Although I have been totally engrossed in exploring the forest, I am also concerned about getting over to the Godavari. Hindus commonly use the word vasana for an innate desire that one just cannot seem to put aside; a vasana simply has to be lived out for better or for worse. And that’s my relationship to the Godavari River. I just have to explore it.

I find out that from Maredumalli I can take a bus over to Devipatnam, which is right on the river. When I arrive early the next morning, I find a small town with only one block of small stall-shops where I am able to find one English speaker: Sunil Kumar, the local bank manager. He tells me where to find the only place to stay, a guest house right by the river.

Sunil, playing the role of the headman of the village, invites me for dinner that night. Even though he is in the outback, he keeps himself exceptionally informed about political and economic issues, both national and international. He tells me his job is difficult these days because the new Prime Minister, V.P. Singh, made good on his campaign promise to excuse all old loans to farmers. As a result, many loans were written off. Problem is, now no one is paying their loans; they are waiting to get their loans excused at the next election—which will be soon.

In spite of its reputation as spiritual India, the only topic you will hear on every street corner, in every home, and in every shop is politics. My arrival in India was practically on the eve of the national election in the world’s largest democracy. Rajiv Gandhi and his Congress-I party had failed to bring peace to the strife-ridden states of Punjab, Kashmir and Assam. Other issues also contributed to the loss of confidence in the rule of Nehru’s grandson. Rajiv’s frequent appearances on his own behalf on the one and only TV channel—government-owned and operated—caused embarrassment even to his own party members. Rajiv’s foreign flights were another bone of contention. He commandeered Air India planes as if they were his personal property, which meant completely booked international flights had to be canceled.

All the press is negative. The newspapers call India’s democracy “the one party raj” which means “government has become less and less accountable, more and more whimsical; an authoritarian agglomeration of uninspiring oligarchs.” [India Today, Sept. 1989]

No one I knew voted, for they had no time or the inclination to stand in the long lines. A friend’s servant was the one exception. She would not miss “the vote” because she received two kilos of rice from the Congress-I party for appearing at the voting booth. Of course, they could not force her to vote for their party, but free rice could translate into votes from these poor people. Over half of India’s population falls into this category, so it is worth greasing their palms. It reminds me of a story told of a Punjabi. Punjabis are known for their independent spirit. The man claimed that one party offered him 5 Rps. for his vote and another offered him 10 Rps. “What did you do?” the reporter inquired. “What else? I took them both and voted for whom I pleased.” In spite of the baksheesh, or bribes, to the poor, Rajiv Gandhi’s Congress-I lost.

Sunil agrees with most analysts that the Bofors scandal was the deciding issue, although he remains unsure that Rajiv himself was guilty. Bofors, a Swedish weapons manufacturing company, had paid a large sum of money to obtain a lucrative contract from the Indian Government. Most people think advisors who were greedy for money had influenced Rajiv. Others think that he is too intelligent to risk his career for money with a family fortune in Swiss bank accounts. So much for making an informed vote in the world’s largest democracy. In any case, the majority of voters thought he was guilty and retired his party, thereby retiring Rajiv. India uses the British system of selecting the Prime Minister; election is by the members of the majority party, not by the populace.

Rajiv’s downfall, and passion to be re-elected, would insure that politics would continue to be the great debate everywhere I roam. If you listen to the news, you would think that nothing is happening in this vast diverse country except politics. It remains a continual background noise in this up-side-down world.

Sunil also gives me what I take to be a good suggestion in my quest to explore the Godavari. I can take a launch that goes upstream to Badrachalam daily, a journey of some three hours. Sounds great to me! Such a trip will enable me to check out the scene along the river to see if a pilgrimage is feasible. I can just picture it: sight-seeing on the deck of a launch. However, I did not imagine what a launch is India. Although I keep saying it, I still keep forgetting it: This is an ancient land.

I should have turned back when I find I have to walk a six-inch wide plank with a huge, gaping knothole to get over to the “launch.” Since the deck is covered with a large cabin, I honestly cannot see what I am getting into until I am already inside it. (I think this has been the history of my life!) So I climb through one of the small windows of the cabin to find six young women sitting on stacks of rice bags. Oh, dear, rice bag seating—another new experience, I observe as I accommodate myself. The dark, sinewy women giggle when they see the stranger and shift around to make a space for me. I pause a moment to admire the tiny baby who is suspended from the low ceiling in a hammock made of a nylon sari.

Before I have time to figure out what I am doing here—or realize my mistake—we are motoring down the wide expanse of water. Somehow my curiosity wins out, as I become preoccupied with watching the scenery. Slowly motoring up the wide expanse of brown water, we pass mile after mile of forest standing on high cliffs cut by the river. Occasionally, we pause to pick up cargo or passengers along the way. Each potential port is only an isolated sandy beach without even a single hut. As we approach, in response to the boat’s horn, someone on shore signals with a flag whether they need the boat to stop or not. At one stop several young men, carrying some produce in burlap bags, and an elderly man join us.

