With a view to checking out accommodation on the other side of the river, where it is likely to be much quieter, I walk along the long busy road that leads out of town. After about half an hour I take a right turning off the road.

Taking care to avoid eye contact with the beggars who line the route I make my way through the jostling crowds towards a gently swaying narrow pedestrian suspension bridge, spanning the clear rippling glacial waters of the River Ganges. The recently-built bridge provides a ready link to the riverside village of Swargashram, a picturesque community crammed with temples and ashrams, lying at the base of rolling tree-lined hills. Nowadays frequented by tourists and truth-seekers alike, the village of Swargashram has long been associated with the lives of saints and sages. Faithful pilgrims flock here on their way to the various temples and shrines in the Garhwal Hills - the 'Land of the gods'. Various religious institutions offer overnight lodging and it is easy enough to find cheap accommodation in an ashram, such as Ved Niketan, a pretty russet-pink, white and yellow building sited on the bank of the Ganga river. Over the years this facility has given shelter to many, but as the donations flow in, the buildings expand and visitors are forced to abide by a rigid code of conduct.

• Residents must take a decision to adopt virtue and give up vice.
• Here it is compulsory to get up at 4am and do some meditation and regular exercise after cleaning the body.
• It is a must for all inmates to attend the prayer meetings held from 6am in summer and from 7am in winter.
• Use of onions, garlic, meat, fish, eggs, liquor, hashish, bhang, biris & cigarettes etc. is strictly prohibited.
• Playing cards, chess, chowser, radio and unsocial activities, political discussions, cutting jokes, undesirable gestures, reading dirty novels - Strictly Prohibited.

Though I would probably receive welcome at the ashram, the wish to avoid potential conflicts is strong enough reason to consider finding somewhere less proscriptive. An unexpected cash gift given to me before I left for India, from a friend hoping to make sure I got 'comfortable' accommodation, clinches my decision to look elsewhere. Though there was once a time when rooms in the religious institutions were all that was available to visitors here, nowadays several enterprising businessmen have now moved into the area and set up guest houses and hotels for those wishing for something more than a simple monastic cell. Since I want to lie on something softer than a concrete shelf and have no desire at all to wake at four in the morning, I am ready to discover and sample the delights of easy living, Indian style.

Having located a suitable hotel, in the midst of Swargashram village - clean, attractively painted and modestly priced, a facility with good views of the Himalayan foothills - I chance on a group of guests seated at the rooftop restaurant, one of whom thinks to warn me of a potential downside to the place: -

'Although the rooms are nice enough I guess, it is most definitely not quiet here. There are children shouting all the time outside. Just thought you might like to know. Huh?'

'Mmmm. Thanks. Perhaps I'll look at some other places before deciding.'

One only has to follow the local signs throughout Swargashram village to locate some of the competing hotels, such as the Green, the Rama, Hotel Rajdeep and the Sudesh Guest House. Fortuitously, as I search the right one, an opportunity to glean more information on their relative merits is afforded by another chance encounter with a fellow traveller, a young Australian woman. Before we part I recount the warning I have so recently been given about the other hotel. Fixing me with a steady gaze she responds breezily: -

'Well, if the noise bothers you here, then come to my room and I'll teach you how to meditate!'

I smile. She makes a valid point. One should find peace within oneself.

*

The following day, with rucksack loosely hung over my shoulder I set about hailing an autorickshaw heading northwards, out of Rishikesh.

'Ram Jhula?' queries the driver of a black and yellow phat-phat.

'Yes, Han Ji, I go Ram Jhula then to Swargashram.'

Wedging myself into the cramped cabin of the three-wheeler, my bag between my knees, I nod a greeting to my fellow passengers.

'Namaste,' greets a man with red tilak on his forehead.

'Namaste Ji,' I respond.

'Where you are coming?' he asks.

'England.'

'Oh good, good. You are liking India?'

'Yes, it is friendly here. More friendly than England.'

'Good, good. You want sigrat? No?' he offers cupping his hand round a lighted match and blowing a plume of cigarette smoke from the corner of his mouth.

Suddenly the vehicle lurches forward, making me grab and grip tight the tubular steel roof support. We head off along the busy street, the driver feverishly sounding his horn as he overtakes rival motor-rickshaws, slowing only to take fresh passengers aboard. We speed along past the fuel pumps and old temples of Muni-ki-Reti, and past the various spiritual missions that abound here, such as Yoga Niketan and Omkarananda Ashram, we swiftly arrive at the riverside drop-off point near to Sivanand Ashram where the phat-phat brakes for me to clamber out. As the driver drops the rupee coins into the pocket of his torn grubby shirt he smiles a flash of his stained, yellow, gapped-teeth and begins wildly accelerating again.

On this occasion I do not cross by the footbridge but decide instead to take a journey across the river by ferryboat. Having purchased a ticket, I lower myself down to wait on the steps for the ferry where I sit alongside some Indian pilgrims and look across the gently flowing waters to the waterside ashrams and the gentle hills beyond. A few minutes of soaking up the gentle sights and sounds around me cures my impatience to be on the move.

Nestled close to the jungle behind Swargashram village I find a hotel that is very well positioned, with a flat roof commanding a wonderful view of the surrounding wooded Sivalik hills, providing me with a vantage point from which to observe the everyday domestic life of the local villagers. Atop of their simple dwellings can be seen haystacks, food for their animals, and here and there growing between the homesteads, fruit trees of mango, guava, fig and banana.

The hotel manager, a friendly well-mannered bespectacled old gentleman with the bearing of one whom has probably seen a certain amount of military service, greets me.

'Yes sir, you want luxury room?' he asks with an inquiring frown which causes his thick-rimmed spectacles to rise up on his nose.

'Please show me,' I suggest.

In addition to providing standard accommodation (with optional bucket of hot water), the hotel also offers luxury rooms with deep pile green carpets, comfy upholstered armchairs, balcony and ensuite toilet facilities complete with hot and cold running water and shower.

'How long you are staying sir?' he inquires.

'I will be in India for several weeks more.'

'You are using air-conditioning?'

'No, I don't need it.'

'Then I can give you very good rate.'

'But can I use the fan?'

'Of course!'

I take to this man easily, not least because he allows a substantial reduction on the room rate.

'You are paying for how many days sir?' he asks.

'Initially, I will pay you for ten days.

'This is good. You have passport? I see? If you will wait a few minutes everything will be completed.'

As I wait I cast my eyes about the hotel foyer scanning the advertisements stuck to the walls and windows which inform of a selection of classes and activities available locally.

With the visitors register duly completed and signed, my passport returned along with a receipt for prepaid rent, I am now free to take up residence. The manager, Chaturvedi Ji, accompanies me to my room. His name, he explains, indicates that he comes from a line of Vedic pandits, scholars who commit ancient religious texts to memory. Abashed he admits he does not carry on the tradition. But he is nonetheless a man of words with a great love of literature, a passion he wishes to share. Leaving me to empty the contents of my small rucksack, he scurries off and soon returns with a quantity of books clutched to his chest. Somewhat insistently he sets about persuading me to read a bulky fantasy novel which he eagerly thrusts at me.

'I would like to know what you think of this. Myself I found it very interesting,' he booms.

'Okay, but have you any books on Indian philosophy?' I ask, noticing that he has brought me no books relating to Hindu thought.

'Don't worry for those,' he responds gruffly, 'This book here is very good, very much imagination. You very much will like.'

'I can't promise to read it all, but I'll give it a go.' I assure him.

*

After finding suitable places for the few possessions I carry, I settle down on the bed, prop myself up on two cotton-filled pillows and take another look at the books. I begin to thumb through the novel. It tells a fantasy tale of an innocent in possession of a magical stone who becomes caught up in the machinations of a series of sorceress queens. Though it is well written and reasonably absorbing I lay down the book after only several chapters, a trifle perplexed that after coming all this way to India I have been persuaded to spend my time exploring a Western author's over-ripe imagination.

I decide to venture out, to take a walk in the shaded jungle reaches closeby. The day has become very hot and is somewhat humid too, so I make sure I take a supply of fruit juice, defence against dehydration. At first I am apprehensive about exploring the thickly wooded hills alone, most especially in light of the fact I carry all my travel documents and money around my neck. Clearly, the thin white cotton high collared shirt I wear does little to conceal the bulging pouch. I feel certain that the loss of this object would usher the most unsettling of consequences. But I continue my walk, drinking in the sights of dappled leaves and smelling the scents of late blossoms. Occasionally a hand-painted sign catches my attention and I stop to interpret its meaning. On and off, over the years since first visiting India, I have tried to tutor myself in the Hindi language which at least means I can read its' alphabet, affording me the chance to sound unfamiliar words in my head. I notice that many of the signs point to Neelkanth Mahadev Mandir, a temple many miles up high in the hills, a climb I plan to take soon. For now I content myself just strolling relaxedly. It is so good to be away from the incessant commotion that has surrounded me these last few days.

Though in my heart I never left, it has been some years since I visited India last. Notwithstanding, I have been totally unprepared for the intensity of India's continued power over me to shock and strip me of my self-assuredness. The bus ride from the airport into the centre of Delhi can best be described as an act of faith for there was simply far too much chaos going on, both inside the bus and outside. I discovered that chaos is what I most fear, and on my arrival in India, it seemed that everyone and everything turned this power to perplex me. Admittedly, I expected a bit of hassle on my arrival, but not the total all-pervasive pressure I had to endure. It made me seriously re-evaluate my decision to take a break in India. But now, away from the mayhem, I am feeling far more relaxed.

Wafting through the jungle, accompanied by the sounds of caw-cawing busy black crows and the twitter and trill of exotic birdlife, I catch occasional glimpses of gentle black-faced langur monkeys playing with their young in the branches that overhang the dusty track. At length a large archway comes into view and to the left of it a path leading to the temple of Bhutnath Mandir and the grounds of a grand bright pink and white multi-storied structure, Kailashanand Nature Cure Centre, someway high up the hill. I am tempted to take a closer look but since it means climbing a long steep path, I figure it can wait until another day.

A journalist asked the 'giggling guru': -

'Some people think of you as a saint, what is it that you preach?'

'I teach a simple system of Transcendental Meditation which gives the people the insight into life and they begin to enjoy all peace and happiness. And because this has been the message of all the saints in the past they call me saint.'

'You seem to also have caught the imagination of the pop stars?'

'You mean The Beatles,' he giggled. 'I found them very intelligent, and young men of very great potential in life.'

Transcendental Meditation (TM) first gained prominence in the late 1950's after Maharishi Mahesh Yogi embarked on his first world tour. In this system of meditation the student is advised to set aside about twenty minutes twice daily to relax quietly and loosely focus the mind on a selected bij (seed) mantra, a calming, soothing sound that assists the mind to go beyond thought. The TM technique is taught worldwide and if correctly practised brings about a state of restful alertness. It is claimed that with regular practice a state of 'Cosmic Consciousness', a state of illumination or enlightenment, can be attained.

Teacher training courses are these days held elsewhere as for many years TM's founder Maharishi Mahesh Yogi no longer visits India and without explanation western visitors have been denied all access to the ashram site. It is said that the Indian Government detects a security threat amongst foreign visitors, suspecting some to have been spying for their respective countries - an unsubstantiated but intriguing rumour.

I find an overgrown path to the right and pursue it believing it to lead to the ashram. At length it brings me to a cluster of derelict huts beside which is a wide rusted iron gateway, the jaunty strung-together wooden gates of which are fastened, chained and padlocked. Drawing closer, I peer through them into the ashram grounds, my eye following down the line of damp-stained whitewashed chalets opposite which stands a large residential block. All the buildings appear completely deserted though I can't be sure, but as yet nothing stirs other than butterflies and birds.

