Pushkar

Johnny the Israeli and I were walking into Pushkar from our hotel when an uncharacteristically large Indian man pressed an orange flower ressembling a flourescent carnation into my swinging hand. "Take to lake for puja. Chalo," He instructed. Pushkar is a holy place, where you can't find eggs, meat, or alcohol, and where Hindus are required to make a pilgrimage journey once in their lifetime. The lake round which the town resides is said to be sacred, I believe the birthplace of Brahma, the surprisingy lesser-favored god who created the universe. I am transferred swiftly off to a lithe, old-as-rocks man wearing a red turban and a once white cloth wrapped strategically around his lower half, who takes my hand after I deposit my sandles with a huge pile of dirty plastic thongs intermingled with polished Gucci knockoffs, and I am led down the white marble steps (ghats) which disappear into the green water of Pushkar lake like a slowly sinking monument. His knees pop forward and he quickly squats way down on his haunches, knees framing his face, in a way that only Indians over the age, of, say 70, can accomplish. We lean forward over the water, and as he mixes rose petals and grains of rice in with fire-engine red- and saffron-colored powder into my outstretched hands I can see the murkey, broccoli soup of a lake wash over the large fish striped like tabby cats who flicker to the surface briefly. I keep a wary eye on the nearest cow, who has a yellow splash of color between its round dewy eyes and a thin red string tied around his large curved horns. As it rumbles from step to step, eating discrded banana peels and depositing huge landmines of banana peels in its most organic form every ten feet or so, its trademark foot-tall hump wobbles. Though generally mild-tempered (and, hey, who wouldnt be when you're considered sacred? These are the happiest damn cows Ive ever seen. They practically preen and coo to themselves their so pampered. Indian cows are the only child of the cow-world), I have been briefly chased once or twice, which isnt much considering the frequency in which they lumber into squealing traffic and steal the occasional sweet lemon from a fruit wallah. Anywho, my puja guy has scooped the lake water into my hands, which i am instructed to splash on my forehead, eyes, and ears while I repeat strange incantations. He stops with his hand in the air and looks at me concerningly, almost worriedly. "Are you married?" I laugh outloud, earning glares from fellow puja participators. If Indians shushed, they would have, but they dont. THey tut. So they tutted. "Why?" I ask suspiciously. " I must know if married, to pray for husband." "Ah. OK. No. He places a small hairy cocount in my cupped hand along with my electric carnation, and then drops a red and yellow string on top; this, you see, is my Pushkar passport. As long as you wear one for the length of your stay in Pushkar, you wont be hassled by priests and "priests", asking to perform the puja ceremony, which is very difficult to weasel your way out of, if so inclined. He mixes some more red powder in with a few drops of lake water, and rubs the paste between my eyes. He bats a few grains of rice out from under the coconut and presses them delicately into the paste. "Put in water," he says, lifting the string and nodding to my hands. "All?" "All." THe coconut bobs in the spreading powder and floating rose petals,which splash gently up over the hungry fish who congregate quickly, testing for something edible. My puja provider touches my head in completion. I rise to make my donation, step gingerly over a creative number of obstacles including but not limited to children, betel spittle, clothes being washed and cow crap, and return back to hunt for my shoes that have been, of course, buried instantaneously.