Indian persons are very conscientious never to touch me, or any of my belongings. I asked a friend why she thought it was that no man ever helped me with my suitcase when I was boarding a bus in rural areas. I thought it was the reverse untouchability; you do not touch a memsahib (English woman). She thought it was out of fear that I might think they were trying to steal something. So I am quite surprised when this elderly man suddenly grabs my arm and pulls me like a rag doll toward him. In doing so, he saved me from being leveled by five huge bags of rice that came tumbling down from the back of the boat, right where I had been seated. When I realize what has happened and recover, I turn and thank him with a big smile, but he looks down.

By that time we are hours into the trip, and I have started to fade. I am feeling sort of sea sick from turning my head to the side to watch the passing countryside. I look down at my off-white sari, now streaked with brown dust. The proposed three-hour journey has groaned into a long eight-hour one. As usual I am totally unprepared for such contingencies. Unfortunately, I ate all my rations, a banana and packet of biscuits, long ago for breakfast. I did not even bring any water for what turns out to be a swelteringly hot day. Finally, in a ploy to stay conscious, I sit on the shady side of the launch with my feet dangling in the water. A couple of genteel ladies who have boarded the launch insist in sign language that it is not proper—who cares, I'm dying.

I never figure out how these women fit into the picture, for this whole region is extremely primitive and isolated. Later, I examine my Pocket Atlas to verify that, as I suspected, there are no roads to these villages. The river is their only source of supplies and communication. Several villages are perched on the high cliffs, so the villagers have a hard time getting down to the river. Why don’t they put in some steps down to the river? I know the answer before I finish the question. The annual flooding of the Godavari would surely destroy their work.

The going becomes slower and slower. As we pass through shallow areas of the river, the two boatmen have to get out long poles to push us until they find a channel deep enough to motor through. Since it is late March, we are in the dry season until the rains start in Bombay on June 10th. They will fill up the source of the Godavari and send water rushing across India to flood this territory. The worst floods can occur when the sun is shining relentlessly here.

In mid-afternoon we land in what must be a larger village. Just as we drop anchor, the launch that left Rajamundry some two hours later than mine arrives. The boat is loaded with a band of sadhus, or wandering ascetics. You can hear the word ripple through the crowd: “sadhus”—“sadhus”—“sadhus.” These are not the ordinary sadhus that you find wandering in the Himalayas. These are trishur sadhus, named for the three-pronged spear that they carry. They are a Siva sect with an awesome reputation.

Mr. Nambiar, a friend in Madras, had told me about their existence. Sometimes he travels to the real outback areas to set up a factory, in this case, Madya Pradesh. The villagers there were scared to death of these trishur sadhus. Mr. Nambiar told me that when one of them arrived in a village, he would throw his begging bowl and water pot down on the main lane. The villagers knew that they had be filled by the time he returned from his bath at the river. Mr. Nambiar had actually seen the scars inflicted by a holy “trishur” on one villager who had not complied with a sadhu’s wishes. The villagers here will have to feed this whole band. For how many days? Little wonder that there is a noticeable reaction among the people.

This stop turns out to be the port for our rice cargo, so arrangements are made for me to transfer over to a hospital boat docked beside us, so I do not have to wait. They are carrying several sick children, accompanied by their mothers, up the river for medical treatment. Of course, that means another trip across a plank, but what do I have to lose at this point?

At long last, we pull up to a shore and are informed that we have to get off, for the river is too shallow to travel all the way to our destiny, Badrachalam. I really never have understood why some scenes strike themselves so indelibly into the mind, but I know I shall never forget that climb as I drag my tired filthy body over red dirt hillocks. When we enter the village, the first thing I spot is the open-air tea stall. My blob of a self falls in heaps over one of the shaky folding chairs and spills down to the red dirt floor. I manage a smile as I console myself, Just think you’ve done nothing but sit today. About an hour and three cups of tea later, I find myself recuperated enough that my body starts rearranging itself into human form. Then I entertain myself by buying candy for the little band of urchins who have gathered to stare. The proprietor of the tea stall had made sure they did not enter the premises to bother me while I was drinking the tea.

At long last the bus for Badrachalam arrives, just a few minutes after a platoon of police shows up—enough to fill the bus. I have to use my last spurt of energy to scramble among the uniforms to get a seat—no “ladies first” public transport here. When I arrive in Badrachalam, just at dark, I am sweaty, exhausted and excessively dirty from the rice bags. In the bus, I am informed by one of the officers that I am blessed. Tomorrow will be the huge annual festival at the temple, one of the most famous Rama temples in India. These police officers are all going there to help with crowd control.

I also obtained from them the name of the best hotel—booked up. The kind manager gives me the name of another to try and allows me to leave my suitcase in the office. He also promises me that I can sleep on the floor in the banquet room if I find nothing else. Perched in a bicycle rickshaw, I go from one hotel to another, each one with the same story: booked up due to the festival.
Finding no room in any inn, I return to the best hotel to find that the manager has recalled that one room has been reserved for a government official, but he will not be arriving until 5:00 a.m. tomorrow morning. If I promise to vacate thirty minutes earlier, I can have the room.

