McLeod Ganj is een bruisende stadje genesteld hoog in het noorden van India aan de voet van de Himalaya. Ondanks de brede overtuiging dat de geboorteplaats van Zijne Heiligheid de 14e Dalai Lama is Dharamsala, het is eigenlijk dit prachtige stadje dat zijn huis is in ballingschap. Sinds de Culturele Revolutie in Tibet duizenden Tibetanen hebben genomen van de gevaarlijke tocht over de Himalaya voor het veilig heiligdom dat deze stad biedt. De Tibetaanse cultuur is zo sterk, dat het hier nu de bijnaam 'Little Lhasa' heeft.

Ik vloog naar Gaggalairport dat is een korte taxirit verwijderd van McLeod Ganj, waar u direct worden begroet door de pieken en dalen van de majestueuze Himalaya range. Meteen een verlangen werd geboren om hoger te komen tot de volledige schoonheid van wat er op aanbod van deze ongelooflijke landschap te zien. Een paar dagen in de reis heb ik geleerd van een tocht die gedaan kon worden in een dag, dat biedt u een prachtig van dichtbij en persoonlijk uitzicht op de besneeuwde toppen die ik had gezien in de verte.

Gewapend met water, snacks en vele lagen kleding die wij op weg een week later op te klimmen naar deze plaats die gewoonlijk wordt door de lokale bevolking bekend als 'Triund'. Meteen onze band van de twee werd een band van zeven en vijf lokale honden besloten begeleiden ons de hele weg naar de top. Iets vertelde ons dat dit was hun manier om een ​​dagelijkse maaltijd of twee van de vele nietsvermoedende toeristen die gemakkelijk waren getroffen door hoe schattig ze waren. En hun innemende manieren ons had getrokken recht in daar met de beste van hen! Twee uur in de klim stopten we een aantal lokale mensen om hen te vragen was het veel verder. De glinstering in hun ogen gepaard met spot van het lachen bevestigd waren we nergens in de buurt waar we wilden zijn en moest harder worden, als we wilden naar het uitzicht dat we hadden zo veel gehoord over.

De dag werd heter en heter, de klim werd steiler en meer gevaarlijk als we bevonden ons weven rond en op de rand van de berg met niets anders dan een schijnbaar oneindige dalen tot ons recht om ervoor te zorgen hielden we onze focus. Op een gegeven moment sloegen we een hoek om en kon de weg kronkelende en slingerende weg naar boven en daarbuiten, die op het punt in de tijd maakte onze voeten pijn net dat beetje meer te zien. Driekwart weg naar de top, hoewel we niet weten op het moment, kwamen we een klein huisje met een winkel met eten, drinken en mooie ruwe kristallen gesneden rechtstreeks uit de berg. Het was daar kregen we chatten met andere klimmers die waren Nepalese en deed deze klim regelmatig. Hun advies was 'langzaam langzaam'. Gewapend met meer water, extra koekjes voor de honden en fantastische kristallen voor vrienden en familie we opnieuw af.

Ongeveer een uur en een half later, we waren zo hoog dat sneeuwvlokken zachtjes vallen rondom had de blaren zon vervangen en we dachten dat we moeten in de buurt zijn! Nog een snelle check-in met een aantal locals langs in de tegenovergestelde richting bevestigd, sturen wij hadden goed geraden. Inching onze weg naar boven de laatste winding voorbij kwamen we uit in een oordeel dat alleen kan worden beschreven als ongelovige! Besneeuwde bergtoppen torende hoog boven ons in de nabije verte te brengen over echte humilityat de ware kracht en schoonheid van onze lieve Moeder Gaia. Het was een van die momenten in het leven waar je bent helemaal aanwezig om de genade wij mensen zijn op als het gaat om clementie hier naar ons toe en alle schade die we doen om haar. De machtige kracht die uit de bergen was zo intens dat men alleen maar kon respect voelen. Mess met die bergen en er maar een winnaar zijn ...

