On arrival on the last day of December, the hillside retreat burst at the seams as a vein-ey overly ripe grenadilla. I thought, ‘grief this must be a bankie of tree-hugging hippies readying themselves for a New Years do’. but as the sun set, *poof* the crowds dissipated. Lonely Planet informed me it was the fire lantern ceremony that attracted attention. And I missed it. Meh.
Sifting through the
deck of directional signage boards, following the red arrow to the Swiss Hill Top hotel, I arrived at my elevated residence. My room sat perched high with a scintillating view of the Ganga River and its cavernous banks. The night sky sparkled as the figure- hugging sequinned cocktail dress of the striking Liz Hurley. The icey biting cold of northern hemisphere December draped the town, pinching my cheeks red, and scouring my hands dry. The moment was surely sublime.
Familiarising myself with the town I walked a small distance, treated myself to fruity juicey naartjies and bent bananas, went back to my room, sat on the swing on the wooded deck, and with a twist of the bottle cap, sucked on my bev, and stared outwards as New Year’s eve tolled.
With the weather stiffening my toes, I headed inside. There a shaggy furry duvet lay. Having seen a lot in my short time, I knew that duvet had too. Fearing an STD if I touched its stiff hairs, I lay down on the bed’s edge as a cadaver in riga mortis with my beach towel covering me, barely. Keeping my hands close to my body and my eyes fixated on the glowing filament above, the long hour sent me to sleep.
If hotel duvets could talk.
The morning shed a bright light on all I couldn’t see the previous night. I wanted to see the Ganga.
The Ganga flows a deep dipped cerulean blue, cutting wide the ascendant Rishikesh in two halves, knotted together by two rickety swaying suspension bridges, their steel ropes tied taut as an angel’s harp strumming the hum of a gentle breeze. The organic grain of the river runs rapidly wide whispering its tranquil riverine composition.
The fine edge of the wandering sprawling river are hemmed in by the terraced ghats activated by the pious, the contemplater’s, the utilitarian, by the drifting cows, the westerner love birds.
The Ganga flows a deep dipped cerulean blue, cutting wide the ascendant Rishikesh in two halves, knotted together by two rickety swaying suspension bridges, their steel ropes tied taut as an angel’s harp strumming the hum of a gentle breeze. The organic grain of the river runs rapidly wide whispering its tranquil riverine composition.
The fine edge of the wandering sprawling river are hemmed in by the terraced ghats activated by the pious, the contemplater’s, the utilitarian, by the drifting cows, the westerner love birds.
Rishikesh is a hive of ashrams. The Beatles came, I think the Stones too. There they called The Maharishi their guru, practiced transcendental meditation and wrote albums, became their best thems.
I’m no Beatle, no song writer, but some seven years ago I practiced TM. I’m still trying to be my best me.
I’m no Beatle, no song writer, but some seven years ago I practiced TM. I’m still trying to be my best me.
