Ganga Aarti

Last night on the Ganga. We bathed our feet and hands and malas in the river and sat to chant with Swami ji and the rest of the ashram devotees. The ashram is swaddled between the first great hills of the Himalayas, right on the banks of the Ganga, which is fierce and white here. As the sun goes down, there are barely any lights dotting the bank across the river. Our ceremonial fire illuminates the giant white marble statue of Shiva just a few feet beyond the bank, who seems to rise up from the depths of the river shining and clean. The smoke of the fire billows as more rice and ghee are tossed in, each chant of "svaha" puffing up a new cloud. My travel companions and I are looking more and more India each day; some tattooed with henna, some adorned with gold jewelry and heavy mala beads, all of us wrapped in bolts and bolts of colorful cloth. All of us sway and clap with the chanting, some of our voices rising in called recognition. After the final call, we linger. Not quite ready to dry off, not quite ready to go back to sleep.