Als voor de honden goed ze volgden ons de hele weg terug naar beneden en aan het eind van onze reis liepen terug naar hun respectievelijke huizen!

Over de auteur:
Lisa Tully is een fervent reiziger, mediterende en tour gastheer het creëren van kansen voor mensen om zichzelf te ontdekken als ze andere landen te verkennen door middel van spirituele reizen tours. Ze is een hosting India Meditatie Tour in oktober 2011 dat ook het onderwijs sessies met Zijne Heiligheid de Dalai Lama.

Door Margaret Deefholts

In the Judeo-Christian world, the sacred and the profane are polar opposites – the one hallowed, the other obscene; in Hinduism the two concepts meld into one another-indivisible and eternal as the cosmos. Nowhere is this more evident than in the erotic temple carvings of Khajuraho in northern India, where spirituality and sensuality, playfulness and profundity meet in a joyous celebration of life, energy and passion.

It is a gloriously sunny, but mild January morning and the temples are silhouetted against a deep blue sky. Tourists cluster around their guides; some of them gaze bemused at the explicit sexual positions depicted on the walls, others snicker and exchange sly winks. My own guide, Jagdip, is an earnest young man and he has his spiel down pat.

“Originally about 85 temples were built here between the 9th and 14th century, but today only 25 survive.” He gestures across the site's manicured lawns and bordering flower beds filled with orange marigolds and scarlet cannas. “We are in the Western group and we will visit the rest in the Eastern group a little later.”

He turns back to the temple façade before us. It is adorned with divine and semi-divine figures-celestial dancers, heavenly beauties, musicians, cherubs and above all, several amorous couples. In one frieze, a voluptuous woman, her hip out-thrust, looks flirtatiously up at her partner; he looks adoringly down at her while cupping one of her full, rounded breasts in his palm. Another tableaux portrays a ménage à trois, and along the base of another temple an elaborately carved band runs around the parameter depicting couplings in every conceivable position.

Standing in front of the Kandriaya Mahadeva temple I goggle at a pose so contorted that it prompts me to remark, “How could they possibly be enjoying this?” The pose in question shows a male standing on his head while straddled by a female, the pair of them in coitus, the female supported by two heavenly maidens.

Jagdip clears his throat. “Yes…well this is a Yoga pose, and is possibly Tantric in origin.

Tantrische rituelen zijn vaak gekoppeld aan duistere occulte praktijken, maar het is ook een filosofie die draait om de seksuele energie als onderdeel van de kosmische cirkel van wedergeboorte als gevolg van dood en vernietiging. Het opwekken van sensuele passie brengt ook met zich een karmische ontwaken, en een god, zoals Shiva, de vernietiger en de kwaadaardige godin Kali, zijn juk op pure energie ("Shakti"), een kracht die brandstof het universum en alles daarbinnen. Tempels in het hele land weer te geven Shiva-lingams-een erectie 'lingam' (fallus), gekoesterd in de 'yoni' (vagina), het symbool van de mystieke kracht van de creativiteit.

Seksualiteit en spiritualiteit hand in hand gingen nog voordat de tempels in Khajuraho vorm kreeg. Terug in de 6de eeuw na Christus een geleerde, Vatsyayana, die was (krijg deze!) Een asceet en een yogi, auteur van het "Kama Sutra" een gedetailleerde en expliciete verhandeling over de kunst van de liefde. Deze handleiding niet alleen de lijsten vierenzestig seksuele posities (velen van hen die de beweeglijkheid van een turner en de flexibiliteit van een slangenmens), maar ook ernstig behandelt een breed scala van filosofische concepten zoals Dharma, (deugdzaam te leven), Artha, (materiële welvaart) Kama (esthetisch en erotisch plezier) en Moksha (bevrijding uit de cyclus van wedergeboorte).

