There's a subterranean energy flow here that's not so much beneath the ground as it is buried under mountains of commercialism. Although we did see at least one Ayurvedic Massage center that looked like a Walnut Street salon - from its squeaky clean, minimalist lobbie sporting shelves of mass-production products, to its ad-agency brochure, This shoppe is an anomally here. And certainly not where I'll have my massage. The rest of Luxman is a specific form commercialism in the way of market-stall clutter. Cluttercialism.

It may be an undercurrent, but it can't be denied, that powerful coursing of energy that's not just the surge of the Ganga a mere100 feet away. It's the energy of hundreds of years of thousands of devotees who've left millions of gold-dust footprints on this path.

At 70 and sunny, this day is a perfect invitation for a casual meandering stroll. These sort-of-paved roads encourage mindful walking, with only occasional bicycles and jeeps to be dodged while countless Rishis flow by like vapor trails on a parallel dimension. That's it. That's the feeling. You can feel the convergence of layers of reality here. It's not like the vortexes we experienced at the darghas in Delhi, Agra and Ajmere (Cathedral Rock and the Bell Dome, Sedona). Here, the entire canyon buzzes with the interchange of protons from one level to another to another and back again, faster than the nano-nano blink of an eye, a holographic vibration rather than a movement, a shimmer of effervescence weaving the layers together.

Luxman Julla, where we are staying, is to Rishikesh kind of as Ardmore is to Center City, and our hotel is at the northern edge of this 'suburb.' This isn't Kansas... nor suburban Philadelphia. Every time we step from our door, we're adorned by the bindi painter, "No charge!" although I do end up buying one of his little kits of intensely colored powder and pot-metal decorative stamps for about a dollar. What a hoot, tho - just try to do this for yourself! As I go out again, with my own crude attempt smeared across my brow, he swoops at me, wipes my forehead clean and with a flurry of hands and powder, creates another masterpiece around my third eye. He is truly an artist.

Restaurants and ashrams line the rocky shore of the 2-block-wide 'town' sandwiched between the river and the steep climb of the foothills of the Himalayans. It's a fat kilometer to Ramjhoola bridge, where Kerry and I head, intent upon sampling Ashtanga kirtan and yoga across the river. For four hours we just sort of drift along like butterflies on the breeze of shopping nirvana, sampling the garden of Luxman Julla: pashminas, statuary, semi-precious jewels, diety paintings and yoga clothes; from Nepal, Tibet, and all regions of India. I'm bringing a fabulous singing bowl back to classes, and couldn't resist a handmade pair of lapis blue yoga pants for $6 and a t-shirt of flaming red embroidered with a turquoise Gynesh for just $4. Topped by a deep purple pashmina from Ajmere, and adorned by a rose wood and ohm-medallion bracelet (fifty cents) I'm a walking treasure chest of jeweltones! In one day I've used up my shopping mojo for the entire trip!

Another couple of kilometers south along the west-bank marketplace, Kerrie spots a sign for a Lonely Planet-recommended restaurant. The second story glassed-in porch affords views of the river and lunch is luxurious. From our window table we watch the comings and goings of the ferry-launch. All afternoon, the barge lets off passengers onto the landing below, like the spilling of an upended box of crayolla crayons across the flood-plain floor. Indian's color taste matches their zest for spicy food!

Flavor Restaurant: the onion pakoras are to sing for, and the Chinese fried rice very good as well. The best chai masala so far. Everything's made to order from scratch so it's long in coming, which suites us just fine. We sit and chat, and look, and graze, and hold silence, too. Ahhhh. Two hours later, when we head to the counter to pay our bill (several course lunch for the two of us for under $7), the owner says "I like your attitude around eating - you stay, and talk, and don't talk, and look out over the river. You really taste the food... most people inhale and run!"

Shivanand ashram is lovely, the complex neatly climbs the west bank, hugging courtyards of benches, trees and bogenvalea dotted with Hindu style buildings. It's a sweet place to sit and talk with a yogini we meet. She's 90 if she's a day, narrow of word, wide of thought, and absolutely correct in advising us not to take the yoga class here. Wish we had listened to her. The teacher's Japanese, impossible to understand, rigid, arrogant and pushy, not really a teacher at all, more like a drill sargent. One-size-fits-all yoga. She shoves Kerrie's knee straight in headstand, slaps my hands away from my face because she doesn't like the bandu I'm using, and then tells Kerrie, in shoulder stand, (with no props!) to turn her head and look at her 'neighbor' (!) in order to get the leg position perfect (sort of an inverted eagle). We're both appalled. I made it clear she's not to touch me again, so she ignores me for the rest of the class and I'm able to use the time and space to do modified versions of the more aggressive postures she demands. The hour's not wasted, my aches and pains and bindings release enough to feel the difference.

Released and exhausted, we can't fathom the long walk ' home,' so it's a scooter back to the hotel's neighborhood for us tonight. Walking back across the Juxman suspension foot bridge, we pause often to drink in the view below - colored lights of ashrams reflecting in the rushing waters downstream dot the darkness of a new moon night.

On another patio overlooking the river, we dwell in grace at the close of a wonderful day. Supper is pizza: "No Madame, not American style, Italion style!" Is it the magic of this place, the ionic charge of such a majestic body or water, or for real? - this brick- oven onion, olive and tomatoe pie is better than most I've tasted!