A lone cow ambles into view, which prompts me to speculate on how it entered the enclosure. Suddenly and earnestly I feel a strong urge to take a look around the grounds. To this end I hit on the notion of following the perimeter wall until a breach can be found. I discern traces of an old established path which has long become overgrown, thick undergrowth impedes my progress, outgrowing branches block the way. Undaunted and fully immersed in the challenge I press on giving scant attention to the scratching of long-spiked thorns as they snag my clothes and caused my flesh to bleed. The scent of the many orange and pink blossoms I find faintly intoxicating. Spiders the size of one's hand hang tenaciously as portions of their sticky superstong webs cling to my hair. I become anxious as I sense the presence of movement just ahead, but as I discover it to be only a stray ox grazing in the thicket, I sigh aloud with relief.

Tempted, as I am, to scale the high moss-lined walls of the ashram in order to gain entry, I resist, reminding myself that if a cow can find a way in without need to shinny up the wall, so can I. Continuing on my way, I eventually emerge from the foliage into a rough stony gorge. Massively relieved that for a while at least I no longer have to fight my way through the jungle. I follow the dried up watercourse for some yards before I come in sight of the ornate gateway to the lower entrance of the ashram. I note its gates are locked too. I am exasperated, dirty, tired, disappointed and at the point of giving up, but then I notice a gap in the wall to the right of the grandiose gateway. Without hesitation I step through it.

Climbing to the top of the hill I enter the ashram proper and cautiously begin to make my way about. In spite of the dereliction of the buildings, the overgrown grounds, intersected by broad walkways provide a tranquil and pleasing place to wander. The few signs and signposts are all that remain to indicate the former occupancy of the site.

I read the hand-painted metal sign nailed at the beginning of a tree-lined path, which informs that the building beyond is 'Maharshi Kutir'. But this is no mere hut or cottage, as the name suggests, but an impressive looking residence built for Maharishi Mahesh Yogi himself to live in. I knock at the door but unsurprisingly there is no reply. Finding that the basement meditation room is also locked I move across the pillared terrace to survey and walk out and on to the abandoned lawned garden passing the disused water features and studying the varieties of shrubs and mature trees there. At the brow of the hill, just beyond the bungalow, I sit and take some shade beneath the trees, enjoying the truly breathtaking view out across the river Ganga.

Of a sudden I realise I am not alone.

A tall well-built unshaven Indian, dressed in white high-collared kurta shirt and loose white pyjama trousers walks towards me. He stands peering at me quizzically. Self-consciously I volunteer a vague explanation: -

'Hi, I'm just taking a look about.'

'I am staying below, I come to walk also.' he pants breathlessly, beads of perspiration dripping from his forehead, 'What your country is?'

'England.'

'You are liking India?'

'Here I like, it is very peaceful.'

'Yes. I before here am coming.'

'I wanted to meditate downstairs, in the basement.'

'I think it is locked. I think there is swami staying here.'

'He is with the Maharishi's organisation?'

'No.'

I am intrigued as to who it is who has installed himself here, but beyond that which he has already told me, he can add nothing.

'So, for how long has the ashram been empty?' I ask.

'Two years? Maybe two years? Yes!'

'But why is it empty?'

'It is this... Mahesh Yogi here no longer is interested. He now big place in Europe has.'

'But why leave all the buildings to go to waste?'

'They rent not have paid. So... government is coming in... government everything is closing down. If rent they not pay, what to do?' he exclaims.

'But they must be doing something about it.'

'No, nobody here comes, just they are writing something, maybe.'

'But I'm sure they can afford the rent,' I puzzle.

'You before I am telling, Mahesh Yogi no interest has! No.'

'Oh well, at least we can enjoy the peace here.'

'In Hindi language the peace is shanti, very much shanti you take in India my friend,' he calls cheerily, disappearing down the path.

I linger after his departure in order to sift through a pile of mouldering papers I spot lying in the garden. On closer inspection I find them to be fairly neatly stacked sets of blank forms, printed in Hindi and in English, for use in checking the progress of novice meditators' experiences. Only recently could they have been placed there, else the wind would have blown them far and about, so I am therefore left to puzzle just how and why these documents relating to the teaching of this system of meditation have so unceremoniously been dumped amongst its founder's parched and wilted flowers.

*

Back at the hotel, I set to work attempting the removal of the jungle stains from my shirtfront, which in the event proves to be a greater task than I imagined. I persevere until interrupted by a tapping at the door. It is the henna-haired young woman who tauntingly offered me meditation tuition.

'I'm looking for a woman who left me a message...' she explains distractedly.

'Oh!' I respond, believing further comment unnecessary, as self-evidently I am alone. However, in order to offer excuse for my dishevelled appearance I point out to her that I have only recently returned from roaming in the jungle and that I am trying to remove the stubborn green stains from my clothes. She appears unmoved by my ramblings, though she remains framed by the doorway, her almond shaped eyes staring ahead with fixed expression. Her manner suggests that she is looking at something within my room, but since the broad room is L-shaped, it is impossible for her to see much from where she stands outside the door. I imagine that she is making an extra-sensory sweep to take inventory of my personal space.

'You can come inside if you like,' I offer rather belatedly.

My words signal an end to her contemplation and provide a spur to action.

'I should go and find this woman,' she states thoughtfully, but still she does not move. Then, of a sudden, she whisks away down the corridor leaving me standing momentarily bewildered.

*

On the same floor as my room, to the front of the hotel, lies an open-air terrace area dotted with tables and chairs, where guests can partake of snacks and meals as an alternative to eating at the restaurant below. One evening, after I have been staying at the hotel several days, I feel inspired to sit there awhile and very soon strike up a relationship with a hirsute ginger-haired Canadian chap who sits draped in a brightly coloured poncho, contentedly playing a semi-acoustic guitar. Occasionally he stops to mark down the notes he is strumming. He confides to me that he is pursuing an interest in music therapy.

'I have a very similar guitar back home, an Indian acoustic, cello-style,' I comment.

'Right.'

'But your guitar's got a much sweeter tone to it.'

'Oh! Right. Yeh.'

'I prefer to play electric though, I like to make a noise.'

'R-i-g-h-t!'

Happily absorbed in the flow of his thoughts and music, he appears to have but meagre appetite for conversation. Though he speaks very little he is nonetheless enjoyable company. Even so, when I notice at a table closeby, the still seated shape of the mystery lady gazing out into the evening sky, I sidle over to join her. We have encountered one another several times over the last few days as I've scuttled back and forth to the shops and taken walks in the warm sunlight. This seems a good opportunity to get better acquainted and I start to tell her of a recent trip I have taken to a temple in the hills, Neelkanth Mahadev Mandir, a temple dedicated to the god Shiva.

'On the way up there,' I tell her, 'I saw a group of about fifty langur monkeys lunching from one banana tree.'

'Huh.'

'Lord Shiva is something of a local lad,' I continue, 'Apparently it was at Neelkanth that he drank the poison that turned his neck blue, hence neel - blue, kanth - throat.'

'Oh I haven't heard of it before. Is it close?'

'No, it's quite a long climb, but you can get a shared jeep which is reasonably cheap. Neelkanth temple is very beautiful, though initially I passed by on a different path and found myself at a different temple further up the hill which is where I got this,' I explain, pointing to the red cotton bracelet on my right wrist, 'It's supposed to protect my health.'

I listen to her in disbelief for her explanation makes it sound as though she took no active part in making the journey, but I make no comment. She then goes on to explain how since arriving two weeks before she has been teaching various spiritual practices.

'Nirmoha is my sannyasi name. nirmoha means, "free from illusion",' she informs me.

I convince myself she is probably connected to the community in Puna founded by the late Bhagwan Rajneesh.

The coloured light display about her brow continues to dance as she speaks of many things, in particular the importance of imagination. This prompts me to mention the magical fantasy book the hotel manager has lent me. I give her a rough outline of its content, highlighting its inclusion of a sorceress and a magic stone.

'Why waste time on someone else's imagination when you can have your own?' she asks contemptuously.

'Well, as it happens, I have a problem with imagination, personally I much prefer to deal with reality.'

'But imagination is everything,' she continues, 'Everything is in our imagination.'

I let the matter drop. I am curious that she says nothing in response to the mention of magic, for I suspect this is where her real interest lies. I notice that she gently steers the conversation onto the subject of Reiki, a practice I am unfamiliar with and which I initially believe to be yet another revived martial art with a zippy name. I respond by asking her directly: -

'Why should I get interested in some Japanese sounding thing then?'

My display of crude ignorance and its attendant attitude apparently surprises her. In consequence she appears to buckle for a few moments but soon bounces back.

'Ian can tell you about it,' she says pointing across the terrace to my newfound guitar-playing friend, 'He has just completed a course with me. Let him explain Reiki to you.'

Nirmoha rises to leave.

I rejoin Ian where, interspersed with further bouts of his guitar playing, we discuss the various reasons we have both have come to Rishikesh. I confess that though I have no clear reason beyond wishing to relax, I entertain vague hopes that I might meet and network with inspiring people. I share my perception with him that I believe it possible that just a dozen or so individuals networking can trigger huge social changes. He listens patiently, interestedly.

When the subject changes to Reiki, Ian willingly offers to share with me something of that which he has learnt on the course. He describes a process involving the laying on of hands.

'But how can anybody possibly heal someone merely by touch?' I query.

'One can become a conduit or channel for the Universal Life Force,' he explains, but the words flow in such a way that I doubt that they are his words. Indeed, to my ear the ideas sound suspiciously pre-digested and despite Ian's best efforts he can offer no scientific explanation to support his claim. I am left with the impression I am being told of magical practices and when I put this to him he appears unsettled as he reflects on the implications of this assertion.

We talk long into the night and as the hours pass the warm air turns chill. Ian fights the symptoms of a head cold and wraps himself tightly in his poncho. I slip downstairs to order more tea. In the foyer I find Chaturvedi and Ashwin, the boss, watching cable colour television, but at my appearance the TV is turned off and they set themselves instead to draw me into philosophical discussion.

'Come, let us talk,' invites Chaturvedi Ji.

'This is my father,' Ashwin tells me, placing his arm affectionately around Chaturvedi's shoulders.

'You are very lucky,' I tell him.

'Yes, but why you say that?'

'He is good man.'

'But, how do you know this?'

'Sometimes just feeling is enough. I sense he is good.'

'But you don't know!'

'Yes, I do, I trust him, that I know.'

'Why do you come to Rishikesh? What is it that attracts?'

'It is spiritual place. It's good to be back.'

'Before you have come?' Ashwin enquires.

'Yes, years ago I hitchhiked to India through Europe, North Africa, Turkey, Iran, Afghanistan and Pakistan. But coming to Swargashram, it was so peaceful.'

'Now it is very different?'

'It was less busy. But it is still good. I feel I have come home again,' I admit, sighing contentedly.

Ashwin eyes me in silence for several moments before announcing:

'I am business man, I have many problems.'

'Then you should listen to your father, he is in business but also he is interested in spiritual matters.'

'But I have too many problems, how can he help me?'

'Because he is not so caught in problems.'

When Ian makes a brief appearance to say 'good night' I am tempted to make my exit too. But it is much later, about two o'clock in the morning, before I prise myself away from a great debate and return to my room. I reflect a little on my chat with Ian, remembering how he had, by way of explanation of Reiki energy, taken hold of his thigh between thumb and first finger and then described the sensation of the flow within. I feel inspired to test his description and so begin emulating his actions. The experiment proves a resounding success, for I begin soon to detect the flow of energy, it is just as Ian describes it!

The realisation that I have only taken about three hours sleep does nothing to discourage me from arising early to greet the new day. After meditation and a light breakfast I take to the lanes that lead towards the Ganga with the idea of visiting a neighbouring village. Traders in Swargashram are just now opening up their shops; some stallholders have already started to neatly arrange their colourful wares. The scent of sandalwood oil hangs in the air. There is a mood of calm, an easy friendliness in mutual greetings. Those children fortunate enough to have places in school proudly make their way their carrying books and lunchtime snacks. At the sight of a foreigner they call out to me: -

'How are you? From what country are you coming?'

They crowd about me. I speak to them in Hindi, they to me in English.

'You speak very good English,' I tell them.

Their faces light up and they start giggling, laughing and chasing one another.

