Mother Ganges

Last night Christopher and I went down to the river for Arti again. This time we went to the large children’s Arti where young boys are invited to dress in orange robes and lead everyone in chanting. Arti, the celebration of light and gratitude for the day’s blessings, is traditional for all Hindus and is akin to many Christians who find spiritual unity in sharing the Eucharist. At this, the largest Arti ceremony in Rishikesh, thousands of devout Hindus show up to chant and give thanks with the children.


We got there early to get good seats and we found a place on the large Ghat. (A Ghat is a set of steps leading into the river to make it easier for pilgrims to bless themselves with the river water) Next to us were two older Hindu women warped in beautiful saris. As we sat there surround by people who dressed quite differently from us, had a different color skin, and were engaged in a religious ceremony that was very important to them, I wondered if we were welcome. Were we just two more annoying American tourists snapping photos at the wrong times, or were we a welcome part of the ceremony? My question was answered very quickly when the woman next to me took my hand and asked me where I was from. She only spoke Hindi, but my new friend Anoop translated for me. When she learned I was from America, tears filled here eyes and she told me her son now lived in Canada. She wondered if I knew him. I tried to explain that Toronto was a long way from San Francisco, but she didn’t understand. Perhaps she didn’t want to understand. All she knew was that I had been near her son and at that moment, I represented some sort of emotional connection for her. It made me think of my own mother (hi mom) and how close I feel to her even when I am around the world.

Once the chanting began, the other woman, again, not speaking any English took my hand and began teaching me the chants so that I would feel a part of everything. I was raised Catholic, and bringing other non-Catholics to share in the Eucharist was strictly forbidden. There was always this sense of “us and them”. This beautiful woman, not even speaking the same language, made me feel at home. Both women began to cry as they chanted. Not tears of pain, but tears of faith and compassion and joy.

When the Arti lamp (a large brass object with many tiny candles called Ghee Wicks) was passed through the crowd, everyone reached to touch it and hold it up. Not wanting to get in the way of such devoted people, I began to step back. My newfound friends grabbed my hand and pulled it up to the lamp. I sent out a prayer of gratitude for Mothers. The Mother River Ganges, the mother of the three orphan children at the school who had passed away, my beautiful new Hindu mothers and most importantly my own mother a world a way in Connecticut.