Gujarat, India: Stairway To Moksha (cont.)

We hear no sound but the patting of bare feet and sandals against the stone steps and our labored breathing. Occasionally someone cries out, “Jay Girnari!”—a salute to Lord Shiva. Our white skin attracts shameless stares from fellow climbers, who erupt into dazzling smiles when we echo “Jay Girnari!” 

On and up we labor, stopping occasionally for an espresso-sized shot of fatally sweet chai or a plate of fresh tomatoes sprinkled with masala spices at one of the many stalls. Black-faced monkeys chatter in the leafy trees, and the view of Junagadh far below grows hazier and more beautiful with the ascent.  Though the way is hard and the space tight, no one jostles or pushes out of turn; somehow, everyone fits. 

“I think we stop here,” Vijay says when we reach an impressive batch of temples around 5,000 steps according to Vijay’s count (I lost track somewhere past 500).  I am struggling to keep up, embarrassed by my wheezing, while wizened women with wobbly legs climb steadily past. 

But the view that reverberates before us steals my attention from my quivering calf muscles.  The largest of the stone temples rise from the ground like massive, white Douglas Firs; intricately carved, their pyramid-like roofs offer a sharp contrast to the indistinct hills and city below.  There are an estimated 866 temples on the five peaks of Girnar, in both the Hindu and Jain tradition—and the mountain has been a pilgrimage site since the third century BC. 

Around us, Indians ranging from the barely toddling to ancient slip their shoes on and off at the temple entrances; others have no shoes to break their stride.  For them the trek is truly a holy one; it’s believed that climbing the mountain barefoot ensures you a place in heaven.  Many are sans shoes—though that doesn’t differ much from everyday rural India. 

While we gulp water and watch the slow tide of pilgrims pass by, Vijay regales us with tales of the mountain.  Do you see that rock? he asks, pointing to a cliff that juts from the mountainside.  That is suicide rock, where a man jumped many years ago to his death because of a woman. And I tell you about the races  Every year, our Junadagh people run so fast to the top of Girnar—this year the winner went up and down in one hour fifteen minutes only.

Coaxed by Vijay’s voice, the mountain rumbles out of slumber and becomes something else, something alive.  The trees murmur overhead and the ground sways ever so slightly—or is it just the altitude that has unfastened my mind?  The stream of faces wafts by, some chiseled and wind-worn as path-side gnarled shrubs, others fresh and smooth as sandal-polished stone steps.  The physics of hiking dictate that each step is harder and heavier than the last—but in the eyes of these pilgrims, I see only buoyancy and joy. 

Ahead, the stairs have become so crowded that traffic idles at a standstill, and with the influx of new climbers, the human gridlock quickly grows to where we sit.  Still we witness no complaints, no wayward elbows; there is room for all, agrees the crowd. 

Vijay estimates another four to five hours, mostly waiting time, to reach the summit—on top of the four hours we’ve already been climbing.  He says it’s still possible although his family will be expecting us earlier. 

“Special Gujarati dishes we have,” he reveals. “My sister is making the best roti and spiced vegetables.” 

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