'Have a nice day,' they shout before running off and turning to repeat their well-wishing, waving until out of sight.

I continue walking and descend a short slope where many beggars have already begun to congregate.

'Hari Om,' they call out cheerfully.

I nod and smile.

Coming to the village post office, I stand patiently outside near the open door of the staff entrance, waiting to be noticed by one of the clerks inside. Eventually a man in a long loose khaki coloured shirt spots me and vaguely indicates he will be with me shortly. At length he moves over to the counter and starts to sort his desk.

'Dak tickets, for postcards,' I request of him. He flickers his eyebrows and silently opens a ledger. Slowly and methodically he sorts out an appropriate combination of stamps to fit the current rate of international postage. I pay him and sit down to check my change and affix the stamps and airmail stickers. Thrusting the postcards into the jaunty domed bright-red sheet-metal pillar-box I let forth a sigh of satisfaction.

Outside the nearby eating houses and the pavement snack vendors staff ply for business. I press on my way making towards Ram Jhula Bridge. Pilgrims are already gathering on the ghats, the steps , the ghats which that lead down at the waters edge, where they bathe and anoint themselves with the crystal clear chill holy waters of the Ganga. A mood of holidaymaking pervades the air. The bathers smile and laugh to each other as they refresh themselves and sing their prayers. Up on the gently swaying bridge walk the beggar children who attempt to sell handfuls of small doughballs to visitors in order to feed the vast shoals of glistening fish that wait expectantly below hoping soon to be showered with blessings from above.

Instead of crossing over the bridge I instead turn to the right of the and continue on, intent on enjoying the sight of the many varieties of flowering shrubs along the way. Walking towards me on the pathway comes a group of pilgrims and with them a monk, clad in very bright orange cloth who strides quickly towards me and immediately attempts to strike up conversation. He is of course unaware of the fact that I have consciously decided not to get caught up in the machinations of sadhus or zealous ashramites. However, if an 'enlightened' man were to be walking in my direction that would be quite different. But, otherwise, encounters of this sort were to be avoided, or so I felt.

'You are coming from which country?' he asks fixing me with an unusually intent expression.

I smile but say nothing.

'Please, I wish to speak with you,' he insists.

Blocking questions concerning country, name and so forth, I decide to turn the game around and try to elicit from him the order of monks he is connected to, for there is something oddly familiar in his look. I know what it is. He bears a strong resemblance to a particularly eminent religious leader, the Shankaracharya of Northern India. Not only do I recognise the same roundness to his cheeks, the generous bleach-white 'Santa Claus' beard but also most importantly the resemblance is strongest in his soulful compassionate eyes.

'Come, come, we can find a place to sit down and talk. You are wanting to drink tea?' he asks as we pass a chaay vendor. 'Come, come here, he is soon bringing tea for us.'

Finding a quiet spot to sit, on some steps leading to the river's edge, we settle down to wait.

'So what do you want to talk about?' I confront him.

'You are in a hurry. No hurry there is. We can sit and drink tea together, it will be good,' he reassures me. He makes himself comfortable, sitting himself down crossed-legged. I gaze at him, at his broad forehead, with scarlet and vermilion markings, now wrinkled as he shades his eyes from the bright sunlight. I study his face, which wears an expression I cannot easily fathom, a curious mixture of breathless earnestness and an almost childlike innocence.

Again he attempts to question me, but I interrupt him: -

'First, tell me something about yourself,' I demand.

'My name is Shiva Balak, I am in Allahabad for three years,' he tells me, 'There I am studying Sanskrit at Brahma Nivas.'

'Really! At Shankaracharya Swami Shantanand's Ashram?' I ask excitedly.

'Yes. You have been to Allahabad?'

'No, but I would like to. I did visit Joshimath monastery some years ago. I am very interested in Shankaracharya Shantanand Ji's guru. I have read his life-story. He was very very great soul I think.'

'This is very good,' he comments.

Hearing more from me about my own spiritual quest, the old man leans over and grasps my forearm.

'You are guru bhaiee, my guru brother.' he exclaims. 'I must give you another name, sannyas name.'

Gazing at me for some moments and sweeping his hand from side to side he solemnly proclaims: -

'Premanand - Premanand is your sannyasi name; prem is love. anand is bliss. Premanand. Premanand.'

Though I am certainly no sannyasi (for I have not taken, nor do I wish to take, vows of sannyas, of renunciation), I feel very blessed to be given this name. As it happens the word anand has for years been one of my favourite Sanskrit words.

'And I must write for you mantra,' he says excitedly, 'This mantra you must hear.'

First of all he speaks the words of the mantra (in praise of the god Shiva) and then writes them down in the Devanagari script with its sharp lines, curves and flourishes.

He then sings them to me with clear and sonorous voice: -

' gaaMgaa tara~Nga ramaNiiya jaTaakalaapaM,

vaaraaNasiipurapatiM bhajavishvanaatham .'

Translated, I believe this 'mantra' tells of: -

'The one whose matted hair resembles the beautiful waves of the river Ganga,

Is eternally adorned with Gauri (the goddess Parvati) on the left part of his body.

The one dear to Narayana (god Vishnu), the one who punished the ego of Madana (the god of love),

Lord of Varanasi, Lord of the Universe, I sing of you.'

We sit chatting a while longer, during which time I share with him some of the dried mango fruit I carry with me. We continue talking awhile longer, until I realise we have attracted a crowd of spectators. Shiva Balak loudly and very publicly announces to the onlookers his assertion that he and I are 'guru brothers'. It is time to move on and I start to inch my way up the steps. Ignoring Shiv Balak's protests I take my leave, delaying only to leave him a small cash gift, a contribution towards the cost of his beloved Sanskrit books.

Alone again, I pursue the sandy path that twists round and winds it's way to the next village, which lies a couple of miles upstream. First it hugs the banks of the holy river, then meanders past the dwellings of various local holymen. Here live monks, swamis belonging to religious orders such as Giri (mountain), Aranya (forest) and Saraswati (goddess of Wisdom) who have taken sannyas (vows of non-attachment to possessions, chastity and obedience to the head of a religious order). It is said that swamis generally avoid sensory indulgence, but this is not true of all holymen. For many sadhus the smoking of ganja (cannabis) is common practice. Confusingly, both swamis and sadhus both tend to wear the cloth of orange to mark them apart from the rest of the community. It is usually easy to spot the resting-place of a holyman for there is most often found to be hanging from a tree or fence, pieces of orange cloth hung to dry. The colour can range from washed-out faded pink through any shade of ochre to highly saturated near-red hues.

In one of the huts I pass lives the 'monkey man' who now, as luck would have it, walks directly towards me. His arms are stained with coloured dyes, his face is daubed with crimson face make-up, whilst following behind him swings the appendage of a fake tail. It is to be assumed that he seeks to evoke the memory of Hanuman, the devoted monkey helper of Lord Rama, who for many devout Hindus is seen to embody the twin virtues of humility and service. For me though, the theatrical monkey man blocking my path symbolises no such qualities. as he demands my attention by hissing menacingly at me and by waving his mace. Placing a fingertip of orange paste on my forehead he then greedily demands a large amount of money with hisses becoming steadily more intense until we strike a deal.

'Hari Ram,' he growls.

The path from Swargashram eventually joins the pilgrims' roadway to Lakshman Jhula. The jhula (bridge) is linked with the god-king Lord Rama of Ramayana fame who allegedly came to Rishikesh with his brother Lakshmana. Apparently, when Rama desired to cross the river, Lakshmana shot an arrow attached to a hank of rope on which the brothers are alleged to have crossed over the waters. Lakshmana's 'bridge' is therefore believed to be a very early predecessor of the modern steel construction that exists here now. This story of the god-man Rama is not the only local story of note, of it is also believed the area is connected with the Pandava brothers, heroes of the epic poem Mahabharata who are said to have stayed in a cave a little further upstream.

Lakshman Jhula village, like so many places these days, is expanding at an alarming rate, with hotels, ashrams and temples competing for any available building space. Every day crowds of pilgrims flock here enroute to the shrines of Badrinath, Kedarnath, Gangotri and Yamunotri high in the Himalayas. Their needs are anticipated by businesses selling cassettes of devotional music - pictures, statues and pendants of saints and gods - incense and coloured powders for making paste marks on the brow. Moneychangers, gem shops, grocery stores, cafes and restaurants position themselves adjacent to the most popular ashrams. Every few yards along the way are stalls selling chaay (tea which is boiled rather than brewed) and snacks. Other stalls offer cheap gifts of bangles, badges, necklaces and combs. On closer inspection, one of the well-crafted wooden souvenirs reveals a hidden surprise, a box with a concealed snake that bites my unsuspecting finger. The snake may not be real, but the pain is real enough!

Having no reason to delay longer than necessary at Lakshman Jhula, I do not even stop for chaay but decide instead to return and look for a remedy for the persistent cough I have brought with me from England. Once back in Swargashram I buy a return ticket for the ferryboat and cruise across the broad Ganga with the intention of visiting the Shivanand Ashram. Near the ashram the Ayurvedic Dispensary sells many preparations made from local herbs, products such as Brahmi-Amla oil which 'cools the brain and eyes', Netra Jyoti Surma which 'imparts brilliance to the eyes', whilst Chyavanaprash 'develops memory and strength'.

But as soon as I arrive I am accosted by a stranger who after but a few minutes of company announces: -

'I will come and visit you at your home in England. I know this. You may be surprised at my certainty, but that is how it is.'

He appears to be Indian but his accent is most definitely European, or at least it appears so when he speaks to me, but when he stops at a stall nearby, to buy a padlock, his fluent Hindi, spoken with North Indian dialect, tells a different story. He informs me his name is Giri Maharaj, that he has travelled with his wife from Finland (where he officiates at ceremonies) and that his brother is a famous local writer. Giri is currently occupied in researching the availability of holiday property around Rishikesh. I listen without making comment for something troubles me about him. His manner is just way too intense. However, after listening to him a while longer, I feel moved to share with him the news of my new name. I begin my story: -

'For years I have wanted an Indian name, why only last night I thought about it and lo and behold, this morning a swami gave me ....'

'You want Indian name,' he interrupts. 'I give you one. Mmmmm, yes, I've got it ... Atmaram. Your Indian name is Atmaram.'

'But, I was just trying to tell you. I now have an Indian name - Premanand.'

'Oh yes, Premanand, yes yes. Means the same. Premanand, Atmaram, means the same thing, same thing,' he states dismissively.

I try to extricate myself from his company on the pretext that I wish to return on the next ferry.

'You know something strange,' he confides, moving uncomfortably close to me. 'Even though I come from this very area and many times I have come and gone over this river, I have never once travelled by ferry.'

Since the bridge has been up for no more than twenty-four years and Giri is middle-aged, I am minded that this leaves a sizeable hole in his story. Aboard the ferry I opt to keep conversation to the minimum and once safely across to 'my' side of the river, I bid him goodbye. We are at this moment close to one of the village's two music shops whereat whereupon he excitedly points to a boxed set of tape recordings of Osho Rajneesh there displayed.

'Now there's a man worth listening to,' he asserts.

I eye Giri with renewed interest, sensing him now trying to draw me closer, possibly with the intent of drafting me into his belief system.

I know something of Osho and his teachings. It is said he even has a local connection, for it is rumoured he dropped in on one of Maharishi Mahesh Yogi's teacher training courses. In 'Anything Can Be A Meditation', Osho offers his opinion that 'meditation is all about de-automization'.

'Walking, walk slowly, watchfully. Looking, look watchfully, and you will see trees are greener than they have ever been and roses are rosier than they have ever been. Listen! Somebody is talking, gossiping: listen, listen attentively. When you are talking, talk attentively. Let your whole waking activity become de-automatized.'

I leave Giri there still pointing, and, as I have by now decided to leave the purchase of cough mixture until another day, I walk on back to the hotel.

