5~ Ganga Aarti, fire ceremony.

December 10.

Juanita woke me up to go to yoga at 7 am.

The Indian guy teaching the class was staring at a screen, focused on his online students, who seemed more important to him than we were.

In the actual class, it was just Juanita and me.

He spoke English. Our English wasn’t great; his wasn’t either.

Juanita was struggling to follow along, doing every movement except the ones he was instructing.

He kept repeating the same directions, thinking we didn’t understand him. We didn’t. I tried to hide my laughter every time he came over to correct Juanita while she twisted into completely random poses.

Juanita stepped outside and lined her eyes with eyeliner using a street-side window as a mirror. I was struck by how natural she looked doing it.

I was still trying to blend into the culture — covering my shoulders, wearing loose clothes, doing my best to go unnoticed. She, on the other hand, kept her bold, eye-catching style without a second thought.

The Indian women stared at her.

Everyone stared at her.

Juanita was beautiful — inside and out.

The first time I saw her, I thought she was just a fancy blonde who knew nothing about life beyond shopping. But then her natural charm and effortless energy won me over.

She moved quickly, smiled constantly — a bright and curious spirit.

I wouldn’t have dared to go out if it weren’t for Juanita, who wandered the streets of India with her radiant smile, wearing her totally Western style, unfazed by the stares or the setting.

She didn’t cover her shoulders. She didn’t try to blend in. She didn’t stop standing out.

She was true to herself, and she shined.

If she had survived India with her bold, sexy look, then I could too.

I went out with her.

We browsed through stones and wandered around a bit.

Then she asked me to go with her somewhere — she said she was getting a massage, though she didn’t fully understand what it was about.

"Something Ayurveda," she told me.

Ayurveda is India’s traditional medicine, based on diet, herbs, and natural treatments.

I just went with the flow — I needed to build confidence, and she made me feel at home.

The man offered us Chai in small clay cups, and together, they convinced me to get a massage.

The treatment was called Kati Basti.They poured hot oil on my back, contained within circles made of clay, and for the first time, I experienced what it felt like to be in paradise.

My mind became clear and calm. I walked out onto the street, floating.

From there, we headed to the Aarti at Parmarth Niketan, one of the most famous ashrams in Rishikesh.

It was nighttime.

We crossed a dirt path and the backyards of several houses until we reached the main street — a narrow road packed with people, monks, and cows.

On either side, street food stalls and shops selling small statues of Hindu gods.

"Ommm Namahhh Shivaya, Ommm Namahhh Shivaya."

The scent of incense mixed with the air, blending with the mantras echoing from every corner.

Everything was new to me: the faces, the colors, the cows, the bodies, the people, the smells, the music. I felt like I was in a movie.

The Aarti is a fire ceremony performed on the banks of the Ganges, where offerings of flowers and fire are made to honor the sacred river every evening.

Where India meets the Ganges, the Aarti becomes an essential ritual.

To enter, we had to take off our shoes, as in every temple, and leave them at the door as a sign of respect. So, we placed our flip-flops next to a mountain of footwear at the entrance.

This part of the Ashram consists of long steps facing the Ganga, with a massive blue statue of Shiva meditating like a warrior—his hair tied in a half-ponytail, his eyes closed, and his fingers forming a circle in Chin Mudra.

On the steps sat the monks and mini-monks—as a friend and I called them, because they were barely a meter tall—dressed in their yellow and red robes.

At the center, a man played the harmonium, that small wooden "piano" so characteristic of India, accompanied by a microphone and a tabla, the famous Indian drum played with the fingertips. With them, the magic began—music, chants, and mantras filling the air.

The crowd repeated after them.

The place was packed, no matter where you looked.

As the sun set over the river and the mountains, the ceremony began, and the air felt purer.

Kirtan is a spiritual musical practice originating from India. It consists of devotional chants in Hindi or Sanskrit, praising the divinity and the gods—Krishna, Shiva, Rama, Ganesha, and the infinite deities of Hinduism.

Rishikesh, and India in general, is famous for its kirtan. The mantras, the music, and the atmosphere immerse you in a meditative state of consciousness that elevates your energy immensely.

I was going to spend three weeks living in that Ashram.

At this point, I obviously didn’t understand what I would come to understand later, but there was a special magic in the air that was impossible to ignore. All those people together, singing, praying, spreading their voices and souls into the air.

The fire, the faces, the women in their colorful saris, moving their heads from side to side and clapping with devotion.

Those chants were special. They moved something inside you; they made you feel, whether you wanted to or not.

Many believers traveled from distant villages in India to see and listen to the Gurus of the Ashram, at this ceremony at the foot of the Himalayas, where the sacred river is still pure and transparent.

Everyone held their Pooja in their hands, ready to offer it to Ganga Ma—Mother Ganga—when the right moment arrived.

