We had three days to wait for the weather to clear, and were determined to do so because, after all, we came at least 14 hours out of our way to get to this point and see the view. To kill time, we followed one of Lonely Planet's recommendations and walked a few miles uphill to the Anaskati Ashram. This modest, but well-situated, ashram is more famously nicknamed the Gandhi Ashram because the Mahatma came and stayed here while he was working on a translation of the Bhagavad Gita. We arrived just in time for a prayer service in Gandhi's honor, held daily at 7pm - which, because it was Spring and very cloudy, had us scrambling the last half-mile in near-dark and mist, drawn only to the right building by the ringing of a ceremonial bell.
As we entered, there were a few men, wrapped in thick grey shawls, seated on the floor against a long wall. The walls were crowded with many black and white photos of Gandhiji throughout his life. One man, who we would call the 'manager' but who called himself only a 'servant', handed us laminated sheets containing the prayers in Hindi. As an afterthought, he asked if we spoke Hindi and I proudly said "tora tora" ("a little bit"). Though we were the first ones in, a few other people braved the rain and cold, removing their shoes (as we had) and stepping into the room: two pilgrims from Bengal, a family from South India, an older gentleman from California, and another Bengali stationed in the Air Force at Jodhpur, whose wife and one-year-old were asleep in a guestroom of the ashram (they were staying in Kausani because of his wife's dissertation research on hunter/naturalist Jim Corbett).
On some unknown cue, the 'servants' of the temple started intoning the prayers. There was no graspable musical pattern to the chant, so we mainly listened. I tried to follow along in the Hindi for me and the girls, and noticed that on the two pages there seemed to be several prayers in different meters in sections, containing repetitions of the last line as a refrain. Though I could only follow phonetically because I didn't know most of the words, it seemed that the prayers were multi-religious; I heard references of Allah, masjid (mosque), and Guru Gobind Singh (10th Sikh Guru).
After the last prayer finished, the man who had led the prayers gently addressed the rest of us, saying something like "now you will please sing a song from your home that praises God." We all were a little surprised or tentative, but he seemed content to leave the request hanging in the silence. Before too long, I decided to seize the floor before someone else did and started singing Amazing Grace acapella. Christi and Kirsten joined in, as did the Californian after a time. We stopped after just one verse (I wasn't sure the others would come readily in such a different context), but it felt really good and the others voiced admiration.
Once I had started off, the other American sang a simple, melodic "Ram" bhajan (Hindu), of the variety I had heard in the ashram at Kullu. The Bengali seated next to him struck into a popular-sounding Bhajan that involved clapping, which some of us obliged by joining. There followed an episode of trying to convince the little girl of the family to sing something. Her mother was saying in Hindi that she had studied classical singing, but despite all the encouraging "chalo" ("let's go") and "kujh gaao" ("sing something") from others, she put her head down and refused.
All the talk of classical music got me singing about kirtan though, so before I really new what I was doing my mind was searching for a shabad I could do. For some reason, the only one that was coming into my head was "Bhaj Ramo Manu Ram" in Raag Darbari. I confess I was a little worried for some reason about doing something that was 'too Sikh' for this crowd, but after the ecumenical flavor of the prayers, this one seemed neutral enough. So I waited while the Californian did another lite rendition of "Anand Gopal", and began the piece. Of course there was no drone, as in classical music (we were all acapella), but I think it was clear from the ornaments and pacing that I was doing classical style. My nerves at doing that out of the blue (and away from the safety of just me and my ragi) were eased by closing my eyes. I pictured my notebooks that contained the notation, and imagined how my teacher had sung it, trying to reach that place of satisfaction I had felt doing the raga with him.
I'm sure it was a little unexpected for an American to break out a shabad in Punjabi, but the Bengalis lauded me by saying "excellent". When I said I studied classical ragas in Punjab, they assumed Punjab University in Patiala. I explained a little about my project studying Sikh music, and they raved about another ashram they'd visited for the previous 10 days on a glacial trek in the Himalayas. Meanwhile, Christi and Kirsten asked the Californian how long he planned to stay in Kausani and he unnerved them by responding, 'until I die.'
And, shortly, the crowd dispersed, we back to our hobbit huts. It was a remarkable interaction, but partly so far how unremarkably short it seemed amid the necessities of daily life like finding food and getting back down the mountain in the dark (which worked out well, our hotel manager had guessed where we'd gone and was waiting for us). This was one hallmark of India. In the moments where I was frustrated by bus trips, long Punjabi parties, or just waiting for some ritual or music to take place in a temple, those times felt like they would never end. Yet the parts that were most magical, that made me light up with fascination and interest in the country and people, were always over too soon. Maybe this is something that changes with experience, or maybe it is why Louis Malle chose the title he did for his epic documentaries on the Sub-Continent. For as big and dense a place as it is, it can truly seem Phantom India.
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