*

The winter climate in India during October and November generally outstrips even the best of English summers, which is reason enough to take every chance to get out and about in the hot sunshine during the day. Even in the evening it is still very warm and I find it is most pleasant to read, write and relax out on the hotel terrace. The cultural diversity amongst the guests makes stimulating conversation easy and often fruitful. Travellers tell tales, exchange news and express views. Why, even talking about the weather takes on surprising depth when seated with a French meteorologist. Several guests have lately joined a hatha yoga class; they practice on the flat roof of the building next door. In the evening they slump down exhausted from their efforts to perform their asanas correctly. Tonight it is Sadie's turn to collapse sweating and tired. She has clearly been overdoing it.

'In Hindi asan means easy,' I point out, 'If the asanas aren't easy, then perhaps they should be. Why not take it easy?'

I intend my remarks to be helpful, supportive. Fortunately she does not misinterpret them.

'That's just what I needed to hear!' she says brightening considerably. 'Thanks.'

She sits puffing and panting before speaking again.

'If you don't mind, I think I'll go and lie down for a while,' she says.

'Good idea. See you around.'

I continue to sit and write some notes. This evening I find myself again in the company of both Ian and Nirmoha. The news of my 'sannyas' name causes Nirmoha to chant: -

'Premanand, Premanand, Premanand. Now you must call yourself Premanand. Yes. Premanand, Premanand, Premanand,' she enthuses. 'Actually,' she adds quietly, 'Prem is my name too - Prem Nirmoha.'

As with our previous meeting we fall into easy conversation and as before the colours again dance around her hair and brow. Try as I might I cannot find an explanation for the colour shifts, but since she seems such a positive individual I do not feel threatened by her personal magic. However, when conversation returns to the subject of Reiki, which she is still is loathe to explain, she surprises me greatly as she announces in a self-assured almost prophetic way: -

'Maybe you stay here and teach Reiki?'

I am amazed at her presumptuousness, for not only have I no inkling of what the teaching of Reiki entails, but, more importantly I have no intention whatsoever of staying in India beyond the few weeks scheduled. Before I have time to summon an adequate response, she has risen from her seat and slipped away, leaving me alone to contemplate her words, the starry sky and the sound of night birds.

Once again I join Ian, who listens attentively as I tell him of my conversation with his Reiki teacher.

'She's a very powerful woman,' I announce. 'She worries me.'

Ian does not respond immediately.

'With that sort of power... well, I just hope she uses it wisely.'

'I don't know what you mean exactly, but I'm listening,' he says slowly.

I tell him of the colours. I also explain to him that I suspect she is trying to use the power of autosuggestion to influence me. He is astonished to hear that she has suggested I might become a teacher of Reiki, though less surprised that she believes I might stay in India, reminding me I have already indicated I am not entirely satisfied with life back in England.

'But, I never said anything about stopping in India!'

After sitting wrapped in thought for a time he eventually breaks his silence and offers to share a few insights into the course that he has recently taken with Nirmoha.

'Well I'll just tell you what comes to mind. I don't know if any of what I can say will be of any help though. Here goes anyway. First off, she played 'trance' techno-music at the sessions. Oh and in the corner of her room is a shrine with a photograph of Osho and some tarot cards on it.'

'Okay, that's useful.'

'Oh yeh and she's really into semantics.'

I had also noticed how for her certain words have very specific meaning, so much so that I felt discouraged from offering an alternate interpretation.

Ian continues: -

'I also found her 'teacher' manner surprising.'

'How do you mean?'

'Well I really didn't expect it.'

'Tell me more.'

'Well there was this one time when I guess my attention had wandered and she really startled me. I suddenly found her staring at me. It was then that she asked me; "Where are you? Where are you, right now where are you?"' he recounts, apparently still bristling with indignation at the recollection.

'Okay. Anything else?'

'Yes, we were doing this meditation exercise, and there was the sound of a child crying nearby.'

'And..?'

'Well, I figured there might be something wrong. Her indifference to the sound of the kid's suffering unsettled me.'

'But that's meditation, sounds come and go.'

'Yes, but you still care don't you?'

'I know what you're saying.'

'Anyway, that's it, I can't think of anything else.'

'So, what did she make of you Ian?'

'She congratulated me on being a 'good listener'.'

I recall that in the fantasy novel I have been reading, the central character 'Listener' becomes similarly worried about the issue of unemotionalism.

As Ian and I chat deep into the night we turn our attention to topics such as Ian's music therapy studies and his nostalgic affection for his drinking buddies in Canada. He also brings me up-to-speed with his travel plans, announcing that he has booked a ticket on tomorrow's train for Varanasi. All at once, impressions of my recent journey to Rishikesh spill into my mind.

*

Delhi is no longer just a bit too busy and materialistic; it has developed an ominous energy. The numerous craters in the road, the many grimy neglected buildings and ruins seem to scream of impending doom and certain annihilation of living, breathing life - pollution is not a mere concept here, it assaults the senses so completely, swathing all in a blanket of noxious vileness. The vehicles seem unroadworthy. No driver seems in control, despite their determined expressions and the manic glints to their stares, they drive about in mad frenzied animation. The desire to curtail my visit abruptly asserts itself very forcefully, but common sense tells me the airline will not change my ticket at such short notice since they only undertake one flight a week. No, the second best idea I am able to extract from my embattled thinking process is to press on in the hope that things will be better beyond the city. The 'luxury non-video coach' (seemingly cobbled together from scrap parts and air-conditioned only by the open windows and passenger door), takes more than an hour to leave behind the sprawl of poverty that extends around the capital. Thereafter I glimpse trees, occasional fields and, intermittently, small rural villages with thatched huts, cattle, and cow-dung pancakes piled high in conical heaps ready for use as domestic fuel. There are many towns too, where, as the coach slows down, children desperately climb aboard to sell their wares of fruits, nuts and sweetmeats, some just pass goods through the windows to those that proffer the few rupees called for.

*

I envy Ian not the three-day journey ahead of him, even though his forthcoming trip, by train and buses will eventually take him to the famed hippy Mecca of Kathmandu. Before he leaves, Ian writes for me his e-mail address, and also his 'proper' address in Canada. We vow to stay in contact, as so many travellers, touching briefly on one another's lives, so often vow to do.

After a moments hesitation outside the window of one of the village bookshops stacked high displaying a vast wealth of spiritual literature, I step in and test my luck. Only recently have I come by a clue as to the possible title of a treatise I have been in search of, containing no less than 112 techniques for transcending thought, of turning off the thinking mind.

'Do you have a Tantric book called Shiva Sutra?' I ask hopefully.

'What you are wanting? Many sutras there are!'

'It is called something like Vaighan Bhyghan Tantra.'

'You want Tantra book?'

'Yes, the Vaighan Bhyghan Tantra of Lord Shiva.'

The assistant smiles deeply, strides over to a bookcase and plucks out a thin red paperback which he holds up for me to see. Its cover is illustrated back and front with beautiful coloured prints depicting Lord Shiva and his consort.

'Vijnanabhairava,' he announces.

With barely suppressed anticipation I open the volume and glance at the subtitle - 'Divine Consciousness - A Treasury of 112 Types of Yoga'.

'Yes! This is the book I want. Brilliant!'

I purchase it immediately and once outside the shop cannot restrain myself from sampling its contents. Soon my mind is swimming with the suggested practices considered as 'yoga' which can be illustrated by a quote from the book, Verse 72 reads: -

'When one experiences the expansion of joy to savour arising from the pleasure of eating and drinking, one should meditate on the perfect condition of this joy, then there will be supreme delight.'

I suppose wandering can be a yoga too, taking life as it comes, witnessing the day unfold. Here, in this environment charged with the aspirations of so many truth seekers, treading the paths trodden by saints, sitting on sand possibly touched by enlightened yogis, it is easy to allow time to float out of mind and just enjoy the now. I pass a statue depicting the Hindu story of creation, with gods and semi-divines. The god Vishnu's consort goddess Lakshmi attends him as he reclines on a huge multi-headed serpent Ananta Shesh. From Lord Vishnu's navel springs the lotus on which is seated the god Brahma, looking out to all four directions. Facing Lord Vishnu, with palms placed together, stands the eagle-like Garuda and also attending are those depicted with the heads of horses, the Gandharvas, divine musicians.

Turning from this splendid statue, I pass on by the local landmark clocktower, the face of which has the hours marked in Hindi numerals. Close to the tower, by a small temple, sit a couple of glazed-eyed young sadhus, ringletted long dark hair tumbling about their faces and over naked torso's. They puff eagerly at their tapered clay chillum pipe of sparking smouldering cannabis.

When, after walking onward for a few minutes, I find myself passing the ashram of Ved Niketan (Palace of Veda or Knowledge), I pause, wondering if I might spot the house-guru basking out front, as is his want. But today he is nowhere to be seen. I continue walking onto the soft sandy path beyond the ashram, past the thatched sunshades of the adjacent eatery and out along the broad beach sloping gently to the river, fairly soon to arrive at the base of the hill of Shankaracharya Nagar. Monkeys are sporting about on a nearby wall and watching them I am caught by the thought of taking another look at the deserted remains of the Maharishi Mahesh Yogi ashram, it is such a peaceful spot. I decide this time to seek a more direct path than that taken on my previous visit, but no sooner than I start to walk towards the hill than a voice rings out, challenging me: -

'No, no. You cannot go there,' shouts the agitated voice.

I swing round to identify its owner. I am relieved to find no menacing representative of authority, just an unthreatening figure attired in long khadi (homespun cloth) shirt and lunghi (loose cotton cloth draped about the legs). He stands beside the entrance of a makeshift hut of sticks and tarpaulin. It occurs to me that he might be employed to guard the local vicinity, but I consider it unlikely.

I eye him steadily as I try to take control of my temper.

'I have already been up there to the ashram, now I am looking for a new path,' the steady tone of my voice betrays no indication of my annoyance, I hope.

As it happens, he shows no interest whatsoever in my response but instead invites me to sit down and drink coffee with him. Somewhat grudgingly I accept his offer. He draws out two moulded blue plastic chairs from within his hut.

'What do foreigners get from coming here?' he asks abruptly.

'I don't know,' I state honestly.

Preferring to turn the question around I ask: - 'What do they get?'

Apparently shaken by my response he rises and shuffles about uncomfortably before steadying himself sufficiently to offer his thoughts on the matter.

'I think this. I think that they feel better about themselves after seeing what state are the people here.'

Clearly he had already given the matter his deep consideration, which was much more than I have ever done.

'Maybe they do, I really don't know,' I answer simply.

In silence he disappears inside the hut presumably to prepare coffee. As I sit alone it occurs to me this man might hold a clue to a local mystery. I call out to him: -

'Can you tell me something? Why is the Maharishi's ashram now deserted?' I call.

He emerges ready to offer me his opinion.

'You have attachment there. I do not.'

The utter simplicity of his words surprises me, as does his command of English.

'Yes, I suppose I do have attachment,' I answer honestly, 'But have you ever been up there to the ashram?'

'I have no attachment. I do not go anywhere,' he states.

His manner is unsettling; to say the least, and as I discover that any new line of conversation is met with similarly dismissive responses I change tack and ask him about himself. I fare a lot better with this line of enquiry discovering that he comes from Bangalore and am surprised to learn has been employed as a computer programmer. He also tells me he has travelled to England to visit the birthplace of William Shakespeare at Stratford-upon-Avon. Chatting with him and sipping scalding hot instant coffee from a stainless steel beaker, I begin to feel a little more comfortable in his presence, enough to share with him a few details of my own life. I ask concerning his family whereupon he stiffens very noticeably but does not hesitate in giving an answer: -

'Yes I was married with family. I was sole survivor of crash,' he announces with no evident self-pity.

Not for the first time since arriving in India I am taken completely off my guard. I am stunned by what he has just told me and it is a long while before conversation resumes between us. Rameshwar Das explains how, for the past three years, he has dwelt beneath the spreading Banyan tree, existing solely on unasked gifts given by anyone who might come to see him. He tells me that he walks no further than the waterfront of the Ganga, only in order to wash and obtain water. He tells me also of the conditions inside his living quarters, informing me how snakes sometimes come to share his hut.

