Rishikesh:

After almost two months, its hard to know where to begin. The prospect of a straightforward narrative promises the comfort of structure and progression. Morever, since the question of pilgrimage is central, a linear summary might generate the appropriate sense of movement, a synechdotic journey of words. Yet something about this sort of personalistic journalism seems inappropriate: in its privileging of the author and his story; in its presumption of totalizing insight (even in the form of bewilderment); in its assumption of a single form of historical time. In the Indian Himalayas, ancient stories still live in the rocks and hot springs and the countless temples, and every year hundreds of thousands of pilgrims come here to reify their transcendent factuality. Even for a so called nastika (non-believer), it is hard not to feel supremely tiny in the shadow of mountains where gods abide; in which case, one cannot really tell one's story without acknowledging and somehow comprehending the larger stories that surround one on all sides. 

Having returned to locales where the rivers meander instead of cascading, and the various strands of Indian time mix in more unproblematic chaos, the very possibility of this sort of negotiation - between history and myth - seems improbable. There really is nothing like being there, after all, a truism that seems all the more solid against the backdrop of the technologies that supposedly allow for ever more substantive remote viewing, (this blog included). In the heat of the plains, memories start to blur around the edges until they resemble their dream cousins, and the hazily pregnant skies breed a lethargy that coos gently to the river watchers, that they should be content with their own mountainous inabilities to fathom and reconstruct and convey. But while I appreciate the surrender promised by the river's gentle pace, my relationship to my own memory is too fraught, my attachment to certain forms of explanation too intense, my need to move too insistent for this sort of steadfast pose. And thus I am reminded: that which arises on the surface of the mind should be neither uncritically accepted nor unnecessarily rejected.  

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Pune:

Now even the great rivers of the north have been left behind, exchanged for the cooling rains of the monsoon on the western coast. Mountain memories that blurred in the pregnant heat have reformed themselves, as if in preparation for their coming perusal. Apologetic preambles aside, the beginnings of time and space and their attendant directionality are the marks that render these memories available for consumption and reflection. A necessary compromise with currently acceptable notions of time and space is thus in order, despite any unwanted baggage that might therefore be included viz. assumptions about selfhood, agency, meaning, etc. The exact contours of this arrangement will necessarily be shaped through the reconstruction of individual landscapes. However, just as the pilgrim's journey is often oriented by fantastical maps of the so-called "sacred geography", this negotiation of detail is best preceeded, if not therefore guided, by an orienting sketch.

The journey begins and ends in Pune, Maharashtra, a full days journey by train from New Delhi, which is itself another five hours from Rishikesh and Haridwar, the twin towns in southern Uttaranchal which serve as the launching point for pilgrims headed towards the Char Dham. Like many Indian states, Uttaranchal is of quite recent vintage, having been carved in 2001 out of Uttar Pradesh, a state which most of its denizens probably wish they could be carved out of as well. Amongst the various justifications for Uttaranchal's stateworthiness was its venerable history as Dev Bhumi (Home of the Gods) - the place where the heroes of the Mahabharat (one of the two great epics of Sanskrit literature) plied their trade. Crucial to the claim of Uttaranchal's sacred geography is the existence of the Char Dham pilgrimage route. (For more on the separatist movement in Uttaranchal, see this mildly helpful summary from our own US govt.  http://countrystudies.us/india/77.htm.)

The Uttaranchal Char Dham (literally: "four holy points") was once known as the Chota Char Dham ("Little Char Dham"), in deference to the All-India pilgrim circuit of the same name established (purportedly) by that great Hindu reformer and proto-nationalist Shankaracharya (he of Vedantic philosophical fame). If that naming overlap isn't confusing enough, the temple at Badrinath (where Vishnu is worshipped as Lord Badri) is considered part of both circuits. Shankaracharya, a truly larger than life character in good Hindu fashion, has a conspicuous presence in Uttaranchal, where in addition to stealing Badrinath temple from the Buddhists for the purposes of his pilgrimage project, he set up some important centers of learning and reached his final at samadhi (in this case meaning a kind of blissful death/transcendence reserved for religious experts) at Kedarnath, which, lo and behold, is now part of the Chota Char Dham.