Indian erotic paintings mirror the sculptures that adorn Khajuraho. Like the amorous couples on the temple facades, paintings depict curvaceous women and well endowed men gazing tenderly into each others' eyes while engaged in sexual couplings. Some paintings are whimsical-a couple makes ardent love in a howdah perched on an elephant, another couple is likewise engaged while riding a camel!

About the same time as the Kama Sutra was written, professional temple dancers known as Devadasis were to be found in temples throughout India. Young virgins, dedicated to the temple deity, were trained as erotic dancers; their role was also to pleasure patrons in the temple precincts using techniques described in the Kama Sutra. Temple prostitution was prohibited in 1988, but Jagdip wobbles his head ruefully as he admits, “here and there this practice still exists.”

Today's India in fact, seethes with repressed sexuality. Society prohibits sexual dalliances and arranged marriages are the norm, so many couples have never set eyes on one another until the day of their wedding. They come as virgins to the nuptial bed. Carnal desires hide in the shadows. But for the inhibited or shy there is a whole world of sexual voyeurism – Bollywood movies! In darkened theatres, audiences salivate over seductive, scantily clad heroines as they sing, dance and flirt.

But the world of movies in India go a step further. They spin dramatic stories of human passion and divine adoration. They speak to universal emotions; they transcend time. So too do the erotic temples of Khajuraho.

If You Go:

Getting There: Khajuraho is accessible by air from Delhi
Where to Stay: http://www.khajuraho.org.uk/hotels/index.html
General Information: http://www.khajuraho.org.uk/index.html

Margaret Deefholts is a travel writer as well as the editor of the Travel Writers' Tales article syndicate and website.

by Janet Amalia Weinberg

People think differently in India, or so it seemed as I stood on the banks of the Ganges, surrounded by sixty million Hindu pilgrims who had come to the river to bathe. I thought the water was polluted and could make me sick-I'd seen garbage, excrement, and three dead bodies in it. They thought it was holy and could cleanse them of sin.

Such pilgrimages, called Kumbha Melas , occur periodically at various sacred bathing sites in India, but this was a Maha Kumbha Mela , a particularly auspicious event that happens once every hundred and forty four years. According to legend, the universal forces for good are so concentrated at this time that simply attending the Mela can purify many lifetimes. I was at a change point in life and had come, not to dip in the Ganges, but to immerse myself in this positive consensus reality.

It was the largest gathering of people anywhere on the planet and a temporary city of perhaps a million army tents had been erected for the month-long happening. I was camped just outside the Mela grounds in an enclave of 400 other Westerners from the States.

One day, a group of us from my camp got a ride to hear the Dalai Llama speak. A crowd of tens of thousands was expected so we left early. As our car entered the Mela , we were swept into a sensory tsunami. People were everywhere–riding rickshaws and Land Rovers, camels and donkeys, walking, standing, cooking, praying, waiting, sleeping. Groups from distant villages sat along the dusty roads. Vendors sold cabbages, peanuts, onions, potatoes, and eggplants. Women, drying freshly washed saris in the wind, unfurled eighteen-foot banners of color. Sadhus -holy men with flowing beards and penetrating eyes–hiked to and from the Ganges. Cows roamed. Competing public address systems blasted chants and prayers. Smoke from a million dung cooking fires clogged the air and the smell of incense, sandalwood and curry sweetened it.

The sixty square mile tent-city was divided into sectors. There were no street signs, but temples and religious groups had their own encampments with identifying gateways. We were in such sensory overload that we probably had passed the same gateways over and over before we noticed our driver was taking us in circles.

Ordinarily, I would have thought: “We're lost, we might miss the Dalai Llama, it's all the driver's fault….” But I didn't think what was happening was bad or wrong. In fact, I didn't think about it at all; it was just happening.

As the driver wandered, I marveled at the sights. I had only explored the Mela on foot; seeing it by car was an unexpected bonus. Along the way, we met another lost car, packed with Westerners from our camp. While the drivers conferred, we exchanged stares with a sadhu - he with his orange dhoti , glazed red eyes and Vishnu trident, we with our sun hats, dark glasses and sneakers. Eventually, with reassuring nods, the drivers resumed their quest.

