The Richest Man in Rishikesh and the Elephant

A Love of India

I adored my life in India.

Like most spoiled, clueless Westerners, on my first trip, nevertheless, I moaned and groaned mightily about the heat, the guaranteed scams and rip-offs, and the daily power outages.

First-timers typically have strong visceral reactions to India. They either hate or love the place. Those enamored are like me; they make repeated visits, never getting “enough” of India. Then, there are those like the European woman who whined incessantly about how much she despised India.

I pondered silently, “Maybe you ought not to have married an Indian from Delhi then?” Poor guy, I adore him, by the way; she left him shortly thereafter.

I went. I returned. I returned. I returned. Four trips over six years. The first spanned five months. Mother India infected my soul.

My love affair began and continues to this day. Never again would I be the same person, woman, or human being. If invited tomorrow to spend the rest of my life there, I’d commence packing and book my ticket.

North India and Rishikesh

Beginning in South India, my travels meandered through eleven states, with no particular schedule, finishing in the North. Rishikesh captured my heart. Ultimately, I lived there for an accumulated three years.

Tucked at the base of the foothills of the majestic Himalayas, the city of some 300,000, is situated on the Ganges River, which is considered sacred to Hindus.

On my final three stays, I rented apartments in a stunning complex Ganga Vatika, where a far-sighted architect designed every unit with breathtaking Ganges River and mountain vistas. Even the locals with vague knowledge about available accommodations, consistently recommended it as the “best spot,” at least in the Ram Jhula area.

I felt incredibly fortunate to have landed there. The location was ideal because I typically walked everywhere. It was five minutes downhill to shops, restaurants, ashrams, and the Ganga. From there, for pennies, I could hop aboard a three-wheeled, diesel-fueled shared auto rickshaw into town for fresh produce, restaurants, shopping needs, and medical care.

Despite its size with one back bench seat, it wasn’t uncommon to end up with twelve or more piled in for brief shared rides along the major roadways, all part of the fun.

A trek in the other direction, uphill through the complex grounds of three separate sections, I (where I lived), II, and III, dead-ended at a paved highway. It ran parallel to the northern heavily wooded areas.

I walked along this thoroughfare countless times to another area, Tapovan, a few kilometers away. It was also a shorter route to the rear entry of the Sivananda Ashram, where I was a regular attendee. Once, I was chastised by an ashram guard for not wanting to allow me to walk in the dark through the “jungle.” Only a non-Indian woman would walk unescorted at night anyway.

A Jungle?

I always pooh-poohed the idea of the jungle.

By convincing him I lived around the corner and had walked the route hundreds (Indians love hyperbole) of times, he begrudgingly consented, permitting my exit through the rear gate. He likely whispered a silent plea to the god Ganesha to ensure my safety.

I had never seen any critters whatsoever along that road, except the ever-present monkey population and regular mangy dogs. The canines roamed freely, not only in Rishikesh but all throughout India.

I had also not heard — yet — about dangerous jungle animals. But, then, I’d not asked anyone either.

To this foreigner, jungles conjured up months of driving sheets of torrential rain images during the Vietnam War. Even the dense Amazon rainforests are forests, after all. A forest, perhaps. Or the woods.

But not a jungle. Pelllleeeease!

Wild Elephants

The longer I was there, though, the more frequent claims I heard about elephants in the “jungle.” Then, a flashback to my first night-time taxi ride into Rishikesh a couple of years prior, from where a decade hence I no longer recall.

I became annoyed the driver was poking along well below the speed limit. Tired after a dozen hours on the road, my foremost primal desires were a bed and a shower. Finally, in admittedly unproud-of-Western-impatience mode, I inquired the reason for our snail’s pace. “Because of the elephants,” he replied.

My reaction then, too, was one of dismissal. Right, I thought, he’s trying to conserve petrol or avoid going home to a wife and four kids.

