It does not attract seekers and healers in the same way that famous Varanasi does, or the swarms of pilgrims that flood Haridwar, yet Mt Abu’s significance is recognised in the Vedas, the oldest of all Hindu scriptures. There is a sacred energy in these mountains, he says, pointing to the near peaks of the Araveli Ranges, rising up from the dusty Rajasthani plains, stark and brown in the dry May heat.
We’ve arrived in Mt Abu close to the peak of summer, and while we trek through the parched forest ringing the township of Mt Abu, hoping to connect with these divine vibrations (or at least spot one of the sanctuary’s infamous sloth bears), the town itself is humming energetically to a different tune.
At 1200m elevation, Mt Abu is considered to be the only ‘hill station’ in Rajasthan. (1200m is actually piddling by Indian standards, but its high enough to be significantly cooler than the rest of the state). It’s also close to the state border with Gujarat, and as the sweltering summer descends on the plains, thousands of Gujaratis pile into jeeps and tour buses and make their way up the winding road to Mt Abu, where they swarm in the wide main bazaar haggling for souvenirs, taking horse rides and pedal-boating in the half-empty Nakki Lake, which our tiny guesthouse overlooks. Foreign tourists are exceedingly rare here, and it times it feels like we’ve become the main attraction of Mt Abu. The endless requests for photos and repetitive conversations can get extremely tiring, but we’re still oddly touched by a man, hand on his heart, telling us how truly happy he is for his family to meet us, and another Gujarati, who’s never been anywhere further than Mumbai, enthusiastically claim that Australia is “favourite country.”
Even in the midst of crowds of cowboy hat wearing, fairy floss eating, BB gun buying Gujaratis, Rajasthan already had us enraptured by its sheer uniqueness. Rajasthan is the place where Indian mysticism meets Arabian Nights. Palaces in the desert, Rajput warriors with sleek Persian swords, bejewelled temples, turbaned Rajahas with their hookahs, veiled queens and whirling dancers. Devout Hinduism mixed with Mughal opulence. The Rajasthanis must be the most fabulous looking people in India. Elegant men of the desert with their tightly wound turbans, gold earrings and extravagant moustaches, and women with heavy jewellery on every part of the body not covered by vivid sarees embroidered with gold.
On the steep walk back down from a Hindu cave temple, a group of Rajasthani women spontaneously burst into song, and the sound of their collective voices is ancient and resonant and immensely moving.
Less moving, and more puzzling/creepy was the sermon we received from a white clad priest in the ‘Universal Peace Hall’, who explained, among other musings that we would meet him again, in the same place, wearing the same clothes in exactly 5000 years from now. Because history repeats itself every 5000 years, isn’t it?
Mt Abu’s cluster of five Jain temples, called Dilwara, are without a doubt, some of the finest examples of marble sculpture in the world, and some of the most beautiful temple architecture we’ve seen in India. The oldest is a thousand years old, and the white marble more intricately carved than either of us thought was possible. Unfortunately photos aren’t allowed inside the temples – otherwise I’m sure Ben would have taken some fantastic snaps. We had to settle with buying the postcards instead.
The pleasant climate (ie 32 degrees in the day instead of 45 like the rest of Rajasthan) means we can walk throughout the day in Mt Abu without too much fear of collapsing from the heat. Still, Charles suggests we limit strenuous trekking only to the early morning, which doesn’t give us enough time to see the less-disturbed parts of the sanctuary. We don’t see any bears, but we do end up having to report a bushfire on a nearby peak, and we see a mongoose, and a huge deer which jumps in front of us right before we step out to the road to catch our waiting taxi.
On one walk alone along a quiet stretch of road, we look up into the rocky hills and see a near-naked sadhu with a long, feral beard perched on a boulder, legs crossed in a meditative pose. We remember Charles telling us that many yogis still wander the wilder reaches of the sanctuary. We briefly try to meet his gaze but he stares impassively past us, the only soul in Mt Abu who doesn’t seem to notice us at all.
