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A Day at Kumbh Mela

The akhadas don’t want outsiders around; if they find any, they get pinched with iron chimtas

Published: Apr 19, 2010 06:21:00 AM IST
Updated: Apr 19, 2010 12:36:45 PM IST
A Day at Kumbh Mela
Image: Sophie Elbaz/ Corbis

Ariot policeman on my left. A naked sadhu, penis dangling, on my right. Anywhere else, this would be unbelievable. But this was Haridwar, Uttarakhand, on  the day of the Somawati Aamavasya-Shahi Snan at the Maha Kumbh Mela. Nudity is the norm, not the exception.

A friend and I journeyed 1,330 km to witness one of the holiest days in the Hindu calendar and, so far, it had been a smorgasbord of mendicants, pilgrims, sadhus and sanyasis, scouts, policemen in riot gear, and beggars. She, a blonde  American, came here in a quest for spirituality; I, a big city boy who finds small towns exotic, was just there for the show; we both looked like tourists in our jeans and t-shirts, surrounded by lakhs of believers convinced that a dip in the Ganga would wash away their sins.

They came from all over the country; the men in kurtas and dhotis, the women in saris, veils covering their eyes. They have waited years, some their whole lives, for this occasion. An elderly Rajasthani man told me, “This is our last chance to atone. We don’t know if we will be alive the next time this happens.”

Coming in from Delhi, buses drop passengers six kilometres away from the city. Only VIP vehicles are allowed in. We have to walk to our hotel.

Come evening, we visit the camps.  Hoardings and posters for gurus, akhadas and hair oil companies dot our path. I recognise only two faces: Baba Ramdev and Sri Sri Ravi Shankar. Everyone’s cashing in on the largest human gathering in India. A Japanese sanyasin promises to make all your spiritual problems disappear. A baba feeds malnourished African children in one half of a hoarding; the other half shows him talking to a tribe. Both hoardings carry sermon timings. Why is he feeding African children? Doesn’t India have enough poverty? With all the babas getting caught on TV, why would anyone want to listen to them? 

The camps look weary; people stretched out in their tents, tourists walking about in search of pictures, some sadhus either holding court with eager audiences hanging on their every word, or busy cleaning or smoking their chillums. We roam around for a couple of hours, a sort of recce for the next day and then head back to our hotel. We see buses enter from the other entrance to the town; they come straight in to the official bus stand in the middle of the city. People are hanging on everywhere, roofs, windows, bumpers. How do they stay on for all those hours?

We plan to rise early, to take in the early morning bath. But the journey has tired us out (a six-hour bus ride took 14 hours because of detours and traffic jams), and by the time we join the hordes it’s past nine. We try and hurry our way through to get to the ghats but it is difficult. We are just in time to catch the famous Naga Sadhus. The common man has to stand by the side of the road, waiting for the sadhus to walk past to the ghats. Smeared in ash, they roar out prayers to Shiva as they march, an intimidating spectacle; even the cops keep their distance. Most of them have huge bellies. How do ascetics from the forests and mountains nourish pot-bellies?

A villager musters up courage, pushes his way through to the front and shouts out “Beedi!” The Nagas crowd around. His newly-opened packet is empty in seconds. As he reaches for another, a cop thumps him on the back and asks him to move behind. A few Nagas are disappointed.

We try and follow the akhada to the ghats. But everywhere fences force us to follow queues. After the Nagas, a warrior akhada follows; men with swords, spears, knives and steel-edged bull-whips. A boy, not yet a teenager, is particularly impressive with his three-foot sword. He shadow-fights, twirling, leaping, contorting his body in mid-air. Sparks fly when his sword strikes the ground.

A Day at Kumbh Mela
Image: Elizabeth Flock
ONE TRUE SPIRIT: The young woman was the only one meditating at the bathing ghats

We follow the akhada, but run into cops. “Aage allowed nahi hain!” We ask why. He says the akhadas don’t want outsiders around; if they find any, they get pinched with iron chimtas. I recall the small boy with the big sword and quickly nod. Once, the sadhus waged battles for the right to bathe first. Now they take turns in special ghats higher up the river. Commoners bathe in the lower ghats.

We are stuck. We can’t go back because of the sheer numbers; the crowd is forcing us forward bit by bit. The cops try to push us back, but they’re just ten men against lakhs. Finally they swing their lathis at us — for effect, to frighten us. We catch a few blows on our legs all the same.

We consider having a dip ourselves, but the idea of immersing ourselves in water that so many millions have just been in is unappealing. We head back.  On the way, we conclude that neither of us experienced anything remotely spiritual. Being amidst so many holy men and believers should have stirred something. Maybe living in Mumbai has deadened our souls.

And then my friend points to a young woman meditating by the ghat. She is fully clothed, but her hair is wet, indicating she has just had a dip. It strikes us that she was the only one praying; others take their ritual dips and seem to forget the purpose of their pilgrimage as soon as they get out of the river. They wash their clothes, talk to each other, children run about chased by their mothers, all seconds after coming out. It doesn’t seem holy at all.

Of course, we are no better. At least they got into the river.

The next day, when we awake, I figure that the 14-plus hours since the Shahi Snan is enough time for the swiftly-flowing river to have taken away all the dirt and travel dust from yesterday’s crowds. I ask my friend if she wants to take a dip. She surprises me by agreeing.

We get to the ghats in record time. I plunge into the river; the water is cold. As I go under, prayers from my childhood flood my head. I have never felt so refreshed in my life. Ganga tries to pull you away, she wants you. I cling to the chain links in the river.

As we walk back to the hotel, I text my parents that I have taken a dip in the Ganga. My dad replies, “You have washed your sins away. You can open a new account now.”

He knows me too well.

 

(This story appears in the 30 April, 2010 issue of Forbes India. To visit our Archives, click here.)

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