'If they bite me I die,' he announces resignedly, shrugging his shoulders.

I wince in discomfort.

'I do not fear them. I think more that they fear me,' he tells me without a trace of emotion in his voice.

Now, if a holyman had spoken these words one would be reasonably impressed, at such apparent non-attachment to the body. Rameshwar's unworldly attitude inspires me to try and discover what teaching, if any, he follows. But the mere mention of swamis and sadhus elicits nothing more than a disdainful look. He goes and rummages amongst his belongings within the hut. Eventually he produces a dusty old book of yoga exercises.

'I think this book is very hard to find now,' he says proudly.

'Thank you for showing it to me,' I say politely

My coffee is finished and I think that we have talked for quite long enough. I ask Rameshwar what he would like me to bring for him if I were to return this way again. He answers evasively: -

'If someone brings me food, I eat. If drink comes, okay. If no food comes then I don't eat.'

'But what do you need?' I persist.

'If there is food I eat. If there is nothing, it is all the same.'

I reflect that during our conversation he made mention of a cassette radio he once owned - it had needed mending and he had given it to someone to take to Rishikesh. When the machine was not returned, even after many weeks, Rameshwar took his few cassette tapes and laid them at the waters edge.

'I offered them to Mother Ganga.'

'Would you like a radio?' I ask him.

'If you bring, fine. If you don't bring, fine too.'

'You're impossible, you really are impossible' I say repeatedly. I am irritated at his apparent pretence at equanimity. I have convinced myself that his philosophy is a sham, perhaps designed to mask his pain. That beyond his words of the philosophy of unattachment lurks plenty of unfulfilled desires. I try further to wheedle out of him some idea of what he might need from me; my questions are well intended. But he maintains a stoic silence, that is until I get up to leave. Hesitantly he confides: -

'Well, it would be nice to have radio here, for company.'

I retrace my steps along the path back to the village and reflect on enigmatic Rameshwar's outlook on life. I ask myself why he has abandoned responsibility for himself by settling himself in such a lonely spot with little chance of anyone knowing of his plight? I wonder what has made him so determined to do nothing to better his lot? The maxim 'God helps those that help themselves,'' seems equally applicable to all. Now, if he were a monk of some kind it might be different, such eccentric behaviour is somehow easier to understand in someone of a reclusive nature.

When later I tell others of Rameshwar's predicament they appear sympathetic, but it is Nirmoha who surprises me in that she apparently finds his story inspiring: -

'He sounds really interesting. When are you going to see him again?'

'I don't know if I will.'

'Oh but you must. It's not far is it? Go on.'

'Maybe. Maybe I'll get the radio for him. Maybe not.'

*

Though I visit Rishikesh market the following day it is not to look for a radio but to change money at the State Bank of India, a process that involves no less than three clerks and a protracted wait. Whilst in town I search for a detailed map of the area. I try a bookshop where I find myself browsing local guidebooks and self-help tutors of every description. One particular teach-yourself book catches my eye. It claims to offer the complete knowledge of Reiki healing including how to become a Reiki Master. Impulsively I purchase it, though I still have no clear idea of what Reiki is about.

On my return from town I chance to meet with Nirmoha outside the Choti Wala restaurant. When I tell her of my purchase she eagerly seizes the volume and begins scanning its pages.

'Oh no, no, no. They have included the symbols,' she exclaims frowning, then stands absorbed in thought before adding, 'They have the symbols wrong, they should not have included them at all. These things should not be placed in books. The teaching of Reiki should only be learned from a qualified Reiki Master not from books.' Then, abruptly she hands me back the offending article. I gather from this that I am being discouraged from reading the book. In order to find out more about Reiki I am being guided to enrol in a class, but, as yet, I still feel unwilling to commit.

*

Interest in people, interest in things, interest in ideas, although absorbing and fascinating, are all, at times, sources of distraction and unrest. In order to feel more fully refreshed it is often necessary to be totally alone.

The countryside remains a place where alone we can confront our hopes and fears. The sights, sounds and smells of nature have the power to restore flagging energy and refresh ones senses. The local jungle around Rishikesh is no longer quite the wilderness it once was, the flow of buses, trucks and jeeps on the newly cut asphalt road is definitely not conducive to the well-being of the animals, but still it contains much wildlife. Though wildcats are rare, deer, monkeys and peacocks are reasonably common and elephants are still sometimes to be found here.

'Sir, I am asking you not to walk on jungle side after eight o'clock,' requests Chaturvedi Ji.

'Why is that?'

'Elephants sometimes coming in darkness. Elephant most dangerous animal,' he warns darkly.

In point of fact, there was a time only a few decades ago when the only serious recorded crime in the area was that by an elephant.

Despite the real and imagined dangers I am determined to turn my back on people, for at least a few hours and so I set off on another trek. However, it is soon very evident that I am not to be completely alone, for along my way, stationed at close intervals are soldiers, set to protect teams competing in a fitness training programme! The unlikely coincidence of the army turning up on the same day as my big walk makes me question my programme. Perhaps I too am in need of protection. Bearing this in mind I do not venture far from the sight of the posted sentries.

An additional lure drawing me towards the leafy jungle groves is the chance that one might meet with a yogi and other hermit who might be dwelling here. For time out of mind truth-seekers have resorted to jungle hermitages to find their answers. Amongst the Indian Scriptures, it is the Upanishads that contain the wisdom of such jungle dwellers. (Upanishad means 'to sit near'). Within these texts are many accounts of those who came in search of enlightenment. The desire to become happier is natural, as is the wish to obtain greater clarity about the purpose of one's life. However, it seems only few find lasting happiness and enlightenment without help.

When I am offered the chance to listen to a recording of satsang (spiritual meeting) with an American woman, said to be enlightened, I gratefully accept the opportunity. I soon find that Ganga Ji, as she is now known, speaks her truth softly, patiently, almost mesmerically, but seemingly with utter conviction.

'The greatest challenge is to let go of all understanding. I'm not suggesting you cling to misunderstanding or not understanding. Let go of that as well,' Ganga Ji advises.

She quotes her guru (whom she calls Papa Ji) as saying: -

'If you touch it, it will bite you.'

As I listen to the tape, I wonder how to interpret these words beyond their most obvious meaning. They appear to be a warning not to underestimate the power of the exterior world to unsettle inner stability.

She states that 'It' is ever-present, 'It' is the reality we all seek to find, and as such ,such, 'It' never was, 'It' never ceases to be, 'It' always 'Is'. By constantly reminding her audience of this, and other truths, she seemingly hopes to affect a material change in their capacity to enjoy their lives. Intent on instilling a mind-set of increased awareness through self-enquiry, she encourages everyone to live in the present and not to become distracted by self-created stories and excuses concerning imagined limitations, brought on by events of the past.

'Honestly, let's say the event happened. It did not happen the way you remember it happening. That's the truth. Actually the event didn't even happen, but I'm not asking you to go that far! And I'm not asking you to deny your memories. I'm asking you to see what's deeper.'

Ganga Ji inspires adulation. A young man reports to her: -

'I woke up one night and I had this hit me, that I was just like you.'

'That's right. That's right,' she reassures.

'And I thought it was so arrogant, at first.'

'It's arrogant to think you aren't!' she counters.

'Yeah!'

'That's right. That's right.'

'So my time's coming?' he asks.

'You're turn is here!'

She adds: -

'You're time is not separate from my time, and it's not separate from Ramana's time, or Buddha's time, or Christ's time, Mohammed's time, or all the unknown awakened beings in all realms, in all degrees of form and formlessness. Same, same. It is arrogant to think otherwise and this arrogance is the cause of much unnecessary suffering.'

To another man, George, who has written to her asking for a private meeting, she summoned him to sit on 'the private cushion' and talk with her before the entire assembly.

She advocates complete surrender to 'Grace'.

'The truth is continual surrender. This is the challenge of this experience of incarnation; this is the joy, the victory. Victory is surrender.'

Her speech is extremely direct: -

'Maybe you have been very foolish in the past, or maybe you have been very wise. So what? Right now, how are you spending your time? Where is attention? Where is surrender? Where are you?'

When I next open my eyes I discover that although I have only recently been listening to Ganga Ji's encouraging words, the tape is no longer running as many hours have passed and the light of dawn has arrived, its glow is now filling my room.

*

It has been several days since my meeting with Rameshwar and today I find myself drawn to paying him another visit. As I near the imposing and aged Banyan tree, with its dangling tendril branches, I look about for Rameshwar. He is nowhere to be seen so I call out to him. I think I detect the sound of a muffled voice coming from within the hut so I shout out a greeting and pull aside the curtain door.

'Any chance of another coffee?' I ask, flinging down the plastic carrier bag of gifts onto his mattress, relieved to be rid of the burden. I have walked far collecting the contents - a 10-wave band radio and the several pounds weight of fresh fruit. I don't expect gratitude from him, I don't even wish for it...

Rameshwar stirs uneasily.

'Night has been bad. Epileptic. Now you are here I am feeling much better. But, cooker is now not working.'

'Can I help?' I offer concernedly leaning over the bed to get a closer look at his cooking area.

It is clear he wants no help, preferring to sort things out for himself. But he fumbles about without result and seems to be in extreme discomfort.

'Don't worry about the coffee,' I assure him, 'I have some juice, it will be fine.'

So Rameshwar sits silently staring into space as I drain the contents of a small carton of mango juice. The continued silence makes me uneasy so I wrack my brain as to how I might offer some light conversation in order to regain his attention. But what can I say that won't sound hollow and superficial, he has after obviously suffered greatly? I determine to break the silence anyway.

'When I first met you,' I start, but as I speak my chest heaves, 'I felt that you... that you ... that ....'. Tears well in my eyes, I battle to keep my composure, 'But now ... now I... now I understand,' the sobbing words come without conscious thought. In spite of this emotional upheaval I am experiencing I query my words. What is it I now understand? Brushing aside the tears I seek an answer in the face of Rameshwar. As I look across the dimly illuminated hut I see not the face of a suffering man, but the glowing blissful countenance of the famous Baba Muktanand seated crossed-legged before me. I recognise Baba from a television programme shown some years before, on Siddha Yoga in which, at the touch of his yak-whisk his devotees would go into spontaneous movements such as shaking, sobbing and sudden deep breathing.

I find myself backing out into the bright sunlight where I attempt to pull myself together. The chest spasms and sobbing continue unabated. Drying my eyes I am surprised to find myself to be in the company of a lone cow who has parked itself close. When Rameshwar emerges I exchange but few words with him before tearfully bidding my leave. He gently offers reassurance: -

'Now I feel much better since you and the cow have come to visit.'

*

The visit to Rameshwar, at his simple hut between the jungle and the riverbank, leaves me very fragile. It is as if an aspect of my body has been torn open. Those with belief in the existence of chakras, seven spiritual centres aligned down the head and body, might be tempted to suggest a chakra had been opened. Whatever it is that has happened to me, I sense it to be a positive spiritual experience, for most of the time since I have felt elated. But whatever has happened to me affects me deeply. My emotions frequently churn and often, whether on my own or in company, I find myself sobbing for no accountable reason.

By evening time I become uncertain what to do with myself. I even contemplate leaving Rishikesh. I phone a friend in Britain.

'You have dialled incorrectly. There is no such number,' a pre-recorded female Indian voice states repeatedly. I check the digital display panel on the telephone cubicle wall - I have dialled correctly.

I have no choice but to give up trying to use the telephone, and instead return to my hotel room to settle down and meditate. This smoothes me out considerably, enough to go and take some food on the terrace. I am reminded of the 'Gods Dancing Party', an event Chaturvedi Ji has organised. I trace the sound of pounding dance music upstairs, but before taking the last few steps to the roof I pause to enjoy the sight of petals strewn about the top of the staircase. There is a blissfulness in the moment that is so totally reassuring, that all these troubled feelings of emotional upheaval seem to shift and subside.

