11~ Mother Ganga Temple.

December 20th

I explore "the other Rishikesh," on the Tapovan side. We were separated by a bridge under construction that divided both sides of the Ganges. Three bridges cross the river from side to side, connecting the two shores and the surrounding areas.

One of the bridges has been under renovation for a year, and it is expected to take another year. So, you can only cross from one side to the other on a small public boat that closes at 5:30 p.m. – I suppose because it doesn’t have night lights. The other option is to take a long detour, either walking or by motorbike, and cross one of the other two bridges, but to drive in India, you almost have to be a "professional" or have a lot of patience. I have neither, nor a driver's license.

That makes this side, Laxman Jhula, a bit isolated and getting around somewhat tedious.

Ilo, my new friend who has been living here for several years, told me they want to build a modern bridge with a glass floor, like a display case to see the Ganga from above. I can’t picture it.

These suspension bridges are iconic to Rishikesh, almost a relic. The metal beams on either side sway like a hammock when you walk across – you and the hundreds of other people crossing at the same time. It’s packed with people, like all of India, and it feels like it might fall apart, but it doesn’t. It holds the city’s magic and fits perfectly with the hippie and mystical vibe of the rest of the town.

"A modern bridge?" I ask her. "Glass? Where are we, Sydney?"

Where will the monkeys hang on a glass bridge? What will happen when the cows shit on the glass floor? What a strange combination. I stick with the old times, almost always, even if modernism keeps nipping at our heels.

On my side, Laxman Jhula is full of tourists who come to study yoga, wandering around with their mats for about three weeks. So, the locals are on the prowl, and they see you with a dollar sign stamped on your forehead.

The other side of the bridge, Tapovan, feels more real. There are buses, schools, and people living their everyday routines. The energy flows differently. I feel more like a local here and less like a tourist being hunted as easy prey.

Here, I bargain, haggle for prices, and buy ginger and lemon from street stalls to make my own tea. I don’t know how long I’ll stay in India, but I know I will live here for a while until I resolve what I came to resolve—and I understand that will take a long time. So, I already negotiate prices as if I live here and laugh mockingly when they try to charge me an exaggerated price.

The day after the match, while I was walking back home, I found something resembling a temple but completely open. Two locals standing at the entrance invited me in, as is customary here. I thought about continuing on my way, but something made me turn back, so I stepped inside.

I hadn’t realized it, but I had been in India for a week and hadn’t yet entered a temple.

The place was a large open-air terrace with several floors and balconies overlooking the green waters of the Ganga, though many meters above it.

Seventeen floors—yes, seventeen floors!—stretching from the river to where I stood. Everything was painted in pastel pink, with several pyramid-shaped structures meant to channel energy. The view of the Ganges from there was vast and a privilege to behold. Beautiful and peaceful. At night, pink lights illuminate everything, and the pyramid peaks seem to reach up to the sky and embrace it, like the rest of the city’s temples.

A monk gestures for me to follow him. He leads me up to a small shrine, asks me to sit down, and to offer him my hand. I do as he says—I always do what monks in robes tell me to do, like a kitten being picked up by the scruff of the neck, simply letting itself be carried along.

He says a few phrases in Hindi and starts tying red and yellow threads around my wrist like a bracelet. As he begins braiding them, he asks me for my parents’ names and my partner’s name. I mention Joan. Joan is no longer my partner—I don’t know what we are anymore, but we still love each other. We still talk every few days, and I tell him how desperate I feel, with a bit of disguise and resignation.

I still love him, so he is always present in my love prayers, for whatever excuse I can find, even though my mind is constantly short-circuiting with “complex stupidity,” as Malena Pichot one argentinian comedian would say. Are we together? Are we going to get back? Do I want to go back to him? Do I want to return to Copenhagen?—and so the existential questions keep piling up, growing in both scale and intensity. Luckily, the monk only asked for the name without any further questions, so the rest was all in my mind.

He asks me for a donation for him and his family. He tells me that they have been living here for a while, taking care of the temple. He presses a small red powder seal shaped like a tiny trident onto my forehead. It’s the symbol of Shiva. I had wanted a third eye, a bindi, for a long time. I asked him what it meant.

—It means reverence for your own soul. It is a symbol of spiritual protection, wisdom, and trust in the gods. It also represents the opening of intuition and going beyond the ego.

