REFELCTIONS ON THE GANGA
Rebecca Weisman

As soon as I arrived at the river I could immediately feel her pull, finally Mother Ganga. Up until that point on our Maha Yatra, I had felt a little like an imposter. A motto that’s used in twelve-step programs, “Fake it till you make it,”, was ringing in the back of my mind as we moved, no practically ran, bare-footed among throngs of devotees from one temple to another, each with its own deva ‑ Ganesha, Radha, Krishna, Siva - its own special flavor of darshan. I got used to the happy pushing and shoving, the pandits asking for money, and, despite my Jewish upbringing, it wasn’t long before I was dropping to my knees, pressing my forehead to the wet Lingam and chanting Om Namah Sivaya. I think I was waiting for some sort of cultural miracle to happen in which, if I were only open-minded enough, I could instantaneously begin to understand the power of these deities and the love that is transmuted back and forth everyday between them and their devotees. Perhaps it was too soon, and I was still too much a spectator, or perhaps I didn’t want it enough. Heck, maybe it was all that Thou Shall Not Bow Down To False Idols stuff written somewhere deep in my unconscious. It was with this level of curious resignation that I stepped off from the rickshaw in Haridwar and first saw Ganga.

To continue reading this article please download it or subscribe to Namarupa. Thank you