Besides the fact that both Char Dhams include the Badrinath temple on their itinerary and bear the unmistakable mark of Shankaracharya (or those who invoke his name), the similarity between the two circuits seems primarily one of brand awareness. Char Dham is, after all, a catchy name, and the basic principle of a pilgrim "circuit" (as opposed to individual pilgrimage sites) is based on the flawless logic of wholes being greater than summed parts. This shakti-by-association is especially operative in the Chota Char Dham, where a less noteworthy site like Yamunotri benefits greatly from its inclusion in a circuit whose other members are more highly regarded. These days the diminutive "Chota" has been dropped in favor of the akward "Uttaranchal Char Dham" or simply "Char Dham", with context expected to resolve any confusion between the two circuits.

The Uttaranchal Char Dham is a model of Hindu diversity. The female divine is worshipped in embodied form at  two sites: Yamunotri, source of the Yamuna river, and Gangotri, source of the Ganges. At Kedarnath, Lord Siva is the object of devotion, and at Badrinath, Vishnu is the main attraction. The only major name missing here is Brahma, but as anyone with a passing interest in these things knows, Brahma isn't much for temples and that sort of thing -- more of a create the world and then sit back and watch type of god. As noted above, Yamunotri is something of a backwater which benefits greatly from its association with the other three sites. Gangotri is a major site in its own right, though its proximity to and similarities with Yamunotri has led to the two being grouped together in visual representations and actual pilgrimage practice. Kedarnath, no slouch of a Siv temple on its own, is in a way the best example of popularity by assoication - its proximity to Badrinath leads many pilgrims to hit these two major sites in one go. 

In the form of his avatars Ram and Krishna, Vishnu is the Hindu god most central to modern devotional practice; his pedigree as preserver of the three worlds is unmatched, his status in the Hindu pantheon unquestioned. Accordingly, it is no surprise that Badrinath is the jewel of both Char Dham circuits, a site brimming with the possibility of religious merit and the expiation of sins. Purportedly created by Vishnu for the express purpose of allowing devotees to gain darshan (religiously productive visual exchange) of him during the generally depressing and spiritually bankrupt Kali Yuga, Badrinath anchors the Char Dham, receiving by far the most visitors. In this regard it should be noted that while the Char Dham is constructed as a circuit, many pilgrims do not visit all four sites.

A thriving pilgrimage circuit that sees upwards of 500,000 visitors each year, the Char Dham presents abundant source material for reflection on all sorts of issues surrounding Hindu ritual practice and pilgrimage. Within that exceedingly broad ambit, our focus on this journey was the Hindu practice of prasad. As the task of figuring out exactly what prasad is and how it works represents the substance of Andrea's dissertation, any attempt at defining prasad in these pages would be rather premature. Suffice it to say that when you go to a temple in India, you get two things: darshan (visual exchange with the divine) and prasad, in the form of some sort of foodstuff or other other object that has been sanctified by the divine.

"Focusing on prasad" means, in practical terms, interviewing the people who sell, distribute and consume it and watching what they do.  I'm told that anthropologists call this "participatory ethnography" or something equally highfalutin. In practice its quite a pedestrian process, with many a blind alley puctuated by occasional flashes of insight or revelation. The mechanisms for creating, buying, selling, distributing and redistributing prasad turn out to be astoundingly diverse and often quite fascinating. Unfortunately, the actual prasad is often quite difficult to stomach, though we bravely consumed many a handful in the name of gastronomic adventurousness and positive relations with the temple staff.

This, then, is the general framework: six weeks to visit four pilgrimage sites and figure what exactly prasad means to the pilgrims, the pujaris and the general life of the temple. In subsequent posts, I will try to fill in the details of our encounters at each site along with whatever reflections and insights I can cobble together about this amazing part of India as it has been experienced by one quasi-pilgrim.