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It’s the noise that hits you first.
A
penetrating, jarring frenzy of raw sound, conjured from a million
whispers, muffled prayers, and heartfelt cries. Hanging like a veil in
the chill nocturnal air, it cloaks the world beyond. And on its
clandestine stage, India’s grandest sacred rite takes form.
Through
darkness tinged with mist and yellow light, a multitude of figures
moves fast toward the water line. With naked bodies adorned in ash, and
bearded faces spellbound, they proceed with chants and incantations down
to the confluence of India’s two holiest rivers. One by one, they wade
into the cold gray current of the Sangam, the meeting point of the
Ganges and Yamuna, in whose waters they are reborn.
As they emerge, cleansed of their sins and purified, another wave of naked sadhus
materializes from the mist behind. Some are clutching tridents, others
long, curved swords. Many wear crisscrossed ropes of orange marigolds
around their necks, along with prayer beads from the hallowed rudraksha
tree. Wave after wave, they immerse themselves in the sacred water
before retreating back into the darkness.
A stone’s throw from the
hordes of naked holy men, a frail stockade fence runs far inland from
the water’s edge. On the other side of it lies an ocean of ordinary
Indians, each of them charged with the same ambition—to strip off their
clothes and immerse themselves in the sacred water. They’ve come from
every region of the subcontinent, and from every corner of the world,
lured by the auspicious moment of planetary alignment—that of Jupiter,
the moon, and the sun. Sanjay Kanojia/AFP/Getty
A
devotional festival for Hindus unlike any other, the Kumbh Mela (which
translates as “Fair of the Urn”) takes place once every four years,
rotating between the cities of Haridwar, Allahabad, Nasik, and Ujjain.
It’s at these points that a few drops of the Water of Immortality are
said to have been sprinkled by the gods in ancient times.
A larger
festival takes place every 12th year when the planetary alignments are
all the more propitious. But, the current Mela is far more sacred still,
a “Maha” (“Great”) Kumbh Mela, taking place once every 144 years. The
last time it occurred, Ulysses S. Grant was in the White House.
Having
begun in mid-January, the festival continues for 55 days, until
disbanding on March 10. In that time an entire tented city will have
grown, lived, and thrived on the flood plain where the Ganges and the
Yamuna converge. Much of the vast canvas encampment is constructed on
soil that normally forms the actual riverbed. The receding waters add an
extra dimension to the faithful, for whom the sacred location is
without equal.
There are still no accurate numbers of how many
souls have attended the 2013 Mela, but it’s likely to reach the 100
million mark—making it the largest religious gathering on Earth in all
human history. Although the entire festival is attended by the masses,
the greatest numbers of pilgrims make their way down to the Sangam to
bathe on specific auspicious days. Devotees wait for handouts of food at the Maha Kumbh Mela in Allahabad this January. Sanjay Kanojia/AFP/Getty
India
is a land well used to large numbers, but even against its
awe-inspiring backdrop, the Kumbh Mela is an experience that defies easy
description. For centuries visitors have been challenged to record what
they encountered there. The first known foreigner to have written his
impressions of the festival was the seventh-century Chinese monk
Xuanzang (though some scholars have doubted whether he actually saw the
Kumbh).
More recently, Mark Twain wrote of his visit to the festival of 1894 in Following the Equator.
Of it, he said: “It is wonderful, the power of a faith like that, that
can make multitudes upon multitudes of the old and weak and the young
and frail enter without hesitation or complaint on such incredible
journeys and endure the resultant miseries without repining.”
In
the century and more since the celebrated American novelist and traveler
passed through, the numbers have swelled exponentially. India’s vast
current network of roads and railroads, not to mention dozens of
national and international airlines, convey pilgrims in tens of millions
to the tent city at Prayag, outside Allahabad in the state of Uttar
Pradesh.
Putting on the festival involves logistics and crowd
management on a jaw-dropping scale. Almost 5,000 acres are allocated to
the fairground, which is divided into more than a dozen sectors,
constructed on a grid. Four electrical substations power the tens of
thousands of streetlights, giving the tent city an eerie yellow glow
between dusk and dawn. There are police stations by the dozen, and
mobile field hospitals, too, meeting points and government offices, fire
stations, shops and cafés, shrines, bandstands, and more than 35,000
makeshift toilets. Naga sadhus, or Hindu holy men, cover themselves in ritual ash on the banks of the Ganges. Adnan Abidi/Reuters
Straddling
the receded waters of the Ganges and the Yamuna, the Mela’s location
makes for a complex geographic patchwork. With pilgrims in constant need
of access to the Sangam, the confluence area, the Mela’s organizers
have erected dozens of impressively sturdy pontoon bridges. Each one is
buoyed up by a series of giant iron drums, with an improvised road
network laid out across the entire tent city, every inch of it floored
in thick iron sheets. The immensity and fine-tuned planning are
reminiscent of a massive military campaign.
