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Published: November 26th 2007
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Lady
in saffron "I scattered their (his parents) ashes in the lake. That's I come to Pushkar. I feel close to them."
- Rajnesh, an Ajmeri we met during the Camel Fair
"The lake is a holy place." - Pushkar Tourism
The muted yet insistent buzz of our travel clock leaves me half-awake. Marci's gentle yet insistent nudging does the rest.
The time is four AM, I'm tired, disoriented and my hair has decided to go on five different
yatras, or pilgrimages, in five different directions.
It takes me awhile to recall just why I'm awake at this hour but once I do I silently, sullenly dress, pulling on some cargo pants and a fleece. The desert nights are a lot colder than we'd expected. I grab my cigarettes, a lighter, and a headlamp while Marci, quiet as a Russian sub, edges the door open.
We creep down the Escher-style stairs of the Milk Man guest house, slide open the front door, and are gone.
We cut right, then left, then right again through the tiny alleys and backstreets of Pushkar. We beeline towards Purshkar Lake, pushing our way through, as a trickle of people becomes a river.
Fakirs
Sadhus on parade. Hundreds, nay, thousands of Rajasthanis are on the streets tonight. The men identified by their turbans, the women by the brightly coloured saris peeking out beneath the dust-coloured blankets wrapped around them for warmth. Some laugh. Some sing songs of pilgrimage (or so I assume--Hindus allegedly have a million and one songs, one for every occasion--an example being the pappadom-making song.). Most trudge forward with either looks of grim determination or the blank gaze of the walking-asleep plastered across their faces.
Our people tributaries keep hitting dams. Unlike Varanasi, Pushkar’s ghats aren’t contiguous, but separated by temples, shops, and residences. Some ghats are attached to temples and therefore inaccessible to foreign devils like us. Others are public. Still others are privately run. The most commercially venal proposition being one with tacky sign that says, “HOLY LAKE” in Hindi and English, and has a bunch of hired help standing around whose job it to waylay unsuspecting tourists and charge them
buhut rupees (mucho dinero) for the privilege of sitting ghat-side. For whatever reason, when Indians use the spiritual sell they do so without an ounce of subtlety. We’ve ben beset by signs for “holy” lakes, “sacred” walks, and “godly” temples
Nomads
A Rajasthani family portrait. (only slightly redundant)..
We attempt to circumnavigate the lake, trying to reach the quieter South side where there are large public ghats. From among the pilgrims, the odd
fakir (religious scam-artist) emerges. Pushkar is a pilgrimage town with all the attendant chaos and dodginess that entails. One lesson I’ve learned in India is never to take a proffered hand. Men will try and give you flowers for offerings, pricing your friends and family by the hundred-rupee note. The ladies of Rajasthan will stamp your hand with henna. The kids will tie “Pushkar passports,” red ribbons, around your wrist. All at premium prices. The worst of the bunch are the false
sadhus (ascetics) and Brahmin (priest caste). Wearing what amounts to sadhu Halloween costumes—over-the-top orange wraps, big bright-red bindis, and month-old beards (as opposed to lifelong ones)—they’ll demand rupees in return for performing pujas for you or just ask for cash outright. The absolute saddest of these sadsacks was a pimp-looking sadhu that we saw selling photo ops and pujas off the hood of his car. I guess true ascetics drive beat-up Hyundais rather than lowrider Cadillacs.
Despite the odd bit of street-side bullshit (not an uncommon sight in India, literally or figuratively), there’s a real sense of religious feeling and zeal in the air on this, the holiest of holy nights in Pushkar.
According to Hindu lore, during the time of creation Brahma dropped a lotus flower on the earth. From the spot where it fell, blossomed Pushkar, an oasis amongst the dusty ridges and valleys of the Thar Desert. On
Karthik (the eighth lunar month)
Purnima (full moon), it’s said that Brahma (one of the
trimurti, Hinduism’s holy trinity) came to earth to perform a puja. Tonight, in annual celebration, tens of thousands of people head lakeside to follow in Brahma’s footsteps.
Suddenly we turn a corner and the whole lake opens up before us. We’ve reached Jaipur Ghat, a large public ghat with a huge stone bathing pool attached. The scene is difficult to describe.
Nearly three times the size the size of the other ghats, Jaipur Ghat nonetheless teems with people. People are pushing candle boats toward the center of the lake. Some are swimming, plugging their noses, closing their eyes, and jumping into the human stew. To one side of the action, women are in various states of undress generally content to walk down the steps, splash water over their heads and retreat. A man sits down next to us to complain about the “open sex” on display. He points to the sight of saggy breasts, likening them to those of an Italian girl who recently took the lake for a skinny-dipping pond causing a local ruckus. His rant continues on until we excuse ourselves. Marci smells wine on his breath. I guess hypocritical conservatives ruin parties regardless of location.
The lake itself is lit by the strings of lights that ring the whitewashed buildings that line the shore and the
purnima, which shines like a freshly polished five-rupee piece. Across the water, giant shadows on the temple walls hint at the sheer number of pilgrims out tonight. We’re told it’s around one hundred thousand. Even though an auditory collage of shouts, laughter, drums, bells, and varied strains of music float from every bank of the lake, there’s a sense of calm about the scene. People are purposeful, even orderly, as they go about their spiritual business. For a moment, the tiny town, rather than bursting at the seams, seems like it might be able to accommodate the scores of tourists, nomads, traders, and pilgrims that have invaded it.
We sit there, rapt, watching ritual ablutions on an epic scale until Marci starts to shiver. We stand up to weave our way through the dimly lit streets past crowds of people when, all of a sudden, there is a soft, hollow pop and the lights across Pushkar go out.
No one misses a beat. People continue on their way to the ghats to as Brahma to grant their wishes, dissolve the ashes of their dead, or sanctify their souls. Arm bangles jangle as a group of women pass us. We click on our headlamps and head for our pillows.
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