 
Another overnight train and I was back in Mathura and itching to
get back on the river. The hotel staff allowed me to put Moganga
together in the quiet sanctuary of the freshly painted lobby and
then helped me carry her to the river. The Yamuna greeted me with
a dead pig floating by, its legs reaching skyward, and several snotty-nosed
little kids who threw mud clods at me. The river stank for most
of the day and I paddled stiffly. There was little to see other
than the occasional fishermen, and I was feeling grouchy because
of the foul river and the long train rides.
India has a way of making up for bad days. Later that day, I stopped
at what turned out to be a stupa dedicated to the blind poet Sudernath,
who lived nearby in the late 16th and early 17th centuries. As I
explored the site, I met Prem, a teacher at a school for the blind
that is located there. Although the students were away on holiday,
he invited me to stay the night. As we crossed the compound, a group
of sighted teachers were asking me questions, and I turned just
in time to see Prem walk straight into a freshly planted metal post.
We all ran over to make sure he was okay and, as he rubbed his head
and nose, he held my hand and told me, "This is the life of a blind
man in India." Afterwards, I became his guide and he spent the evening
teaching me about Sudernath and the school. The next morning, although
I was invited to stay and rest, I explained that I wanted to reach
Agra and the Taj Mahal. The teachers carried my boat to the river
as I walked arm-in-arm with Prem.
The river seemed cleaner and there were patches of forest as I headed
south. Early in the afternoon, a group of fishermen and a farmer
with a camel called me over. As we tried to communicate, I realized
that I could see the Taj Mahal in the distance. I thought I'd be
there in a couple of hours, but the river soon turned north and
then west before finally swinging back to the south. As the sun
set I entered the outskirts of town and again the river twisted.
Night set in and a dirty mist blanketed the river. People with cooking
fires were camped on the banks, and I could hear drains emptying
into the river. A cacophony of cars, buses, cows and shouting mothers
blared from every direction. Agra has electricity problems and,
just as I was getting my bearings, everything went pitch dark. I
could see nothing as I paddled except headlights and the small fires.
The full moon rose a deep red, and the power returned. I rounded
a collection of buildings to find the white marble of the Taj Mahal
glowing in the dusky night. I landed nearby at a two-story white
stone temple dedicated to Shiva, the god of destruction. Two men
were performing their pujas (prayers) and offered to help me with
the boat when they were done. They asked me to join in, so I did
my best bell clanging and hummed out of key. After the prayers we
went to the river. Downstream there were flickering lights on the
riverbanks, which they excitedly explained were the roaming spirits
of sadhus, or holy men. Upriver, four bodies were silhouetted in
blazing cremation pyres. As they helped me carry the boat past the
temple to the road, someone vomited from a carved stone window above,
splattering the boat.
Amazingly, with all that was going on down by the river, my arrival
at the hotel caused quite a stir. The owners insisted that I take
a large room so that the boat could be kept with me and, more importantly,
the kitchen stayed open late so that I could get dinner.
The next day I toured the Taj Mahal. It was built in the 17th century
by a mogul king as a mausoleum for his wife. Only a small part of
the white marble interior was open to the public, but it was a welcome
respite from the heat.
After a two-day stay in Agra, I told the hotel owners I would be
leaving the next morning. They were quite distraught and warned
me of the many dangers I would face in the "wild areas away from
Agra." I thanked them for their concern and assured them I would
be very careful. The next morning I headed a procession of about
20 people as I carted the boat through the botanical gardens and
down to the river. The hoteliers followed on their scooter. At the
river, they gave me a slingshot and their prayers for safety. With
a grand send-off I headed downriver and toward the spirits of sadhus.
If the water is 9,000 times above the safe limit below Delhi, it
must be 900,000 times above the safe level below Agra. The river
stinks of sulphur, it's oily black, and numerous illegal steel mills
dump untreated effluence into her. Of course, it is difficult to
destroy a goddess, and the river is the earthly form of the goddess
Yamuna. Amazingly, she somehow manages to tidy herself up and, within
about 30 miles, I could see the river bottom through eight feet
of water.
Nearing the crimson evening, I stopped for the night in a small
forest. While I was setting up camp, two curious children appeared
and gestured that I should follow them to their nearby village,
Nyamatpur. It was only 400 meters away, so I went with them. There,
another man insisted I visit another "close by" village, which turned
out to be three kilometers away. As we walked through ancient, deeply
trenched paths, I realized I had been unwise to leave some of my
gear lying out next to the boat. The beautiful sunset disappeared
and darkness set in. I tried to explain that I wanted to return
to my boat, but the villagers wanted me to stay the night and couldn't
understand my insistence on leaving. After all, none of them had
seen my boat, and my attempts to explain in Hindi didn't help. Still,
I was led back to the first village.
Once I was back in Nyamatpur, two men armed with lances accompanied
me back to my campsite. The boat and its contents hadn't been touched,
but some of my clothes, my sleeping bag and pad, and my journal
had disappeared. Discouraged, I sat, thinking about what to do,
but the men wanted to leave quickly. Dharmender Singh, one of the
two, put me up for the night at his farm, where my story was translated
to the crowd that had gathered. I was fed very spicy potato subzi
while a group of men, lances in hand, headed out into the night.
I awoke at 5:00 a.m. to the sound of water buffalo chomping silage
at the foot of my charpoy. After a cup of tea, I was escorted to
the village teacher, who explained that bandits living in the woods
had taken my things.  The
bandits were the reason the men had carried lances the previous
night. To my amazement, the men had found and returned all of my
gear except for the sleeping pad. After a few more hours of being
introduced to people and drinking cups of tea and sweet buffalo
milk, it was time for me to go. A crowd of 100 well-wishers waved
me off, but I left feeling embarrassed and stupid to have caused
everyone so much trouble.
Over the next week I began to see what the men from Agra had meant
by the "wilds away from Agra." Most villages had no electricity
or running water, and some had only mud thatched buildings. The
people were, without exception, friendly and helpful. I felt uneasy
about accepting so much hospitality, but if I wanted to eat I had
no choice. My food stock was meager at best, and there were few
places to buy supplies. On the other hand, my attempts at Hindi
and my various gadgets such as a Walkman, camera and binoculars
(which people seemed to love to look through from the wrong end)
provided at least a little entertainment for the people who were
looking after me. They also seemed to enjoy posing for photos, which
I promised to send to them. |
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