Every time someone enters a temple, they are given this “mark.” The shape and colors of the inscription vary depending on the temple and the god it represents. Sometimes, they also add a grain of rice, pressing it firmly enough to stick right in the middle of your forehead. This way, you can quickly tell who visits the temple every morning and who doesn’t.It’s curious—your gaze changes, and you feel different, as if you become holier and more connected simply by wearing it. As if it reminds you that there is something beyond yourself and your own mind.

I stay seated, looking at the goddess on the altar. She looked like a porcelain doll. —Who is she?—I ask him. —Mother Ganga, he answers.

They call the Ganges River Ganga—the sacred river that flows through all of India. My mind interprets her as something like Mother Nature, Mother River.

I can feel her. She holds more meaning for me than a Hindu god I do not yet fully understand. She represents the river that gives life—I think that maybe she could be my inspiration during meditation.

As I leave, I catch my reflection in a broken mirror nearby, surrounded by little kittens, and for the first time in India, I see myself happy, peaceful, flowing. I like myself. I take a picture in the mirror—the first picture I’ve taken of myself since arriving here over a week ago.I smile with my bindi on my forehead, my red plaid shirt, and my new hippie fanny pack that goes everywhere with me.

—You’re doing fine, I tell myself. Just keep going.

I sit down to meditate next to a black stone-carved cow.

—It is the vehicle of the god Shiva, the monk tells me.

Shiva is one of the most important gods of the Hindu Trinity, along with Vishnu and Brahma. In relation to the creation and maintenance of the Universe, Shiva holds the role of the destroyer—destroyer in the sense of regeneration, rebirth, and profound transformation. Shiva is considered the first Yogi, making him the god of Yoga par excellence, representing meditation and the true spiritual quest.

Next to the cow, there is a rather peculiar sculpture—a sort of fountain with an elongated cylinder on top. Many say it represents a vagina alongside Shiva’s penis, symbolizing the union of masculine and feminine energy—Shiva and Shakti. Others clutch their faces, crying blasphemy. The symbol is called Lingam, and it is also associated with the creative and regenerative energy of the universe that Shiva represents. Both the Lingam and the cow are symbols of the god and are found everywhere.

The monk introduces me to his wife, who had been watching everything from the window, smiling expectantly, waiting to say “hello” and greet me. Indians are very social—sometimes excessively so—but always kind, more than willing to help with whatever you need, and curious about us, the strangers who arrive in their homes from distant lands.

—What are you doing in India?—he asks me.

They love to know where we are from and why we have come. They love taking pictures of us when they notice the marks of cultural and physical differences—just like we do when we see them and want to capture everything in a good photograph. The difference is, they ask openly and without shame. We do it secretly and without asking. I love learning about them too and being able to chat without feeling like a treasure chest full of gold coins—which I clearly do not possess. So, we talked a little, and he told me about himself and his family.

This place has a particular vibration—I start to feel something. Is it peace? He gives me a flower to offer to the Ganga.

—Definitely!—I think—This was the day to do the sacred baptism in the Ganga, the ritual that everyone—both locals and tourists—comes to Rishikesh to do, seeking purification.  I had been waiting for it for a long time, but I hadn’t really felt it. Now I had the perfect excuse—I was going to offer my flower.

My soul loves these offerings. You get plenty of chances to make wishes—and also to ask yourself what the hell you’re even wishing for and why. Everything is sacred here. No wonder people become more spiritual in India.

I walk down to the river, weaving through the cows resting on the sand, and find a spot between the rocks. I enter the river Indian-style, fully dressed in long pants and a t-shirt. I submerge myself three times, just like they do, and I ask Ganga Ma for help—to find my purpose and to discover whatever it is I came here looking for—even though I still can’t quite figure out what that is—but I need it now. I ask her for understanding and the peace I need for this process.

Things arrive when they are meant to. Not before, not after. Today, something had started to reach me.

—Offer everything to the Ganga and ask for help, Akash had told me during our motorbike ride.

Today was a special day. I felt a different energy. I was able to meditate.I felt a bit of calm in the middle of my restless mind and the anxiety that had been torturing me for months. I walked with my head held high, with my red trident on my forehead, feeling like one more among the people of India—and with a strange sensation of home.I was making my way through the storm, little by little, just like Kaare used to say. It’s been a week since I last smoked, and, of course, I haven’t had any alcohol either—and I’ve stopped eating meat entirely. My body seems to want to cleanse itself somehow.I’m trying to help it.