As promised, I knocked on Matthew's door early this a.m. in order to wake him for a morning tour of Deeg's palace. But the person who opened the door looked more like a corpse than Matthew. "I feel awful," he stated needlessly before heading back to his bed. So Fred and I went to the palace by ourselves, worrying about our new friend. The palace was awesome; built by the maharaja of Bharatpur as his summer residence, it resembles a Hindu version of Versailles, perched above a fetid lake in which villagers were bathing and washing clothes. An scrawny, rodentine old guy called Gopal greeted us at the door and acted as our uninvited guide.
He answered a lot of questions, however, and spryly led us through the confusing maze of rooms. Without him we probably never would have been able to identify the dusty, threadbare, cylindrical object in a corner of the immense living room ("tiger" offered Gopal). In the maharaja's vast bedroom he instructed us to leap over the velvet ropes in order to check out the royal bathroom, which was suitably grand. After wandering around the palace grounds and stomping back through Deeg's muddy streets we bought Matt some bananas and water. We told him of our planned itinerary for the upcoming days so he could meet up with us later.
I suggested Bharatpur, where we'd be in three or four days, since it was less than 40km from Deeg. But Matthew said he'd prefer taking the bus to Mathura, where we were headed that day. So we helped him negotiate a seat on a bus and loaded his bike on its roof before pedaling gingerly through the cesspool that constitues Deeg. Outside town the road became much, much better. It was wide enough for two lanes of traffic (mostly camels) and had been recently resurfaced. The kilometers slid under our wheels like ghee. And while the scenery was flat and marshy, the route was not without visual interest.
Much of it was lined with chanting Krishna-mad pilgrims, covered with bright pink powder and heading on foot to god-knows-where. Most were chanting variations on the Hare Krishna song and many were in a trancelike state of spiritual ecstasy. The towns we passed through were interesting too, much more orderly than yesterday's towns and far more colorful. The first town we passed through, Govardhan, was full of active temples, its streets clogged with pilgrims and wild-eyed sadhus. The next town's most memorable feature was its water buffalo market. For miles in either direction the road was full of oiled and groomed beasts on their way to or from market.
We wisely had lunch at an "upscale" hotel at the edge of town before plunging into Mathura. The amount of traffic in the confused jumble of ancient streets --most of it animal-driven---is unbelievable, overwhelming even. Finding our intended hotel (where we'd told Matthew we'd meet him) proved more difficult than we'd anticipated. We were first instructed to turn off the chaotic main street into the ancient atmospheric bazaar --looking more middle eastern than Indian---then down some steps, through a riverside temple called Vishram Ghat and along the frenzied madness of the temple-filled riverside road. As the birthplace of Krishna, Mathura is one of the holiest cities of the Hindus.
With its streets clogged with Brahmin priests, blissed-out pilgrims and countless mystics and *sadhus*, its air filled with chanting and incense, the place struck me as a livelier version of Varanasi, the holy city on the Ganges where lucky Hindus go to die. The Hotel Agra was atmospherically situated on the riverside across from some *ghats* (steps leading down to the holy river on which one can ritualistically bathe, or just do laundry), but it was a dump nevertheless, and obscenely overpriced at \$10 a night. We deduced Matthew's presence by his bike in the courtyard, and after settling in we ran into him on the street.
He didn't look any better. "I'm just on my way to the telephone office to call my mom," he told us ominously. Both Fred and I wondered if Matthew would stick to his plans and actually spend an entire year in this strange, disorienting land. We spent the afternoon getting lost in the confusing jumble of streets and alleyways, occasionally followed by large bands of hyperactive urchins. The best part of the day, though, was a sunset rowboat cruise on the mighty Yamuna river. As the sky turned colors our oarsman guide pointed out the various sights: cremation *ghats*, important temples, fortresses and towers --all overrun by hordes of leaping monkeys.
Disembarking from the boat, a friendly, slightly crazed young *sadhu* we'd met earlier presented me with a necklace of saffron-colored beads. I've vowed to wear it until the end of our voyage through India. The temples at Vishram Ghat were abuzz with activity for evening *puja*. Con men posing as priests invited us into sanctuaries where we were instructed to leave "donations" of 500 rupees. Better spent were the two rupees asked for miniature boats bearing candles which we set adrift on the murky waters of the Yamuna. Next stop was Krishna's birthplace, a surprisingly long --and fascinating---pedicab ride (or more precisely push, as it was mostly uphill).
The original temple was destroyed centuries ago and now a simple cell marking the holy spot is located in the foundation of a giant mosque. All visitors here have to pass through a metal detector and submit to a rather thorough frisk before being granted access to the compound. Armed security police are everywhere, making the whole setup uncannily reminiscent of Jerusalem's "wailing wall." To get inside the sanctum one has to file past stands of suspicious-looking soldiers, down a long narrow corridor made to look like a dungeon (for Krishna was born in a prison cell according to legend). Inside the small chamber pilgrims bow to the rock upon which Krishna came into the world to the raucous accompaniment of a group of tambourine-beating Hare Krishnoids who appear to be permanently ensconced there.
A much larger temple stands adjacent to the shrine, and it was here that the real party was going on --dozens of worshippers pounding drums, singing and banging on tambourines --all in all, a lot more festive that your average Catholic mass. One can see why the cult of Krishna has caught on in the West more than that of Shiva, Vishnu or any of the other countless gods in the Hindu universe. Falling asleep in my bed that night, the mysterious sounds and smells of India wafted in through the window, causing me to ponder upon the utter unfathomability of this bizarre land.