'Aha, here I am finding you!' Chaturvedi Ji exclaims, apparently relieved at finding me on the hotel terrace. Accompanying him comes a smiling young western woman I have not seen around before.

'This is lady coming from Britain.'

'I suppose you want me to tell her what a good hotel this is?' I ask grinning, then after a moments reflection declare resolutely, 'Well, I like it here.'

Susan shakes my hand with a firmness and strength unusual in a woman.

Chaturvedi Ji continues: -

'When Susan is asking to me concerning local trekking, I am thinking she must meet with you. So I am coming to look for you.'

'Maybe I can help,' I say, addressing myself to the young woman, 'with this gentleman's assistance I recently got hold of a detailed map of the area. I haven't done any proper trekking around here yet, but I'm sure I can point out a few good paths to take.'

'If you can spare the time, maybe we could chat,' Susan suggests.

'Sure, that would be nice. Right now I'm going out but we could meet up some time later? Then perhaps I could show you around.'

'That's fine with me. I've got to get settled into my room, it's downstairs, the room at the end,' she says pointing to a row of rooms to the front of the hotel. 'See you later then?'

'I look forward to it,' I assure her.

As I sit back down to leisurely finish my glass of tea, it occurs to me that since arriving in India I have grown accustomed to leaving my days open and free. This arrangement to meet up with Susan, loose and casual though it is, reminds me of just how easy it is to get caught up in other people's plans and expectations. I am going for another walk and once downstairs and out of the hotel I find myself being drawn again towards Lakshman Jhula. I saunter slowly and thoughtfully, desirous only to keep my own company. I ponder my mental checklist of items that friends have requested I find for them: -

1. A mala, a rosary-style necklace consisting of 27, 54 or 108 Rudraksha beads.

2. Two books in Hindi on the life and teaching of Shri Shankaracharya Swami Brahmanand Saraswati.

3. A herbal preparation thought to be called 'Zandopi'.

4. Seeds of the karree plant.

Scouring the Ganga Emporium bookshop in Lakshman Jhula brings me no closer to the treasured volumes, though Ananda, the store assistant, promises to research their availability. Whilst visiting the store I notice amongst the many shelves displaying spiritual literature a stack of colouring books on mainly Indian themes. I remember Nirmoha had told me about doing the artwork for these books. A few days back I had been chatting with her and asked what she had studied at university. She had not answered me, but gave me a look as if to say 'No, maybe YOU can tell ME', so I attempted to rise to the occasion and almost without hesitation it came to me, that she is an artist. I now browse the books and note that the volumes are credited under her former name - Tania Sironic. As I read the introductory notes of several of the works I am impressed at the clarity of the explanations about various aspects of Hindu beliefs.

The bookstore is also a cafe, the 'Devraj Coffee Corner', with a thatched eating area overlooking the suspension bridge. Here I now settle down to sip tea, finding entertainment in the antics of a troupe of 'red-arsed' bandit monkeys clambering about on the steel ropes of the bridge, looking about for a chance to ambush the unwary.

A couple, a longhaired young man and a young woman with very short green hair, join me and introduce themselves and sit at my table. I just have to pose the obvious question: -

'Do you mind if I ask why you have green hair?'

'Oh, we just got married!' Marianne replies eagerly (as if in explanation).

'Oh! Really? Congratulations!'

We chat awhile during which time I am surprised to find I am still prone to outbursts of tearfulness. Consequently, I find myself sharing with them the tale of my meetings with Rameshwar. Both Chris and Marianne appear very keen to meet with him too.

'Could you tell me exactly where we might find him?' Chris asks.

'You're thinking of paying him a visit? I don't know what you can expect...'

'Sure, these things are very personal, but, where did you say he is...? When we get through Swargashram village where the shops are, we keep on walking, right?' he asks me.

'If at first you miss him you won't be able to walk on very much further, the shore of the Ganga finishes just a little way beyond his hut. Anyway, don't worry, you'll find him. After all, he tells me he never ever goes anywhere.'

Chris and Marianne look at each other as if confirming their united agreement to go and see Rameshwar at the earliest.

'Talking to the both of you makes me think I might one day write about the meetings.'

'If you do write about your experiences, then write them as an innocent,' Chris suggests, apparently attempting to be helpful.

I try to fathom the meaning of his remark. He appears to be suggesting that I write as though I have never before travelled to India and never before heard of personalities such as Baba Muktanand and Maharishi Mahesh Yogi.

Talking of Rameshwar has made me very emotional and again I feel it is better to be alone. So, wishing Chris and Marianne a good stay, I set off on my return walk. About half way back to Swargashram I observe an Indian woman with large round earrings, clad in a richly patterned orange dress, wrists dripping with gold coloured bangles. She sits cross-legged upon a rug spread out by the path, a snake lies coiled beside her. I stop for no more than a few moments, as any sign of interest in a peddler or entertainer is usually met with immediate demands to come, look and part with some rupees. I walk on, reflecting on the cruelty of exploiting fellow creatures for purely financial gain. But the woman's voice rents the air and I find myself involuntarily turning back and walking over to where she sits. With her encouragement I cautiously stroke the snake which, although appearing slimy, feels, feels surprisingly soft, almost furry to the touch. Furthermore the snake makes no rapid movement, as I fear it might. Instead it lies still, apparently thoroughly enjoying the attention. The woman then picks up the serpent's looped shimmering coils and leans forward to set it about my shoulders. To my surprise I do not resist, I merely witness my fear then gradually let the fear fall away. The long snake is heavy about my shoulders; I enjoy bearing its weight. Although I do not know whether the serpent is venomous, I convince myself it will not harm me. Many times I have seen pictures of the yogi-god Lord Shiva, bedecked with snakes, sitting peacefully upon a tiger skin. Easily I now identify myself with the image.

'I am Shiva,' I tell the woman.

'Shiva Shankar, Shiva Shankar,' she affirms nodding gently. The snake's head turns to face me, a very long tongue darting out of its long narrow jaws. Still I do not flinch; neither do I fear that it might poison me. When the snake is lifted off me, I part happily with the few rupees expected of me realising this experience has addressed a deep-seated fear.

'Python,' the woman states smiling at me. I nod and draw myself to my feet. A group of onlookers stand about and I hear one of them say to another as he takes a sidelong glance at me: -

'Pagal,' he mutters. (pagal means mad!)

With very great difficulty I resist the temptation to respond to his comment and instead keep my peace.

I do not walk far up the track before I find a young American sitting, apparently resting.

'Hi, how's it going?' he calls.

'I just had a python around my neck, it's skin was so soft.'

'Snakes are beautiful, where I come from in Colorado we have loads of them, rattlers, rattlesnakes.'

'You don't fear them?'

'No.'

'I think animals respond to fear. If you don't fear them...'

'For sure.'

The American tells me his name, Karim. I immediately recognise the sound as being remarkably similar to one of the bij mantras intoned silently, sometimes used for meditation practice.

'Sounds like your mantra,' I declare impulsively.

'Thank you,' he says seriously.

As I walk on, slowly an idea comes to mind. Though I have long since come to a decision to avoid smoking cannabis, I scan the hedges to see if I can spot any marijuana plants. No sooner do I start to look for them than I am overtaken by a young Indian who turns to me and asks: -

'You want to smoke? Here, I have charas,' he says holding out a lump of hashish.

'No, thank you,' I hear myself reply.

'You want? You want?' he asks again.

I shake my head; the desire has come and gone almost in an instant.

'My name Sagori is.'

'Dhanyavad' I say thanking him.

*

Later in the day Susan and I meet and join up for a walk. I soon discover her to be not only a seasoned hiker but also profoundly interested in nature.

'Do you know the name of that flower there,' I ask referring to a flowering shrub that grows locally in great abundance.

'In South Africa they call it Lanten. It's a real nuisance.'

'Are you sure it's the same? It has such beautifully scented delicate blossoms, sometimes pink, sometimes orange.'

'I'm sure of it! It's a pest, in much the same way as Japanese Knotweed is in England. As it happens it was an English woman who introduced Lanten into India, way back in the days of Colonial rule. Just one cutting, now it's everywhere.'

We walk along in silence before I ask Susan of her immediate plans. Finding that she intends staying in the area a few days, and realising she is so obviously the outdoor type, I mention the white-water rafting activities upstream on the Ganga. She seems interested, very interested. I also suggest she might take a trip higher into the hills, to gain a sight of the snow-clad mountains on the Tibetan border. The idea appeals to her greatly and as we discuss her options a thought occurs to me - the Hindi books I am looking for are probably still available from the monastery at Joshimath.

'I've been thinking of taking a break from here and perhaps travelling into the hills,' I announce.

'So we could travel together?'

'Sure. I'm trying to find some books. Some years ago they were on sale at the monastery in Joshimath. They were there when I visited before.'

'But, only if you want to go. I don't want you to come on my account.'

'I'll give it some thought.'

As we continue strolling I detail for her the byways and paths through the dense forest of Sal trees through which we are walking. Here grow many unusual shrubs and trees such as Euphorbia and the ash-like Ailanthus 'tree of heaven'. Eventually our walk brings us to the base of a hill.

'I would take you up to the ashram there but I no longer have any attachment to it,' I comment.

Almost as soon as the words leave my lips a group of people suddenly become visible ahead, having turned a bend in the path. Behind them walks an ochre-robed swami, lean and tall, his hair tied atop his head in a topknot. In his arms he carries a long object within an orange cloth bag clutched against his chest, which I assume is a wooden staff. I pay him attention purely on the basis of his being a dandi or stick-carrying swami, since they are rare even amongst holy men. One brief look at his radiant face is enough to convince that this dandi swami is definitely a high soul, his eyes reveals deep jewelled pools of light that twinkle and dance. His face immediately reminds me of another's, now seen only in the photographs and paintings, the face of a former Shankaracharya of Jyotir Math who passed away almost fifty years before, whose books I am searching...

I fairly fly into the dandi swami's face, gaining his attention.

He appears very pleased as I invoke the name of the departed Shankaracharya and he rolls his head gently, his eyes sparkling even more than before. With a graceful gesture of the wrist he gently communicates his desire for me to follow him. I am surprised that only with great effort is it possible to keep pace with him. The path we take leads us up the side of the hill, up past many uninhabited beehive-like stone buildings. The swami turns to the right and stops at one of the dwellings where he slips off his sandals, unlocks the door and ushers me to go within. Inside he points to a framed photograph placed centrally on a table. It is a rare and beautifully presented photograph of Shankaracharya Swami Brahmanand Saraswati. Reverently, with hands placed together, and I gaze at the portrait. In truth I am stunned that fate should deliver me this opportunity of meeting one of few living disciples of the holyman in the photograph's few living disciples. I study the other two pictures contained in frames upon the table; one is of the Shankaracharya's successor, Swami Shantanand Saraswati whereas the other is of an old man I cannot identify. As I stand musing I am suddenly aware of that the old swami is again standing beside me. He chuckles merrily as he points first at himself and then at the photo. But I am thrown into confusion for the picture appears to be of a much older man and I puzzle as to how the swami could look so much fresher and younger now than when the photograph was taken.

It occurs to me that I should and find out whether or not Susan has followed us. I turn to go outside. Coincidentally Susan is just now arriving. I sense she is unsure how to conduct herself in the company of this aged monk.

'It is the custom to take off one's shoes, as a sign of respect,' I offer. Obligingly she begins to unlace her boots, but the swami attracts Susan's attention and beckons for her to go and look at the photographs. She has had insufficient time to unlace her boots and I fret that the swami will take offence at her oversight. I wait for the roar! But I worry needlessly, for he appears blissfully unconcerned. I relax and look about me, observing that nailed above the doorway hangs a strip of metal on which is hand-painted the name in Devanagri script 'Dandi Swami Narayanand Saraswati'.

When Susan rejoins me outside I whisper to her: -

'I believe he has achieved the goal of his sadhana, his path of spiritual practice. He seems totally at peace, in want of nothing.'

She confides that she has no previous experience whatever of meetings with Indian holymen.

'It is customary to leave a gift,' I whisper to her. 'Have you any fruit or biscuits perhaps?'