But spend more than a
moment at the Mela and you see that it’s not about the logistical
achievement, or the mind-numbing scale, but about what it all means to
the millions of ordinary Indians who have ventured there. In many cases
they have staked every penny they have to travel to this place at the
auspicious moment, to be redeemed and for their prayers to come true.
The extraordinary thing is that everyone there is on the same
wavelength—every man, woman, and child in tune with the next.
Almond-eyed
Assamese bathe at the confluence, along with thick-set Punjabis from
the north and dark-skinned Tamils from the Bay of Bengal. There are
Hindus from the Himalayas and from Kolkata, from the Great Thar Desert,
and from the vast Indian diaspora that spans the world.
Many of
them have arrived laden with sacks of food and supplies, having brought
everything they will need from their villages far away. Every head is
crowned with a bundle, each one packed with pots and pans, rice and
ghee, flour, oil, and fuel. And all the while more people are arriving.
They stream in from every side in single file over the pontoon bridges
through the morning mist. Some are singing, hands clapping, all moving
with a sense of purpose and anticipation, their journey having ended and
just begun. Devotees bathe at the confluence of the holy Ganges, Yamuna, and Saraswati rivers. Daniel Berehulak/Getty
The
thing that sticks in your mind from the first moment you get there is
the sense of goodwill. In the days I spent at the Kumbh Mela, I saw too
many spontaneous acts of kindness to recall—a pilgrim pressing a folded
bill into a blind beggar’s hand; a woman taking off her shoes and giving
them to another who had lost hers in the mayhem; a little boy
presenting his banana leaf bowl of rice to a crippled old man on a cart.
The
Kumbh Mela isn’t about the India we hear of often in the news—the
boom-time India of the skyscrapers, the shopping malls, and the new
jet-set. Instead, it’s about medieval India, the one that holds the
urban modernity in check. An immense cosmic counterbalance, an Indian
Woodstock devoted to peace and love, it’s the distilled essence of the
subcontinent.
Pass a few days at the Mela’s world within a world
and you can’t help but be sucked into it and swept along. As you learn
to block out the ubiquitous hum of background noise, you begin to piece
together the fragments that form the grand mosaic that is the Kumbh.
Sequestered at its heart is the Juna Akhara, the Ancient Circle, a monastic order of sadhus, yogis, and ascetics, a kind of spiritual core. Residing in a cloistered labyrinth of tents, the sadhus
spend their time in devotion. A great many of them are naked, their
bodies caked in ash, their long, matted hair wrapped up in twisted
dreadlocks. When they’re not reclining in the lotus position in
meditation beside the sacred fire, they are sucking hard on a chilam. A
ritualistic clay pipe representing Shiva’s body, it’s stuffed with
hashish. Pilgrims to the Kumbh Mela bedeck themselves with marigold garlands, an auspicious flower. Kuni Takahashi/Polaris
In
lives dedicated to renunciation, the sadhus shun all material chattels.
Many practice feats of austerity or self-chastisement. Some have a few
devotees, but most are focused on repelling, not attracting.
Among
them is Baba Amar Bharti. His right arm wizened and gnarled, he’s said
to have held it up in the air since 1973. Beside him is a holy man whose
body is doubled up on itself, twisted like a circus contortionist.
Nearby on a dais is a pale sadhu
wearing an orange shirt and loose saffron yellow pants. He goes by the
name Rampuri Baba, and has a thick, graying beard and rimless glasses
behind which lie piercing sapphire eyes. He’s giving instructions to a
devotee in fluent Hindi, who touches his feet before ambling away into
the crowds. What makes Rampuri Baba different is that he’s American-born
and bred.
We get to chatting, and I learn that he’s read some of
the books I’ve written. It’s no surprise—he’s read everything from
Gandhi to Proust. I ask what it’s like to be a man worshipped as a god.
Rampuri Baba waves a finger hard in my direction. “It’s not about me,”
he affirms, “but about the order of which I’m a small part. This
institution has the ability to pass learning down through the time. I’ve
been in India since 1971 and have devoted my life to the Ancient Circle
of the Juna Akhara. And in that time I’ve seen that most foreigners
miss the point. You all go on about how a pilgrimage like this is about
nurturing the self. Well, it’s not about the self but the group
experience!”
