This is a football-sized multi-tiered wet dream of a doll house with processions of what looks like at least 24 karat gold figures: costumed priests, palaces and fanciful aeroplanes and marching as well as flying elephants and camels and horses. It's a pure example of jaipur art. I wonder the total weight of the gold?

Scooter rickshaws putter us to the Nasiyan Jain Temple Siddhkoot Chaityalaya, commonly called the Red Temple, to wonder at its diorama of the creation of the world and all it's realms. This is a football-sized multi-tiered wet dream of a doll house with processions of costumed priests, palaces and fanciful aeroplanes and marching as well as flying elephants and camels and horses. It's a pure example of jaipur art. I wonder the total weight of the gold?

Built in 864, the palace-like structure that holds the glitz is phenomenal in its own right. Grand, solidly marching pillars frame Hindu and Mogul-style arches, and herein, the rich colors haven't been washed or wind-sand-blasted away as they have in other treasures we've explored.

The tables are turned on us at this heritage site as we are made the object of photomania by a group of middle-eastern men. How strange it feels, then silly.

Another three-wheeler ride to Anasagar lake with its water-front promenade and grand pavilions, all of marble. In the 1600s, these housed local officials. In its current rendition as a national monument the park serves respite from the press and mess of the city. Tourists of many countries and religions snap photos of friends and que up,to ride the swan boats. Others stroll quietly or stand leaning upon the marble water's edge railing. We find a deep shadowed pavilion porch away from the crowds to sit. Peace peace bliss.

Telema guides us in a lovely meditation through earth, water, fire and air to ether, and finally to toggle between sinking into peace and sending out light and love.

Of course, we no sooner begin than suddenly our spot becomes a magnet for group after loud group of tourists. Good practice. Receive the sounds and smells along with the weight of being watched and talked about, and use that energy to layer on shields of protection, sentinels of perception, to surrender deeper and deeper still until the depth becomes the vastness. Ahhhhhhh. There it is.

 The bit of yoga I indulge in after the meditation reminds me that my body is being pushed. Hard. Thank goodness I know how to ameliorate the aches and pains I route out, until finally, that sought-for big physical siiiiiiiggggggghhhhh and the tightness melts away.

Back at the Inn, yet another sumptuous repast of a late lunch: panneer saag, roti, rice, a wonderfully light dish of peas & tiny carrots, and a potatoe-type root with toasty crust and warming dust of spice. Mr. B proudly presents today's sweet treat of thin, flat wafers kind of cookie, tastes of sesame and pistachios or almonds, cinnamon.

The afternoon is open, and I've been toying with returning to the cave, the site of yesterday's immense experience. Or would it be better to use meditation to recall and dwell in that space? I decide to return.

Today it's not so much a shock as a recognition, "oh, nice, you're back."

Taking my time, now, time, full zikr of 500, then diminishing zikr to the culmination: "Hu, Hu, Hu" And taking time to sit with the space. Then I am lead to Contemplation of the Heart. The physical heart, poignant with longing, black with sorrow, want, desire; the siir, right heart, awash with rolling waves of compassion, warm and comforting, like being wrapped in the Mother's arms; the qadr, center, solid and fully open, open, open. Again those waves, this time waves of opening outward. Rahim. Unfettered time here is a blessing.

It's a long walk back to the Havali, carrying the love back to the marketplace, the tapestry of humanity, the world.

We've four hours 'till boarding and most of us chose to lounge in the courtyard, with brief forays to local shops for a last minute purchase of local cloth, samosas for a light dinner, and a stock-pile of biscuits and bananas in case the promised 'breakfast' doesn't make it to 3rd class C. Wonder of wonders, "lo! and behold!," what do we find but a Baskin Robbins! Flavor of the day: World Class Chocolate: dark chocolate with pockets of white mouse. :-)

Unable to gain 1st class passage to Rishikesh (the tour companies snatch up the entire lot as soon as it's released), we're apprehensive about this leg of our journey. It turns out not so bad, albeit a bit cramped with sleeping berths stacked 3 to a side, six to an alcove, and about 2 feet of floor space down the middle. The luggage is more of a challenge than our last sleeping trains, where four of us shared the same amount of space, and with two layers of berths, we could at least sit up in bed for that ride. Not so tonight. Once you're 'in,' you're in! Tonight's is a mail train, so it stops at every town and hamlet, passengers debark and board throughout the night, and not quietly. We're perplexed as to how people know their station since the attendants fail to announce approaching towns and most platforms are devoid of any kind of signs. Our strategy is to set phone alarms for ten minutes before scheduled arrival, and since most trains, as every thing in India, are late, should have enough time to gather our growing piles of bags and head out. Tonight it's not a problem at all, since ours is the last stop of the line. Good thing, 'cause we arrive a half hour early, so, using the Arrivals chart, we would have missed it!

Luckily for those of us who struggle to squat, all our trains so far have offered a seated toilet across the aisle from the one marked 'Indian style.' So armed with packets of sterile swipes, my own TP and wipes, 's not so bad.

Breakfast turns out to be, for 50 rupees ( about a dollar), 2 fried disks, a worrisome fluorescent pink mash called 'vegetable pancakes,' and a piece of warm damp toast with a whisper of butter. Hurrah for the miracle of the biscuits and bananas! Thankfully, one of the hawkers who walk end to end and back again brings real chai - the others carry a metal spigotted milk-cans dispensing a hot milk, watery, too sugary mixture which they use for both Nescafé or wimpy tea bag tea in paper cups. Yuck. Gone are the days when real chai could be had in the stations as well as on the trains. Served in rough pottery cups, once drained, the clay vessels were tossed right out onto the track, recycled as ballast. Ah, nostalgia.

On to Rishikesh. After a night of restless sleep disturbed by roudy groups moving on and off the train, I'm looking forward to a quieter couple of days, strolls along the river, yogi meditations and lectures and perhaps a taste of other styles of practice.