Rumors and expectations of changes on the heels of the June 8 phase of the lockdown have come to fruition and I find myself squarely in the middle of a new version of life yet again, one once familiar but now completely foreign.
Shops hang open signs freely in their windows. Chairs sporting cushioned seats are placed around wooden tables, inviting visitors to sit and stay for a while.
Laxman Jhula bridge, connecting life on one side of the Ganga to the other, is traveled openly without need to give purpose or reason to the guards at the gate.
The weather has shifted as well with the sun burning brightly as it hangs high in the cloud-filled sky, its warm rays offering animals and people alike little choice but to take shelter in what limited shade is available.
And a mix of new faces mill about in the streets amidst the happenings of the day.
The noise is the biggest change however.
Now from morning to evening, horns honk constantly as the roads fill with traffic speeding by, trucks and cars and motorbikes that have little care for the passing of pedestrians. Free spirited, pedal-to-the-metal buses recklessly cut corners as though they drive privately-owned streets to the point where I’ve had to jump out of the way to avoid being hit on more than one occasion. Roaring engines with poor mufflers disrupt the quiet and peace that I know exists underneath the cacophony of sound.
This is not my version of Rishikesh, the one that stole my heart months ago like a masterful thief under the cover of darkness.
I look back on my time here, brimming with unplanned and unexpected moments, and I find myself missing the days of quiet when my only concern was bumping into a cow while crossing the street.
To be clear, this isn’t a desire for the lockdown to extend indefinitely. I am more than ready for it to come to conclusion, but perhaps I am asking for the impossible — for it to end on my own terms.
A futile wish if ever there was one.
The lifting of the lockdown is in motion and I am nothing more than a cog in the great turning wheel, unable to stop or will it forward. And truth be told, I am at odds about which I would choose it to be — the plight of our all-too-human desire to keep things as they are despite the inevitable changes to come.
I still want a flight out and a flight in somewhere non-lockdown, free of quarantine and confinement. I feel this as surely as the swirling emotions just beneath the surface of my skin, a mixed melting pot of conflicting and synergistic desires of what the future can be.
There is a way to calm this inner storm.
In the evenings, just before 7 P.M., after the shops have closed and the free-wheeling, Nascar-esque drivers are sitting comfortably at home enjoying a freshly cooked dinner, I take the backroads and forgotten paths, between narrow streets and two-story colorful buildings where the heart of India exists — a culmination of life and wonder found in small corners, unkempt alleyways, feces-stained stone streets and the eyes and smiles of people everywhere.
It is here where the world of Rishikesh stills itself, transformed into beauty incarnate.
My destination during my evening journey is the flowing water of the Ganga, down the brick steps, along the concrete blocks, to the area of sand and stone.
There, in solitude, I listen to nothing and hear everything. The waters are the most peaceful I have ever known. A few wayward souls can be found along the banks, each there for their own purpose, sometimes gathered in numbers, sometimes solitary.
Yet they come just as I —
At 7 P.M.
By the water’s edge.
Along the banks of the Ganga.
Where our version of Rishikesh still exists.
If only for a moment.