Rampuri Baba may be part of an ancient order
dedicated to self-realization and charity (they feed more than 50,000
pilgrims at a time for free), but he’s in touch with the brave new world
of social media as well. He’s got a website, and is on Facebook, and he
even sends the occasional tweet. “I’ve got all that stuff,” he says
casually, “and why not? I’m all for it if it spreads the word.” American-born guru Rampuri Baba takes the Kumbh into modernity with the occasional tweet. Nick Danziger
Despite
the American guru’s eagerness to broadcast goodness in cyberspace, his
vows of rejection are slowing the process down. The cloistered Juna
Akhara order is a muffled force against the mighty, well-funded world of
the guru business.
And what a business it is. Away from the naked sadhus, the sacred fires and chilams
stuffed with hashish, a streamlined and well-oiled machine has rolled
in. Having rented the biggest and best spots at the Kumbh Mela, the
self-proclaimed godmen and godwomen attract attention on a whole other
scale.
Unhindered by vows of austerity or renunciation, the
big-business gurus offer their own blends of cosmic enlightenment to the
masses—and have made themselves millions in the process. Some are bent
on political power, and use the Kumbh Mela to rub shoulders with the
voters on an unprecedented scale. For a great many more, the draw isn’t
about political posturing so much as good old-fashioned cash.
The
organization that sticks out in sheer sleekness is that of Her Supreme
Holiness Sai Maa. Born in Mauritius in 1954, the mother of two came to
guruism relatively late. Having been naturalized as a French citizen,
she served on the City Council of Bordeaux (where she has a château) in
France, before turning her hand to becoming a fully fledged god.
Sai
Maa’s mission is Global Enlightenment, and most of her devotees are
middle-class folk from Europe and the United States. With her main
ashram just outside Denver, Sai Maa is constructing another in the shape
of two intersecting hearts, downriver on the banks of the Ganges at
Varanasi.
All dressed in purest white, some with shaven heads, her
devotees have flocked to the Kumbh Mela on long-haul international
flights. They’ve come to bathe at the sacred confluence, and to be in
the presence of the woman they regard as a supreme being. Awash with
blue-eyed assistants, all with blinding perma-smiles, Sai Maa’s
entourage reeks of good, solid American organization. There are press
packs and social-media sites, florid soundbites and merchandising, photo
ops, prayer sessions, printed schedules, and documents summarizing
Maa’s accomplishments. And there are plenty of hangers-on as well. Among the festival’s sleek holy rollers: Sai Maa, whose followers view her as a supreme being. Nick Danziger
During
an audience with Sai Maa, one explains in a whisper that she’s broken
her daily vow of silence in order to speak to me. After a short pause,
there’s a sense of agitation and Sai Maa glides in. On her head is an
ochre-red turban, and on her lips the most serene of smiles. She perches
on a couch in a small room adorned with plastic flowers and strings of
marigolds.
All of a sudden, a stream of American devotees
prostrate themselves at her feet, exultant at being in the presence of
their living god. After much fawning and jubilation, the devotees
shuffle out. When they are gone, Sai Maa erupts into a well-rehearsed
sermon of inner peace and unconditional love. Halfway through, her
BlackBerry rings. She picks it up and chatters away in French.
Fifty
yards from where the godwoman is sitting with scrubbed-clean devotees
waiting at the door, a wizened old woman from Bihar is lying on the
ground. She’s weeping hysterically, her ragged clothing all covered in
mud. “I lost my son in the crowd,” she sobs, “and I don’t know how I
will ever find him again.”
As I watch, a stall keeper selling fried orange jalebis
strides over and helps her up from the ground. He points up to a
loudspeaker that’s blaring a distraught appeal. “You’re not the only one
lost,” he says tenderly. “I’ll take you to the place where you can
speak on this thing, and it will find you your son.” He hands her a bowl
of hot jalebis and together they set off toward the setting sun.
The
next morning, after a night of heavy wind, I was taken to see the
smoldering remains of a large encampment hit by disaster. An electrical
short circuit had sparked a terrible fire, fueled partly by a vehicle’s
gas tank. Amazingly, only two people had been burned to death. Those who
survived were picking somberly through the charred remains. All of a
sudden the sky darkened as though the end of the world had come. A sense
of panic prevailed. Time was running out before the deluge struck.