Poojas are offerings made to the river. They are usually sold by children who chase you tirelessly until you buy one.

It is a kind of small basket made from tree leaves, tied together with a stick at the sides, just big enough to hold colorful flowers, an incense stick, and a small Indian candle made of paste and oil. Just magical enough to carry whatever wishes one desires.

There are no limits or conditions. You light the candle, make a wish, place it in the river, and let it float away with the water until Ganga carries it away.

And so, you see everyone gently pushing the water with love, guiding their Poojas—and others’ as well—so that the river’s current carries everyone's wishes.

Perhaps that’s why the river becomes sacred.

After several magical chants, the Gurus give sermons in Hindi and, if you're lucky, in English.

Then comes the moment of fire.

The monks positioned near the river at various strategic points light their snake-shaped candelabras and begin drawing the sacred Om symbol in the air, making their flames dance, purifying the air and the souls watching them.

At the same time, other members of the audience, fortunate enough to be chosen to carry the candelabras, start spreading the fire among those present. They walk through the crowd, holding the flames high so that those standing can perform their own purification ceremony.

Everyone gathers around the chosen one and places their hands above the fire, making a cleansing gesture over themselves, sweeping their hands over their heads in a circular motion three times.

In India, everything is a reason for a ritual, and fire always ignites all devotional sparks. And so, the candelabra keeps moving, and people keep gathering around it, purifying themselves.

From time to time, if the person is kind and willing to share the task, they pass the fire to someone else to continue. Everyone follows that flame with a hint of impatience, as if it were an essential need for the soul—because, at that moment, it is.

At the same time, people begin lighting their poojas to offer to the river. They move through the crowd with their small, flaming baskets, searching for an empty spot near the river to release their offering.

The first thing that caught my attention was all the potential ways a catastrophe could unfold. What was happening was beautiful, but it was impossible not to think about the possibility of an accident.

Nearly 400 people, all pressed against each other, walking around with open flames in their hands—tiny, sweet, yet lethal baskets—moving carelessly between silk and nylon dresses, with little space and an urgent need to reach the river before their basket caught fire. A dangerous combination to witness.

But India..."You wouldn't understand," a friend would say.

Anything can happen in India, and at the same time, nothing happens.

Or at least, most of the time, nothing happens.

We witnessed the ceremony and offered a pooja.

Juanita lit my candle while we were still in the middle of the crowd, far enough from the river to start panicking that the delicate handmade basket of goodness might catch fire on itself. So I started asking for permission to pass, my tone slightly desperate.

I wasn’t Indian, and since I was a child, I had been taught that fire in the middle of a crowd was a bit dangerous. But nothing happened. We were blessed by their gods.

I approached the Ganga and placed my pooja in the water. With love, I cupped water with my hands to guide it forward and let it flow, watching as the river carried it away—along with the dozens of poojas that people kept releasing.

Each night, the river lit up with the wishes of hundreds of people.

It was my first ritual. I took my moment.

I closed my eyes and held it close to my heart. I asked the universe for help, guidance, and strength. For the first time, I felt grateful to be in this place.

It was beautiful—I could truly feel the energy and divine presence in that ceremony. It was impossible not to. The fire, the music, the chants, the people. Each one performing their rituals. Some dipped their heads into the sacred river, others drank the water and purified themselves. I did the same. I put my feet in and poured water over my head with my hands in prayer.

The pollution of the Ganges in India is common knowledge. It doesn’t seem to affect the Indians, but it probably does affect Westerners. And even though the river here was still pure, I hadn’t yet reached a level of faith high enough to drink it—though I must confess, I eventually would.

Faith moves mountains, and India can do anything.

I felt blessed in the middle of Indian magic—there was no way not to.

I was truly immersed in everything happening, admiring it and becoming part of that atmosphere of reverence and divinity.

I had already participated in several Kirtans in Copenhagen with Kaare, so my body already felt those vibrations and prayed to the air to purify it, if such a thing was possible.

My body, my soul, my everything—I needed the full experience. That was what I had come to India for. So I was both inside myself and outside at the same time, in that spiritual connection. With myself, with the universe, and with India, trying to keep that connection as pure and intact as possible.

At that very moment, Juanita, with her beautiful smile, realized that she hadn’t captured that special moment. With her innocent boldness, she tapped an Indian woman on the shoulder without hesitation and borrowed her pooja for the photo she wanted:

Herself, holding a pooja—hers or someone else’s, it didn’t matter.

I truly wanted to pretend I didn’t know her. But the way she did things with such impunity made me laugh so much. She had a particular kind of charisma that made everything forgivable.

She also made me take the photo. That photo is beautiful.

She smiled, dressed all in fuchsia, radiating colors into the universe.

Having a Juanita in my first days in India was beautiful.

She revitalized my soul.

♡