Just as I am finishing washing my grimy sari, blouse and petticoat (it took eight changes of water), I hear a rap at the door. Since I do not know anyone here, I assume it is some drunk looking for someone else. The rap sounds again, with more force this time.

“Madam, open the door, I must talk to you.”

I throw on a long dress and look out a crack in the door.

“Madam, this is an Officer. He must talk to you,” the desk clerk instructs me.

I open the door to allow the clerk to enter with a man, who says he is Lakshman Rao, after I insist upon knowing his name. His behavior is extremely strange; he keeps examining the walls.

Although my small suitcase is in plain sight, he does not pay any attention to it.

I ask him what he wants several times in a tone that is not particularly friendly. The hotel clerk is rolling his eyes to signal me to be cautious. However, I am in no mood to be condescending. This Lakshman Rao is not in uniform, nor was he able to produce an I.D. card when I requested it.

Finally, he asks me, “Who is with you?”

“No one is with me. I came alone.”

“But why were you looking for another hotel?”

“Simply because they told me there was no room here, as the clerk here can plainly verify. You don’t have to bother me for that information.”

“But what were you doing this afternoon in a small village?”

Now I realize that the police officers must have reported the presence of a white woman on their bus. “That’s where the boat landed that I was on. Don’t you know that the launches cannot make it to Badrachalam because of the shallow water?”

His English is so poor that the clerk has to translate what I am saying. My patience is really running real short. It is late, and I am not looking forward to a 4:00 a.m. arising.

“Madam, you have to register your camera with the police.”

“In the first place, I don’t have a camera with me. In the second place, it is after 10:00 p.m. and I am not going to tolerate another minute of this abject stupidity (bet the clerk didn't translate that phrase). If you need to talk to me, I will come to the police station in the morning. . . at 9 o’clock.”

With that I practically push the two men out the door. The clerk is visibly shaking in his sandals at my behavior. One’s nervous system can only deal with so much in one day, I excuse myself. Within seconds, I flop on the bed in sheer exhaustion after having completed the longest day of my life. An audible groan creeps out of my mouth as I crash into the safety of a deep dark black hole of unconsciousness.

I am out of the hotel by 5:00 a.m. My only thought is to get out of here, but I have to wait until the police station opens so that I can comply with my promise to meet Laksman Rao this morning. After a cup of tea, I head out to find the famous Rama temple. Even at this early hour, hordes of festive pilgrims crowd the temple grounds. A large field by the temple has been roped off into sections with narrow rows. Tonight the whole space will be filled with pilgrims for the main celebration and vigil. I have always thought it unfortunate that the foreigners who invaded Bharata had superior weaponry. With their native ability to go without sleep and survive on a bowl of white rice or a few dry chapatis, I am sure the Barathis would have triumphed in any war of attrition.

The temple is not open yet, but a kind gentleman arranged for me to join a family who is paying for a private ceremony. They do not want me to leave without Lord Rama’s blessing. Of course, the family is the “extended” one; everyone from grandparents to grandchildren is present. They warmly accept me into their flock with smiles and namastes. I gratefully accept their kindness: God knows I need some kind of blessing.

In spite of my best efforts, even questioning several military officers present for crowd control, I cannot find the police station. I finally find a government office where I can report that I am leaving town. In spite of my frustrated mood, the dignified gentleman, Sri Balaiah, insists on greeting me as the honored guest. I am not even one sentence into elaborating my trauma when he interrupts me to inquire as to how I am enjoying his country. Totally disarmed, I let out a deep sigh, and relax. I explain to him that I love his country and was enjoying it immensely right up until the time I met a Godavari launch and Lakshman Rao.

After some fifteen minutes of small talk, I finally am able to give him the details of my situation. I explain that I must leave because the festival has made it impossible for me to find a hotel room. Mr. Balaiah assures me that he will handle the matter with Lakshman Rao, so I can leave town any time I want. As I leave the building, I note a placard: “C.I.D” Division. The C.I.D. is equivalent to our C.I.A. Oh dear, I do feel a moment of compassion for Lakshman Rao. After all, no one wants the C.I.D. after them.

For obvious reasons, an Indian bus suddenly looks like a royal coach. It’ll be a long time before I commit to a trip on a “launch” again. Not in this lifetime, I reassure myself. I find the overland terrain quite pleasant as we wind through hills and forests. We even pass several wonderful ponds filled with lotus and water lily. Come to think of it, I have seen more ponds with lotuses in this general area than anywhere else I’ve traveled.

A week later I read in a local newspaper that one of those launches sank—it was overloaded— drowning 00 people. It had left from Rajamundry packed, so there is an official who is being held responsible there. A launch only holds 25 to 30 people maximum, the report states.

So now that I know the river reality, my vasana to trek up the Godavari is finished, exhausted, crashed, done in. There’s nothing equal to firsthand knowledge. I just had to find out for myself.