A
young holy man wrapped in a saffron robe saw me standing in the
makeshift street wondering what to do. Tugging at my wrist, he led me
fast through the maze of uniform tents as the wind whipped up once
again. It was late morning but the sky was as dark as midnight. As the
first raindrops gushed down, the young sadhu thrust me into his tent. His name was Hardwar, and his expression was so composed that I couldn’t take my eyes off his face. The last time the Maha Kumbh Mela occurred, Ulysses S. Grant was in the White House. Daniel Berehulak/Getty
We sat in silence listening to the rain. Behind him was a cluster of sadhus
drawing quietly at their pipes. And beside him was a boy of 14 with
almond eyes and an orange turban wrapped tightly around his head.
Recently ordained into the order of the Juna Akhara, he was lying on his
stomach playing a videogame on his phone.
“We will be leaving
soon,” said Hardwar, straining to make himself heard against the
thunderous roar of rain, “down to Varanasi, where we will camp at the
crematorium ghat. Our prayers here are almost done.”
I
asked what the Kumbh Mela meant to him. Hardwar’s lips were touched with
the faintest tinge of a smile. “It’s a mirror,” he said, “in which is
reflected the heavens, the universe, and the world.”
As the rain
flooded down outside, turning the dust into ankle-deep mud, I told
Hardwar about Sai Maa and her jet-set devotees. He thought for a moment,
then tapped me on the knee. “God descends to Earth and is always
present at the Kumbh,” he said softly, “but to find him you must search
for the most unlikely person. In him or her is God.”
Later that
day, I took refuge on higher ground at Lakshmi Kutir camp. With an
unmatched view down over the plateau on which the Kumbh Mela is played
out, it’s a sanctuary of luxury in which well-heeled Indians and
foreigners hang out. The tents have heaters and electric fans, flush
toilets, and little bars of fragrant soap. There are even chocolates on
the pillows at night. Tragedy struck this year when pilgrims were crushed to death in a train-station stampede. Sanjay Kanojia/AFP/Getty
A
New York couple called Hal and Marge were reclining on a sofa in the
great dining tent, sipping tea from fine porcelain cups. Weighed down
with camera gear and high-end accessories, they had a glow about them,
as if they had been touched deep inside. “This is something we’ll tell
our grandchildren about when we’re old,” said Marge with a grin. “It’s a
human extravaganza, a meeting point of waters and of cultures—a
Disneyland of the Soul.”
Lakshmi Kutir has prided itself on its
green credentials, amid the first Kumbh Mela to be genuinely interested
in protecting the environment. Enormous sums of public money have been
spent to ensure that the sacred waters of the Ganges are not harmed by
the massive influx of people. Plastic bags have been banned in the tent
city, and the water’s edge has been lined in sandbags to prevent
erosion. Despite all the good planning, the levels of organic pollution
in the river, from the colossal stream of untreated raw sewage, have
levied a severe toll, one that will take years to repair.
Back
down at the water’s edge at dusk, another wave of pilgrims was immersing
themselves in the cool gray water. Some were making offerings of little
folded newspaper boats, upon which candles and marigold flowers were
cupped. The naked sadhus may have been heading off on foot to
distant Varanasi but, for the millions of ordinary Indians still at the
Kumbh, it was a moment to savor.
Among the sea of people came an
extended family with a blue cord tied around them so they wouldn’t get
separated in the crush. They lumbered down through the thick mud to the
water’s edge and set about filling containers with the precious Ganga
water before immersing themselves one last time. Mark Twain attended the Kumbh in the 1800s and marveled at the “power of a faith like that.” Kuni Takahashi/Polaris
That
night I drove to the Allahabad Railway Station to take my train. The
route was flooded, and tens of thousands of pilgrims were wading through
the overflowing sewers and conduits. With the traffic gridlock for
miles ahead, I climbed down and joined them, my suitcase on my head.
Inside
the station there were people everywhere. A great many were sprawled
out on the platforms. Some were lying on carpets they had brought from
home, others sharing their food with strangers, or in prayer. The
atmosphere was convivial, a far cry from how it had been a few days
before on which a footbridge had collapsed. In the resulting stampede,
36 pilgrims had been trampled to death.
The dark blue sleeper
train to Delhi rolled in, iron wheels grinding against the tracks. All
of a sudden there was a frenzy of commotion as the pilgrims threw
themselves at the train. As I wondered how I would ever get aboard, I
saw out of the corner of my eye a familiar face. This time it was
smiling—the wizened old woman from Bihar, her son’s hand clasped tightly
in her own.
Tahir Shah’s most recent book is the novel Timbuctoo.
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