soon discovered that the first three drop-offs by three different drivers were not where I needed to be. My panic and frustration levels accelerated with each mistake. Eventually, after a lot of questions and more than a few prayers, my wits returned and I got into a motorized, diesel fueled three-wheeler with a blackened-toothed driver who signaled me to get in after spitting out the betel nut he was chewing.
“Haldwani bus, yes, yes,” he said with a shake of his head. I relaxed and even began to enjoy the adventure, especially the crossing of the Yamuna River. The four-lane rush of the cars, buses, trucks (garish with Godly garnish), an overabundance of rickshaws and even an elephant passing by tickled me so much that I happily gave rupees to all of those soulful, dark-eyed ones who stuck their open palms into my face each time we were stalled in traffic.
Even after living two years in India, I never did fully come to peace about how to deal with the beggars: sad mothers with sick babies; skinny, tenacious kids learning the pathetic trade at an early age; old men with vacant eyes. Sometimes I gave biscuits, more often rupees; or presented them with plastic bangles or holy pictures. Other times I turned away or just smiled or frowned. Once at a bus station, after I had given coins to the poor, I was robbed of the change purse which was pinned inside my larger shoulder bag. As I was concentrating on boarding a bus (always a bit of a jostle to find a seat), a pickpocket reached inside my bag and ripped off that pouch for the poor while I was totally unaware.
I kept repeating to myself, “Number Two: In New Delhi, take the night bus to Haldwani,” until my chariot came to a full stop.
“Thank you so much,” I said sincerely, paying and giving a tip to the rickshaw driver who had in fact transported me to the correct bus station for my trip north. Putting my pack on my back, I tentatively left the shelter of that little tin can on three wheels and entered another sea of sentient beings at the Red Fort bus station. More outstretched hands, more large black-circled eyes, more cows greeted me. The unloved dogs, tails between their weak legs under their caved-in backs, slithered away. I felt a bit downtrodden myself, weariness and wariness overcoming me once more.
I entered the relative coolness of the cavernous bus station, sought and found the toilets, and paid the rupee (about five cents) required to use the facilities. I like to think I put another coin in the tip jar for the attendant who spent so many hours there cleaning the stalls, but I may not have done so.
Relieved, I collapsed on a hard, straight backed bench and composed myself by opening my bible, The Lonely Planet Guide, before moving on to purchasing my bus ticket. I opened the “Advice for Travelers” section and read: “A single woman traveling alone on a bus in India is advised to reserve a seat in the front of the bus where the women sit, preferably not over a wheel. Best to avoid buses that offer video entertainment because it is usually scratchy and loud and plays all night long.”
Mentally noting the advice, I easily found the correct ticket window for the northern routes, which was labeled in both English and Hindi. (Thanks to the historic British occupation of India, the English language was the common one for trade and commerce.) Before I paid the fare, however, I sought reassurances regarding my requirements. “Acha,” the Indian version of OK, repeated the cashier again and again, complete with the affirming head shaking which is common, in response to my requests in keeping with the guidebook suggestions. “Be at Gate #57 at 10 p.m. for boarding.”
It seems logical that I would have used the eight-and-a-half hours before departure for sightseeing, which was my plan. Taking a good look at the impressive Red Fort structure across the boulevard, and contemplating the energy it would take to accomplish the feat of getting there and touring the attraction, I decided against it. Even though I could store my backpack for the day, I didn’t have the stamina to get my bag of body bones over there. I soothed my “should-do-but-did-not” feelings by eating lots of bananas and exotic-looking candies. I also bought nuts and more fruit for the trip.
Later, after cat-napping, I moved towards a bench where some other folks my color were waiting. A young Irishman with a nice accent started a traveler’s conversation with me. He had a good sense of humor, but I don’t think he was kidding when he told me about his last trip to the Himalayas.
“It was a dark night on a narrow close to the edge mountain road,” he said, “I sat behind the driver and saw him hit a pedestrian, which sent the body flying through the air over the top of the bus. He didn’t stop. That’s an example of how cheap life is in India.” That was not at all reassuring to me as a visitor (or to my soul). Some of the other stories shared were not so troubling, thank the goddess.
Just before 10 p.m., I went to Gate #57 to board my bus to Haldwani. Sure enough, my name was on the list. I had a reserved seat but it was not with the other women.
“There must be a mistake,” I insisted, but the attendant just shook his head as I was hustled onto the bus to the assigned seat 22B in the back of the bus over a wheel, next to a man, with too good a view of the video (Bollywood at its best).
Determined to fulfill my mission in spite of these odds, I had to accept what was. Then I double checked with the driver as to what time we’d be arriving at Haldwani and how I would know the stop.
“The bus will be arriving at 7:30 a.m. and it will be a rest stop, no problem,” he replied. That was not true, as it turned out. I do not think the Indians believe that they are lying. I imagine they just feel it is natural and right to tell someone what they want to hear. Who cares about the details?
