Finding Ravi While Searching for Vishal

Episode 2

Friday, May 13, 2016

The ashram had pre-booked my taxi for me, but emailed a phone number in my confirmation message in case the driver didn’t show up. Last year, everything happened so smoothly that my expectations were already held high for Vishal, my appointed driver. I exited the airport to a swarm of taxi drivers, some of whom were holding placards with names scrawled in their best attempt at the Latin alphabet. I didn’t see Vishal, so I waited there on the curb with my bags. “Taxi, Madam? Taxi?” suggested several drivers. I gave a dismissive NO, but wondered if it was too harsh, on the occasion that Vishal didn’t appear and I needed to enlist their help. We had landed early, but hired drivers are always punctual, usually. I wondered if Vishal was okay, or if he’d gotten caught up in the claustrophobia of taxis vying for a prime spot in the pick up zone. My flight arrival time was 5:07 PM, which came and went. 

My next unfortunate mission was to ask someone to call Vishal for me. There are advantages and disadvantages to not purchasing an international calling plan for your mobile phone. When I’m in wifi range, I can use Facebook and Viber to communicate with family and friends. In Australia, I bought a cheap phone and loaded it with credit for use within Australia. Considering I would be at the ashram for the majority of this trip, I decided to suspend my phone service during the trip. So, I had to approach a Hindi-speaking Indian who could communicate with Vishal for me. If I need help in a foreign land, I usually ask a woman or a couple. The women I saw were busy pushing their luggage to their rides and I didn’t see any couples. The minutes were ticking by. I couldn’t ask the same, persistent swarm of taxi drivers in front of me. It’s well known that taxi drivers will tell you that your ride isn’t coming and you should go with them. I saw a young woman with her mother. They sat down on the bench behind me. “Excuse me,” I enquired, “Do you have a phone? Would you be able to make a phone call for me? In Hindi?” She smiled and asked for the phone number. “Vishal,” I clarified, “His name is Vishal and he’s supposed to pick up Anne.” My new friend dialed the number and said a few words to the receiver. She hung up and turned to me. “He will call back. He’s not coming.” I fetched the alternate phone number before she had to leave. She called the ashram, spoke a few words, and turned to me. “They will call back.” As we waited for the return calls, my new friend and I chatted. “Do you practice yoga?” I asked her. She performed the Indian head waggle and my question was ambivalently answered. Still, I invited her to the ashram. Her phone rang and after some words back and forth, she reported, “The driver had a flat and someone else will come soon.” Less than five minutes later, one of the taxi drivers who had been scoping out the potential customer scene approached us. They exchanged words and my kind friend confirmed by talking to someone on the other end of the driver’s phone line that he was the correct driver and he would take me to the ashram. I thanked her profusely and she told me her name, but unfortunately I couldn’t understand what she said.

The eager driver commenced our journey to the ashram. As I was still a bit skeptical of his intentions, I chose the back seat and tried to get comfortable in the non-AC car. The sun was low in the sky, but the heat was still penetrating. “Ma’am! First time to Rishikesh?” “Oh no,” I replied. “I was here one year ago.” “Ma’am! You like elephants? Here is elephant sheet in the road. Right here!” My friendly driver regarded a mound of feces in the middle of the road. “Ma’am! Look! It is my house right there!” I somewhat wished he would invite me to meet the numerous family members he said he lived with, but I was expending all my energy just to engage in this conversation. “Ma’am! I am Ravi!” I shared my name, but in response to his puzzled attempt to pronounce it, I instructed, “Indians call me ‘Ah-nee’.” “Ahhhh, Ah-nee!” Ravi seemed relieved to be excused from attempting the English short “a” vowel, which doesn’t occur in the Hindi language.

Finally out of the winding roads of the national park and into more familiar territory, Ravi abruptly stopped the taxi. “Did the engine die?” I enquired, anxious to lie down and more anxious to eat dinner, which is served at 7:00 PM. “No, no. I’m not sure where…” Before he could finish his statement, I interrupted, “It’s that way,” pointing to a road along the perimeter of Parmarth Niketan Ashram. We had walked that way to the Ganga Aarti ceremony last year, and I was thankful it sparked my memory. Ravi revved the engine and we soon approached the familiar narrow lane that led to Shiva Resort. “You can stop here. I can walk the rest of the way,” I said, instantly regretting the concession to roll my suitcase over the cow shit that monopolizes the lane. “Ma’am! No! We will go here,” Ravi replied, as he expertly navigated the taxi down the lane, taking care not to scrape the mirrors that were within one inch of the five foot rock walls. The local residents stopped to marvel at Ravi’s maneuvering from their vantage point at the end of the lane. A staff member from the ashram met us there and instructed me to pay in the office. I hoped Ravi would earn something from his deft work, so I told the staff member I’d like to give him a tip. I reached into my wallet and handed him a small bill, we said our farewells, and my suitcase began its game of dodging the cow shit mounds, motorbikes, and actual cows. As we approached the gate to the ashram, I wondered if I had tipped Ravi in UAE dirhams instead of Indian rupees, which would account for the surprised look on his face.

As soon as I entered the courtyard and sanctuary of student rooms, I was overwhelmed with a familiar feeling. Instantly, I knew I had made the right decision in returning to India. It felt like home, and the animal smells, sticky air, and random shouts of Hindi solidified my decision. I was greeted by Ankit, the lovely staff member who transported me back and forth to the hospital last year. “Ah-nee, hello. I only see you on Facebook. Now you are here.” “Hi, Ankit! Don’t worry. I brought medicine this time and you won’t have to take me to the hospital,” I reassured him. His trademark smirk appeared across his face, but he didn’t respond. Ankit ushered me to a choice of two rooms on the second floor, carrying my suitcase for me. I went back and forth, but chose the one with a “cooling machine” and mirror in the bathroom, two features last year’s room lacked. I would be in a different building this time and the atmosphere seemed more peaceful and private. I thanked Ankit and unpacked a few things before heading over to dinner.

As I began the short walk outside the gates and over to Krishna Cottage to the dining hall, I saw Deepa, one of my asana teachers from last year. She hugged me and welcomed me back to Rishikesh. Several of the staff members asked, “You here last year?” obviously recognizing me. I was so touched that I was remembered so fondly, considering the number of students who completed the 200-hour course in the past year. Though secretly, they were probably wondering if I would require as much medical attention as I did last year!

After enjoying the first of many meals in the dining hall, I unpacked the rest of my possessions, stacking my clothes neatly within the wooden vanity cupboard that hangs on the wall, and set up my products in the bathroom. Instead of risking a cold shower, as the hot water can be unpredictable, I tested out my new coconut oil wipes, which freshened my exhausted body, and I fell into bed. As I reached for the switch to extinguish the light, I noticed a massive gecko on my ceiling. Instead of screaming or trying to shepherd it outside, I closed my eyes and smiled. Welcome to India.