When we finally reached our destination, we found a crowd, churning with rumors that the Dalai Llama would not appear. Again, I could have gotten disappointed, but my new and strange state of accepting and moving with the flow was still with me.

Suddenly, a vehicle shot out of the compound. Someone yelled, “There goes the Dalai Llama!” and our vehicles took off in hot pursuit. Now, it seemed we were lucky to have gotten lost. Otherwise, our drivers would have dropped us off earlier and we, like all those people we left behind, would have had no transportation.

The chase ended at a small tent. There were eleven of us now, five from my car and six, including a two-man camera crew, from the other. We removed our shoes and entered the tent. Menacing guards armed with Uzis scrutinized us but let us pass. Inside, the Dalai Llama was kneeling in prayer before an altar. Behind him, about fifty Indians, mostly sadhu' in traditional orange and ochre robes, sat cross-legged on mats. Our two carloads clustered at the rear of the tent.

After a few moments, His Holiness, speaking Tibetan, began addressing the gathering through a Hindi translator. People asked questions he must have heard countless times, but he gave each person his full attention and responded with genuine caring. When he finished talking with the Indians, he smiled and called to us in English, “Come on up.”

We closed in around him, astounded by our good fortune. Instead of being part of a crowd of thousands, we had been practically granted a private audience. He signed autographs, laughed, spoke of world peace, and expressed his pleasure at seeing Westerners at the Mela . His radiant delight captivated us all.

When the Dalai Llama rose to leave, a dozen Tibetans immediately formed a human fence along both sides of his path to the exit. He passed through, like a whoosh of joy, stopping to give one sadhu's beard a playful tug and pat another's cheek before he left.

My companions were waiting outside. Our car was not. The second carload, including the camera crew, was gone as well. We were all hot and tired and ready to return to our camp. There was just one hitch: we didn't know where it was.

We gathered at the side of the road to look for a taxi, a rickshaw, a pony cart – anything that could take us back. For as far as we could see, the dusty road was flanked by tents and teeming with people, but there were no vehicles. Geen. We tried to get directions, but those we asked either didn't understand English or had never heard of our camp. Even if we had known which way to go, two members of our group were somewhat handicapped and couldn't walk very far.

Normally, I would have been alarmed and anxious. But as before, I didn't judge what was happening or think anything about it; it was just happening. I don't know if being at the Mela purified lifetimes, but it sure was purifying my habit of evaluating and interpreting every experience.

We sat on some boxes, conveniently piled by the side of the road, watched the crowd, and waited. Five minutes passed . . . ten . . . vijftien. . . . Suddenly, a black sedan appeared! Before any of us could wave to it, the car screeched to a halt in front of us.

The door flung open and out stepped the leader of the group I was staying with. The leader!! He had come to meet the Dalai Llama and found us instead. When we informed him that His Holiness had left, he got back into his car and sped away-but not before he'd whipped out a cell phone and called for a car to pick us up.

We were giddy. How amazing! How perfect! We could never have hoped for or imagined such a rescue. As we waited for the car to arrive, someone joked, “Now all we need is a parade.” As if by magic, a procession complete with music, painted elephants, camels, and row after row of marchers appeared.

That's how it was at the Mela . Ordinary thinking, full of expectations and judgments, seemed to fall away and every disrupted plan became an adventure.

Now, back in my regular life, I have plenty of opportunity to get upset when things don't go “right.” Car batteries die, keys get lost, people disappoint me, I disappoint myself-the possibilities are endless. But that also means I have plenty of opportunity to remember the Mela and to see what's happening as just what's happening.

Janet Amalia Weinberg is a former psychologist who has traveled in Asia, Africa, South America and Europe. Her short stories have appeared in numerous literary magazines as well as in an anthology she edited, designed to change negative stereotypes of aging (STILL GOING STRONG; Memoirs, Poems and Stories about Great Older Women, Routledge, 2006).