I was the lone Westerner on the bus. Unlike some of my future bus companions, the man next to me was a gentleman. The only time he touched me was with a shoulder shake at 5:30 the next morning (two hours earlier than told), when he roused me from a deep sleep to tell me we were passing through Haldwani and it was time for me to get off. I shot up and stumbled down the aisle and out the open door. The kind stranger (bless him) put my knapsack down beside me on the highway on the outskirts of the town. Door closed, the bus sped off, and I was left coughing in the dust and diesel exhaust.
No. 3: “In Haldwani, go to Patel Chowk and meet Shri Muniraji.”
I had my assignment. It was still India ink dark and no one was around. I started walking east into what seemed to be a sunrise, and entered an area of shuttered shop fronts. I sat down on some steps. Right across the street was a knee-level outdoor water tap and a man dressed only in a loincloth taking a version of a morning shower. This involved squatting and pouring water over his head, beard and body while loudly clearing his throat. After drying off somewhat with a rectangle of cloth which he then tied and tucked in around his waist, he then moved on a few feet, stood before a shrine of sorts, and said a few prayers. Viewing his devotions, I felt that seeing a holy man in prayer was an auspicious sign, a blessing on my day. I knew he must be a real sadhu on a spiritual journey because he was dressed in white.
Now it was minutes past 7:00 a.m. and I had to move from the steps of one shop to the steps of another as shutters were raised and doors were opened. I asked the friendliest-looking shopkeeper about the location of Patel Chowk, which turned out to be the name of a nearby intersection. He pointed left to the next lane.
“Shri Muniraji? Yes, yes, he is there,” he said, and I headed off as directed. It wasn’t long before I stood in front of my destination which was a bookkeeping establishment.
“He’s not here yet,” the person opening the shutters informed me, “but you are welcome to take a seat.” I proceeded to stretch out on three hard, straight-back wooden chairs and sleep, my head covered with my shawl.
I awoke startled as I heard greetings and saw everyone bowing and kissing the feet of a tall man, obviously holy, as he came through the door. I quickly sat up as Shri Muniraji took a seat behind a desk. He waited for me to approach before he asked, “Who are you and why are you here?”
Recalling No. 4: “Shri Muniraji will direct you to the Babaji Ashram where people gather before going to the festival,” I replied, “I am Laurel Ann Francis, on my first spiritual journey to India. Moti from Berlin, who visited with you last year, suggested I attend the Divine Mother Festival of Lights as the first stop on my pilgrimage. Here is a letter of introduction from Moti. Would Shri Muniraji please advise me as to how best to proceed from here?”
The exalted one glanced at the post then asked me questions, to ascertain my spiritual aspirations perhaps? Apparently satisfied with my answers, he offered me the opportunity to go along with some devotees on a bus that was leaving that afternoon for the Himalayan hill station of Haidakhan, U.P. I thanked him and then admitted I was hungry. He called for a rickshaw and gave the driver five rupees and directions. I got in and was taken to a small coffee shop. I bought some deep-fried, heavily sugared confections and some tea for myself and a quarter pound of cashews for my holy benefactor. I was aware enough to know never to go empty handed to visit holy people or sacred places.
But I didn’t know how to get back to Muniraji’s shop. Outside the cafe there were many rickshaw drivers, and I couldn’t distinguish if the one that had brought me was waiting. The trip that cost five rupees to get there cost me ten to get back.
Muniraji accepted my simple gift offer on my return to the shop. He introduced me to two other pilgrims and an Indian medical doctor whom I was to accompany on the bus trip to the original Haidakhan Ashram. During the six hour drive through the beautiful northern India countryside, I got acquainted with Dr. Raghu, my seatmate who told me he was in charge of the hospital that the guru had established there to care for the poor in the area. He offered to show me around, as I expressed appreciation for his mission.
After miles of turning up dirt and rounding countless bends, it was late in the day when the bus stopped at our destination on the top of a hill. Our party of four disembarked and was met by a couple of young men from the ashram who were there to porter our baggage the last half mile of our trip. Jet-lagged as I was, I was glad they did. It took all the energy I had left just to stumble along the downhill path behind the group. When we reached the ashram, a series of neat buildings on a cliff overlooking the river, my doctor host invited me into the kitchen where he offered me supper. He scooped some spicy white rice from a pot on the stove onto two fresh leaves sewn together, which served as a plate. I sat on a mat on the floor beside him to eat my first of many rice-based meals, although seldom as spicy. There were no utensils, so I ate with my fingers after balling up the rice as he had done. Being right handed, I didn’t consciously have to remember never to eat with my left hand in this land where that appendature was reserved for Charmin-less toileting.
I started feeling more secure by the minute. Given my room assignment, I greeted a fellow Westerner who helped me settle in after a minimum of introduction. It was all I could handle before falling into a deep sleep.
Excerpt from the Laurel Ann Francis memoir – Bourgeois To Buddha : My Trials and Errors Across Four Continents – available online at all the usual locations including Ebay, Barnes&Noble and https://tinyurl.com/yrud63tf
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