24 Hours in Haridwar

What is it that truly defines an “Indian Experience”? For the uninitiated, it is reveling in the stereotype of India that has been conjured in the minds of the less travelled. For them, the new India is a myth. A familiarity that doesn’t fit. An abnormality that’s almost too normal to seem right.

They want to see elephants.

And chaos. And crowds. And colour. And hustlers out for his money. And beautiful poverty. And shit on the sidewalk. And cows. And strange gods. And ancient rituals. And ash faced hermits with dreadlocks smoking ganja from a chillum. And Shiva. And Yoga. And Spiritual gurus. And samosas. And the Ganges. And the Himalayas. And maybe some more elephants.

It’s a tragedy really. The further away we try and move from the historical imagery of India, atleast as it would be in an Instagrammed moment, the more attractive the imagery appears to the observant insider. I, for one, have never been the religious type. Until more recently, and despite being raised in a household of non-veg accepting pseudo-brahmins, not in a million years would I have considered going to Haridwar, even if it were for just a stop-gap halt enroute back from a tedious and tiring trek through Uttarakhand. I would have preferred the slightly more hippie-beatlesque vibe of Rishikesh, the laid back, US-return cousin of Haridwar. More recently though, the lure of my brahminical roots called out strongly. That, and the fact that the wife and I had just made it back unscathed to the plains from Badrinath, traversing the singularly most treacherous pilgrim route in the world in the middle of a rather torrential monsoon, surviving land-slides and rock-falls and the occasional overflowing river, meant that some thanks had to be paid. Who better to pay it to than to the Ganges herself, the might of which we had skirted for about 300 kilometers from close to the source of one of its major tributaries in the Alakananda, down to where she enters the plains as the mighty Ganges, post multiple mergers, at Haridwar.

Make no mistake about it, Haridwar is an ancient Indian city. Probably amongst the oldest constantly inhabited cities in the world. The city doesn’t so much creep up on you as it would when you enter a larger Indian town, with scattered settlements slowly metamorphosing into an inhabited dustbowl. Here, you stop on a road by the banks of a ghat on one side of the Ganges and walk over one of the many puls before Haridwar gobbles you up in a mixture of sweat, incense and people. Before you know it, you are already smack-bang in the middle of it all. And you’ve already seen hustlers. And chaos. And crowds. And colour. And beautiful poverty. And shit on the sidewalk. And cows. And strange gods. And ancient rituals. And ash faced hermits with dreadlocks smoking ganja from a chillum. And Shiva. And Yoga. And Spiritual gurus. And samosas. And the Ganges. Slowly, as your mind registers the assault, you move down the many alleyways and beautiful markets towards your chosen spot of dinge and damp bedding. There are many to choose from, but I would definitely recommend the Haveli Hari Ganga near Moti Bazaar. It is not dingey or dampy. 

 

 

 

 

A 100 year old magnificent heritage home, once housing personal guests of the Royal family, the Haveli is now a Hotel located on the banks of the Ganga, providing you with a panoramic view of ghat proceedings in luxurious surroundings. Situated about 400 meters from Har Ki Pauri and about 200 meters from the best food in town, you really can’t go wrong. If you are a bit of a posh bum, and can’t be seen dipping in the Ganges with the gentry, relax, they have a private ghat where you can cleanse your sins in the secrecy of the Haveli’s surroundings. Pause for a moment of recapitulation. A PRIVATE GHAT. Proceed.

In the evenings, at about 6 PM, the Haveli arranges for a guided tour of Haridwar’s famous Ganga Aarti at Har Ki Pauri. It is the most important event in Haridwar and must not be missed. Held at the spot where the legendary elixir of life, Amrit, was spilt according to the Puranas, the Ganga Aarti is probably attended by every pilgrim in the city. The month that I was visiting happened to be the month of Saavan, and an estimated 70 million pilgrims had visited Haridwar over the past 30 days as part of the Kaavad ritual. The city had held up pretty well despite that. As is customary here, the Ganga Aarti is initiated by synchronized chanting in praise of the holy Ganges before each temple surrounding the Har Ki Pauri commits one priest to sanctify the river with massive lamps. Under the setting evening sun, the ghats are painted yellow in the light from the fire of these massive lamps as temple bells ring across the city and the chanting reaches a fever pitch. By the end of it, even a non-believer would have sent down a lamp into the river, symbolizing a silent prayer for his family and maybe even for forgiveness, for having forgotten about just how important the Ganges is to India. It really is quite a goose-bump inducing moment.

There is so much more to Haridwar than just the sacred. Like the 100 plus year old Mathura Walon ki Pracheen Dukaan, which serves up a ridiculous breakfast of Puri-Subzi and Khasta Kachories in the morning and some face-melting samosas in the evening. And the lassi at Prakash Lok, meant to be scooped into your mouth using a spoon rather than sipped. And maybe even just long-ambled walks through the bright markets selling knick-knacks and pickles and colourful bangles unlike you would ever see anywhere. But for me, the hours were spent equally between mouthfuls of street-eats and contemplative staring into the mass of the Holy Ganges as it meditatively slid forward into a more profound existence into the other prayags further down the river. Can there really be a more quintessentially “Indian Experience” than Haridwar?

If only I had seen an elephant.