Over the course of a few months, however, I heard numerous tales of locals espying elephants along the heavily forested half-hour drive between Rishikesh and the local Jolly Grant airport. A lover of the magnificent creatures, naturally, I salivated at the mere thought of seeing one of the living, breathing beasts in the wild.

Alas, it never happened. A fortunate occurrence because despite the unimaginable thrill of such an exotic encounter, I also learned not-so-entrancing tales of swiftly demolished cars, along with the passengers. Then, I was informed that taxi drivers wouldn’t drive a specific route after dark. One particular road was closed at dusk.

Cobras and Jaguars

Next, more stories popped up, all verified.

One was of a twenty-foot-long king cobra hanging in the forest. Enthralled locals rushed gleefully off the few kilometers for photographs. Utterly terrified of all snakes, including a four-inch green water or prairie garter variety, I declined a plethora of offers to view their cherished rare shots.

Then, a shopkeeper, with whom I became friendly from a decent amount of retail therapy in his store, told me he’d seen jaguars in our mutual complex. He lived up the road in the II section. He’d come upon them at least twice while riding his motorcycle home from work. On his bike, he wasn’t endangered.

Hmmm, I walked that road in both directions every day. I cogitated about what might be the recommended protocol if coming upon a jaguar on the road. I couldn’t outrun a wild cat. Smile, “Hi kitty, kitty?” If their palates were inclined toward humans — a chap living there owned dogs, and the hungry felines were in search of sustenance—my fate was doomed from the get-go.

My conclusion: Best not to think about it. Why fret about the unforeseeable and unlikely? For the record, I never saw any wild cats in three residential periods living on the property.

It Is a Jungle, After All

But elephants, cobras, and jaguars? I stand corrected. It is a jungle! I had no plans to change my behavior. Nevertheless, I could accept the characterization.

The Travel Agent in Tapovan

When living anywhere for some time, whenever possible, I cultivate relationships with both residents and merchants. I became fast pals with the produce vendors, organic grocery owners, restaurateurs, and shopkeepers.

Travel agents were still used for a variety of services. I booked bus or train tickets, hired drivers, and sought suggestions. Even if the Internet was available for certain things, I preferred patronizing locals, obtaining recommendations, and enjoying interactions and stories they might share.

For example, Train X might be a wiser choice than Y because its cars were newer. Or Train Z always ran three hours late. Even the deepest research on the Wonderful Worldwide Web or travel sites never reveals the nuances, tricks, and secrets only local residents know.

Travel, to me, is an adventure. An experience. An education. Finding the buried pearls from locals is invaluable.

The Tale

One sunny mid-afternoon, I popped in to see Travel Agent to purchase a ticket. He was deeply immersed in a card game with three pals.

Whether they were playing for money, I’m unsure. Regardless, he was in no hurry to exit the game to assist me. We chatted as they continued playing. Somehow, the conversation came round to whether there were elephants in the area, no doubt raised by me.

Travel Agent replied, “Oh yes, I live in town (a few kilometers away). I see elephants every night from my front porch.” Awestruck, of course, I was dying to know any specifics he might generously divulge. I am a sponge for learning anything new, soaking up local lore, and absorbing unusual tales.

He rather nonchalantly launched into the story about the Richest Man in Rishikesh. No other details aside from his esteemed reputation were shared.

Apparently, the Richest Man in Rishikesh took his daily morning constitutional on a particular road every single day for many years. Sadly, one day, his badly mutilated body was found along his regular route. It was determined the mauling was inflicted by one of the massive pachyderms.

Travel Agent, without missing a beat as he tossed down his card, remarked dryly: “I guess the elephant didn’t know he was the Richest Man in Rishikesh.”

How I love India, its fascinating culture, and delightful people.

I drove along the airport road numerous times but never encountered an elephant.

Moral of the Story

Endeavor to live each day as if it’s your last?

Don’t share roads where elephants tread?

If someone tells you, “It’s a jungle out there,” listen?

Your time is valuable! I’m honored that you chose to spend some of it here.

Victoria 🙏😎

© Victoria Kjos. All Rights Reserved. 2024.