'No, sorry.'

'Some small offering, we could leave those blossoms you're holding.'

'Yes, fine.'

Swami Ji settles down on a wooden table outside his dwelling and makes himself comfortable and by gestures, facial expressions and endearing chuckles the swami puts us at ease. He takes a piece of white chalk. He writes a word in Hindi on a chalkboard - 'maun' (a vow of silence). Thus is explained his lack of conversation, however, he appears happy enough to write simple answers to my few questions.

I mention Jyotir Math (the monastery of the Northern Shankaracharya) and can't help remarking: -

'It seems as though this meeting is a message for us to travel to the mountains and go to Joshimath,' I laugh. Susan grins her agreement.

Again I find myself again sobbing gently and I am again incapable of speaking much before tears well up. I feel compelled to explain to the swami that since visiting a poor man locally I have been taken with this condition for some days. Swami Ji begins to write on the chalkboard again and I puzzle the meaning of the seemingly unfamiliar words. Spelled out they form two words 'W-E-R-E-E' and 'G-U-U-D'.

At first I don't get the meaning.

'VERY GOOD?' I then ask shaking with mirth as I interpret their meaning. 'Really? Good, good. Thank you Swami Ji.'

For several minutes I bask in the lightness and good humour of this saintly man. Then, when I sense I should take my leave, I feel a strong compulsion to signal my very great respect for the swami. I find myself not only lowering my head as I intend, but suddenly and quite involuntarily throwing myself upon the dusty ground, my arms outstretched to touch his feet. I feel his hands hover behind my head as if in blessing.

Positively glowing, I accompany Susan away from the swami's presence.

'I've never thrown myself at the feet of anyone in my life!' I confide to her, 'But then I've never met such a man before. We have been blessed indeed. Did you notice how when he moves it is so graceful, as if there were not a bone in his body?'

Susan smiles.

'As we are up here, would you like to take a walk about the ashram?' I suggest pointing to a grove of palm trees.

A man's voice comes as if from nowhere: -

'No, no, you should not go.'

We walk on but only to find our way obstructed.

'It soon dark is,' he informs us. 'Tomorrow you are coming. Yes tomorrow come again.'

So Susan and I retrace our steps downhill and after but just a few minutes we notice the sun already disappearing from view, leaving washes of red streaks in the bright blue evening sky. In the short time it takes to re-join the main concrete path into the village darkness descends very rapidly.

'He was right you know, we would have been wandering in the dark,' I admit.

Entering the village, the glittering bright lights of the shops offer a dazzling spectacle. The pretty lights reflect and sparkle on the many colourful goods displayed there.

Susan marvels at the sight, as I do I, for it is as if everything has been brushed by a magic. The sounds enchant too and the air hangs with sweet pungent aromas, incense mixed with the smell of fresh citrus fruits. I am minded that the name Swargashram means 'ashram of Heaven' or 'ashram of Paradise'. I imagine that a marketplace in paradise could hold no greater feast for the senses. All-at-once both Susan and myself hear the sound of beautiful music floating up from the riverside. As we go to investigate we find a swathe of pilgrims celebrating evening prayers accompanied by some very fine musicians, the sounds of voices and instruments being routed through a powerful public address system. Amongst the amassed crowds I see a concentration of dozens of spluttering orange flames emanating from a brass holder, it is carried and passed over the swaying singing congregation gathered, packed tightly together on the steps leading down to the Ganga. And there, amidst the rushing waters, a massive statue of Lord Shiva sits facing them. From all directions come flashes of light, as cameras capture these magic moments.

*

'There is a huge event next to Parmarth Niketan Ashram - quite unbelievable,' I later rave to a neighbour.

'Oh yes. They do it every night, it's Aarti,' she explains somewhat flatly.

'Are you sure? I think it must have been particularly special tonight. There were people videoing it. And the sound system, it was just amazing, like some free concert. The musicians must have been professionals, they were brilliant.'

She looks at me doubtfully as if I am exaggerating. I change the subject.

'How was the Halloween party then?' I ask.

'Oh, you should have come, you would have enjoyed it.'

I recall I chanced on a group of them going to the party, a fancy dress affair. This particular young lady had woven the stalks and fruits of limes into her hair, presenting herself as an advanced yoga asana in which 'ones sexual energy is sublimated to become spiritual energy'. Accompanying her that night was the bearded French meteorologist decked out as an Indian woman in a sari. Actually, in an odd sort of way, it suited him.

'It looks like I'm off to the mountains!' I announce. 'I've been thinking of going up there for a while now, and today I met with a sannyasi associated with the monastery in Joshimath. It seems like a message. I think I've got to go.'

She looks at me thoughtfully.

'But perhaps Joshimath has come to you?' she suggests.

'Namaste Chaturvedi Ji,' I greet him with my hands placed together. 'Namaste to you sir, and how you are sleeping?' 'Actually, I awoke to find the balcony door open.'

'That is okay. It is safe; no one will come in room. You are worried?'

I have no wish to conceal my concern over the lapse of attentiveness which left me vulnerable to theft, I merely smile weakly, still puzzled how I came to fall asleep on the bed and spend the coldest hours of the night uncovered. The truth is that since my arrival in Rishikesh I have felt no great urge to sleep, so I tend to read, listen to tapes, or just lie thinking until the early hours. Sleeping for no more than three hours I most often arise about five in the morning, a novelty in itself, and have more than enough time to meditate, tidy and clean before starting the day.

'Can I order breakfast? Oh and can I pay yesterday's bills too?' I ask.

'Conflax, milk, jamtost and big tea?'

'Plain toast today please.'

'No conflax you want?' he queries, wrinkling his brow.

'Yes, cornflakes I want and toast and tea,' I answer in Pidgin English. In fact, what with trying to speak the local tongue, grasp of my own language seems to be slipping fast.

'Hot milk or cold milk sir?'

'Very hot please,' I reply emphatically, believing boiled milk more likely to be free from harmful bacteria.

Mercifully, eating out in these parts is fairly trouble free and there are many restaurants and cafes to choose from, all of them vegetarian. Most serve excellent North Indian dishes including thali (an all-in-one meal). Some restaurants also include a fair selection of western foods on their menus, with Choti Wala being a firm favourite with most visitors. Advertised as 'India Fame Restaurant - Homely Delicious Meals & Snacks' it boasts a roof-top dining area overlooking the bustling main walkway where hawkers tote such wares as toys and slide whistles, whilst others offer to print one's hands and arms with designs applied by hennaed wooden blocks. Soliciting for business outside the restaurant sits a bizarre looking man coloured with pink body paint. He is the 'Choti Wala' whose hair is shaven save for a lone tuft of long hair (choti) which is waxed to a point atop of his bald head.

There are also some particularly good places to eat across the river, near to the ferry crossing point, notably the East-West with it's excellent Italian dishes and the Shanti Cafe which, on occasion, even offers home-made apple pie and yoghurt ice cream! Here it is that I meet with a shaven headed yoga exponent, wearing a bright orange Omkarananda Ashram T-shirt. Confidently he is giving out details of his weekly agenda to two Japanese students who are seemingly attentive to his every word. The cafe is small and his voice is very audible.

'So this is what I will be doing with my week, that is, unless anything unexpected occurs!' he announces self-importantly.

I reflect that virtually all my meetings of late have been unforeseen. This meeting too, our eyes meet and I hear my voice call across to him, clearly and firmly: -

'Everything is unexpected my friend...! Everything!'

He gapes at me, surprised.

'Yes, yes of course,' he answers uncertainly. Uncharacteristically for me, I make no attempt to explain myself, but instead get up to leave.

I make my way back across the bridge, pausing only to buy a few rupees worth of doughballs to feed the fishes after which I set off on a long circular walk, via Lakshman Jhula and the hill road back. The desire to get back to nature reasserts itself again, so I take a solitary wander in the leafy wilds and pursue the course of a rushing stream. Soon I start to hear the faint sound of tumbling gushing water and am thrilled to realise I am near to a waterfall. As the sound becomes louder I notice my surroundings becoming particularly scenic. I marvel at the flowering boughs that overhang the path, the blooms and blossoms of the pink and purple flowers that have fallen form a carpet over the smooth mossy rocks on which I walk. It is as if I have found the resting-place of a local god. I proceed cautiously but find myself to be totally alone. Sitting myself down, close to the waterfall, I feel again the deep, deep peace I recently felt in the presence of the dandi swami. I breathe deeply hoping to fill myself full with the peace and freshness of this sacred spot.

Leaving the waterfall, I descend again and find somewhat lower downstream some villagers washing their clothes in the swirling waters, beating the garments against one of the many large rocks that are strewn about the stream. The path I take from here brings me to a pleasant shaded glade where I pause to rest. All at once the sounds of leaves rustling and twigs moving alert me to the presence of company, whereupon I see a full size langur moving urgently towards me. Standing to his full height he comes close, to within a couple of feet from me. Barring his crooked teeth, he begins to gibber, to grind his teeth and hiss loudly. I stare with interest at his almost human hands with fingers and nails; I study too his long powerful feet which resemble those of a wolf, which resemble those of a wolf, and marvel at his astonishingly long tale tail which sweeps the ground. The langur monkey continues to chatter and gesture excitedly at me and at length, in order to avoid further unnecessary exposure to danger, I feel moved to wander slowly away.

Later, telling my story to a local, he smiles as he explains: -

'Langur want for food!'

'Really?'

'Yes, possible to bring fruit for langur. You can feed. Just hold out hand and him will take.'

Though most langur seem gentle enough, I have yet to see anyone go very close to them, let alone feed them. It must be said, that wild animal can do a lot of damage to exposed human flesh and since I am stripped to the waist I am in no mind to place myself in a position where I might get mauled.

*

Rather than use a laundry service, many travellers prefer to clean their own clothes as evidenced by the improvised washing lines strung across most of the hotel balconies. For a while I watch as my clothes drip, drip-drying in the hot breeze, satisfied they will be ready before the afternoon is done. I then begin sorting some photographs, recently collected from the mini-lab in Rishikesh market, carefully sequencing the snaps before slipping them into the complimentary albums provided. But as I busy myself, I am all too aware of the fact that I have several unresolved issues on my mind. Amongst my concerns is the ongoing question of whether or not to embark on the course in Reiki. I reason that since I have never envisaged myself as a healer it is fairly pointless to embark on a training course in the art of healing. Having swiftly dealt with this problem I feel more than confident to deal with the easier task of deciding whether or not to travel to the mountains. But I find it difficult to come to a decision even after concentratedly and repeatedly assessing the pros and cons.

Unexpectedly Susan pops by my room to announce she is planning to move on to Mussoorie, hills station some fifty miles north-west of Rishikesh. Though she makes it clear she is still open to the idea of taking a bus into the hills, we agree to postpone further discussion until we have better information on how long the return journey might take.

'I only take beginners,' she says seriously, 'You will be learning Level One Reiki. It takes the completion of Levels One, Two and Three to become a qualified Reiki Master.'

My real underlying concern is that this Reiki teaching might be a back-door entry into the world of the 'Orange People', the followers of Rajneesh Osho notorious for their permissive attitude towards sex. I am open to other paths but I don't want to be drawn unwittingly into a cult.

'What sort of meditation do you teach, if any, on the Reiki course?' I ask, 'I mean... well... well you do have a photo of Osho in your room and er.. Well I wondered..?'

She laughs as she divines the meaning behind my question.

'Oh I don't teach Dynamic Meditation,' she answers brightly, referring to the five-stage practice of: -

1. Rapid deep breathing.

2. Catharthis e.g. laughing, shouting, screaming jumping and shaking.

3. Jumping on the balls of the feet whilst repeating the sound 'Hoo-Hoo-Hoo'.

4. Remaining motionless.

5. Dancing.

Nirmoha offers no further clarification on what techniques she imparts and as I have been advised by her not to read any books on Reiki prior to instruction, it seems I am expected to make a total leap of faith.

*

'He doesn't have anything I do not,

but he has far far more of it,

and more importantly, he can cope with that moreness,

more simple now.'

Clearly, the state of blissful grace he enjoys must be as the result of patient work, but has he gained something he once lacked or has he rediscovered something that was formerly hidden? More than likely, in his devotions, he has discovered ways to slough off those impediments that block the smooth operation of his sensory functions. I wonder if we were to perceive fear, ignorance and unwelcome stress as our enemies and then take every available means to rid our minds and bodies of their influence, perhaps we too could witness the truth of his master's teaching: -

'The dawn comes to dispel the darkness of night, allowing us to enjoy the light of the sun (which is self-illuminating). Spiritual teachings destroy ignorance and therefore remove darkness, but they cannot throw light on the inner Self, for the Self is Light.'

'Wait a moment,' comes Susan's somewhat flustered response to the rapping at her door.

'It's only me,' I assure her, 'If it's not convenient, I can come back later.'

'Just hang on a minute... Is that okay?'

'Fine, no problem, take your time.'

It is not long before the sound of a bolt being released followed by the creak of the opening door signals that I am free to enter, so, cautiously I poke my head through the gap.

'Yes, do come on in,' she invites me moving briskly back into the room, winding a towel around her dripping hair. Barelegged and draped only in a loose blouse of turquoise satin tastefully printed with dragon designs, she hovers about self-consciously until deciding to shuffle and slide into her four-season sleeping bag. Then, leaning over to one side she draws closer a pile of papers, uncompleted art works.

'You don't mind if I carry on with these do you? We can still talk.'

She sets to work on one of an assortment of designs and with deft confident strokes she begins pulling the pastels this way and that, sideways over the paper, producing sensuous shifts of abstract shapes. As she works Susan speaks of her travel plans in India and how she intends to fly on to Bangkok before eventually returning to England. When eventually conversation lapses I wonder whether to broach a subject I have been giving a good deal of consideration.

'I've been thinking about maybe teaching meditation,' I remark.

'Good idea,' Susan responds enthusiastically.

'It's just.. It's just that there is nobody that teaches meditation where I live, so I figure that maybe I should start.'

'You should!'

'Well, the idea came to me during evening meditation. You're the first person I have told.'

'Thank you.'

'But does it make any sense to you that I feel I need to give myself permission?'

'Completely. But you're so obviously sincere about your beliefs and you've spent so much time finding out about all these things. So tell me, how will you advertise?'

'Advertise? Well I certainly wouldn't charge anything.'

'Great. But you've got to let people know. Perhaps you could put up cards.'

'Something like "Blessings from the Himalayas, at no cost"?'

'Great,' she enthuses.

'Well, thanks for the encouragement,' I say rising to leave, 'Oh, by the way, have you had any more thoughts about our trip into the hills?'

She furrows her brow.

'From what I can gather it is rather a long way, someone said it would take two days to get to Joshimath. Is that right?' she quizzes intently.

'Mmmm. I think maybe that it is, possibly stop a night in Srinagar and make it there the next day,' I suggest sheepishly. 'Then a couple of nights at least in Joshimath else it's not really worth while going.'

'A week! What's it like up there, is it very beautiful?'

'Well it's very high up, you're really close to the high mountains and it's a good spot for hiking but I'm not going to try and sell the idea to you. It is a long way and basically I'm really going there for two books!

'Well I'm planning to go to Mussoorie in a few days.'

'So perhaps we should forget about the trip, it was a good idea but..'

'But.. it's going to take too long... ' She admits.

'So, it looks like we're not going to go after all. I think we would have been good company, but the more I think about the long bus trip..'

'Yes, I agree, but thanks for the offer anyway. It was a really nice idea.'

'I'll leave you to get on now, thanks for the chat, I really appreciate it,' I thank her warmly.

Talking with Susan has brought me reassurance and considerable support for my intention to share the knowledge of simple meditation. However, what I haven't mentioned to her is that, at the moment I came to this decision during meditation, an image of Shankaracharya Swami Brahmanand flashed into my mind. He appeared facing me and seemed to bow his head slightly as if in approval. Though I wonder whether my imagination could have generated this 'vision', I feel blessed anyway. I recall that as I enjoyed the image of this venerable teacher coming to my mind, two Sanskrit words sprang to my awareness. I wonder, could my mind have created these too? And more importantly, what exactly do these words mean?

On my way back to my room I cross the hotel lobby to stop and talk with Chaturvedi Ji.

'I have been thinking of going to Joshimath but it is too much far. I am needing to get some books there for a friend. By phone it is possible to contact the monastery?'

'Joshimath. I will see if someone is going that way. But why you not get in marketplace?' he suggests innocently.

'These are rare books, they are very much difficult to find, but maybe.. With your help?'

'You have titles?

'Oh yes.'

'You write them down and I am asking for you from friend in Swargashram bookshop.'

'That's a brilliant idea. Thanks a lot.'

'It is pleasure. We do what we can for to making you enjoy your stay. You are leaving it with me and I do my best for you,' he says pocketing the book list and crossing his arms. 'Leave it to me, I make necessary inquiries.'

*

It is not only westerners that adopt new names and identities. A fellow guest, Alok, a longhaired Indian lad from Kashmir has kitted himself out with the unlikely name of 'Mr Ali'.

'Where I live there are many Muslims. I don't like problems,' he explains, adjusting his sunglasses and lighting a cigarette.

'But you still follow Hindu beliefs,' I ask.

'Of course! I see you have sacred thread bracelet,' he observes, seemingly favourably impressed.

'It was on a visit to Neelkanth Mahadev, there is a white temple up above Neelkanth where I received prasad, a flower and the thread.

'Neelkanth Mahadev is Lord Shiva,' Alok states. From within his wallet he plucks something out and passes it to me. It is a silvery holographic picture of the god Shiva seated in meditation wearing snakes about his neck and arms. The image of a trident flashes before him, glowing in spectral colours.

'This is for you Paul.'

'Oh, it is very very beautiful. I will treasure it.'

Mr. Ali smiles.

*

'How would you like a Reiki session this morning?' Nirmoha asks me.

Her offer comes as a complete surprise, for as I understand it, this is the first day for a long time that she has been free from teaching.

'Are you sure?' I puzzle, 'But yesterday, you said you were taking the day off. You wanted to go to Hardwar.'

'I thought it would be better to give you Reiki, that is, if you're interested?'

How can I think of refusing? This is the perfect opportunity to discover the mysteries of Reiki, as a recipient, and I am not about to pass it up.

'Where? When?'

We arrange a time to meet, before which I shower and change into looser clothing. As I make my way to the end of the corridor I find the door to the last room is open, the smell of incense hangs in the air. I slip off my flip-flops and enter. I note that a mattress, wrapped in a white sheet, has been placed in the middle of the floor. The room is noticeably uncluttered, tidy and very clean.

Nirmoha instructs me to lie down on the mattress; arms by my sides, legs placed together, eyes closed. In soothing tones she gives further instruction, first for me to relax, then to let the mattress take my weight and finally to let go - which I do. I am guided to place my attention on the music playing softly in the background. It becomes a pleasant form of meditation and I soon find myself completely released from all concerns. Only very, very gradually do I sense the presence of hands hovering near my head. Slowly head and hands merge. Within myself I am suddenly aware of an increase in light, my senses have become heightened, the notes of music sound somehow more natural, as though they were not produced on instruments but by nature itself. Witnessing the sounds, the scents in the air and my own thoughts, I gradually become removed from identification with either my body or my mind.

I sense what feels like droplets of liquid being placed around my eyes. Similar sensations repeat themselves elsewhere across my body. Very slowly the realisation that precious stones are being placed upon me crystallises. As I lie absorbing these new sensations and enjoying them, I sense a warmth increasing about my eyes, the precious stones seem to be springing into life, as though a dormant energy in them has become awakened. I witness as tears begin to flow from my eyes, trickling down my cheeks. Spasms of energy ripple through me becoming manifest in sudden jerks of my neck. I hear myself let out gentle sighs. As the warm hands touch or hover elsewhere, similar twitches, sighs and jerkings ensue. Also I witness my breathing which I notice is sometimes only barely perceptible and then suddenly the breathing becomes rapid, then just as quickly it subsides. All the time I am a witness, as if the events are not really connected to the watching me. A sudden brief sadness visits me as the gemstones are removed; I hear the sounds of sighs coming from my mouth. Only very gradually does the body stop twitching. I lie and listen to sounds surfacing through the quiet. I notice that the music is no longer playing.

At length I hear a faint voice. But it is some time before the message connects with my thinking mind and finds a response. The voice requests me to slowly open my eyes and sit up. I find my eyes opening and am surprised at the sight of Nirmoha sitting nearby.

'Perhaps you should go back to your room now and lie down quietly for some few minutes,' she advises.

Obediently I arise. In a state of wonder I make the distance back to my room and lay lie down on my bed to become again fascinated by the involuntary twists and turns my body takes as it attempts to rest. Eventually the movements subside as I very gradually resume increasing identification with my body. Having no desire to move, I remain for far longer than the few minutes recommended.

A sound in the room alerts me to open my eyes.

'Are you okay?' Nirmoha asks, concerned.

'Fine, fine, fine,' I say sitting up gradually, looking about me in wonder and bewilderment.

'How do you fancy taking lunch at Shanti?'

A stream of sunshine floods the room. I am suddenly aware that again I have full use of my body and mind and I have a sudden wish to make the very most of the day.

'That was really amazing what happened there, but I'm fine, in fact I'm really, really hungry.'

Nirmoha's concerned expression melts into a grin of satisfaction. I surmise that she is relieved I have emerged fresh and rejuvenated. I suspect that she too has been taken by surprise over the apparent intensity of my experiences at her hands.

'Love all. Share what you have with all. Give, give, give. Become rich at heart by giving all

that you have. Expand your heart. This is the key to Cosmic Consciousness.' - Swami Shivanand

Becoming a sannyasi in his late thirties, Swami Shivanand Saraswati settled in Rishikesh, founded Shivanand Ashram and formed the Divine Life Society. Before leaving his body in 1963 at the age of 75 years old, he had completed the writing of no less than 300 volumes of spiritual literature.

Whilst walking in both the village and the jungle, I sometimes meet with a monk called Swami Radhakrishnanand, a committed Indian devotee of Shivanand, and on each occasion he presents me with a copy of the ashram magazine 'The Divine Life'. A voracious reader himself, this swami encourages me to study the teachings of his master, and to this end he selectively underlines a selection of publications from the ashram booklist for my attention, such titles such as 'All about Hinduism', 'Bliss Divine', 'Hindu Fasts and Festivals', 'Inspiring Songs and Kirtans', 'Inspiring Stories', 'Lives of Saints', 'Lord Shiva and His Worship' and 'What Becomes of the Soul After Death'. It is the monk's way of trying to involve me in his beliefs. However, I am already acquainted with Swami Shivanand's teachings.

'I have visited the room in the ashram where Swami Shivanand did his writing,' I tell him, 'It still has all his belongings in it, like his nail clippers, his pen and blanket...'

'Yes.'

'There is a good feel about the place.'

'You should come to lecture at ashram. You wish?'

'Thank you, maybe I will.'

'You come!'

'Do you know Dandi Swami Narayanand?' I enquire.

'Yes I know him. He lives without clothes.'

'Mmm. I think you mean a different swami.'

'No, Dandi Swami, he speaks at ashram.'

'Really. When I met with him he was in maun, he was not speaking.'

'You want, you can get recordings of him? Yes, you can get at 'Swar Sangam' music shop; they sell cassettes of Swami Ji. Or you can get at Parmarth Niketan.'

I am intrigued at the prospect of hearing words of the silent dandi swami. In point of fact I become instantly attached to the task of tracking down the recordings and start to nurture a desire to be present at one of the talks.

'Thanks a lot,' I say springing to my feet, 'I think I will go to find cassettes right now. Namaste Ji'

'Namaste Ji, you come to ashram for lecture?'

'We shall see. We don't plan,' I answer evasively.

*

'Dandi Swam