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Touchstones: Grandest show and, well...

No VIP suffers any discomfort or injury at the Kumbh mela, only the simple folk get trodden under the bandobast
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No one still has any idea of how many lost their lives on the fateful night of January 29. PTI
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The start of 2025 has been quite frightening so far; the latest is the mid-air collision over Washington’s Potomac that resulted in all passengers losing their lives. Nearer home was the tragic death of many pilgrims in Prayag on the occasion of the Maha Kumbh, an event that is among the holiest pilgrimages to undertake for many Hindus. With the huge publicity that was unleashed on every platform, there was no one — here or abroad — who remained unmoved by the sheer scale of participation or the waves of people who came to take a holy dip this year. No one could give an accurate number: it was as if a sea of heads was headed towards the ghats on the Sangam.

The Kumbh has been recorded as early as Harsha’s reign by the Chinese traveller and chronicler Hieun-Tsang, and it makes one humble to be part of a ritual that pre-dates any other known religious event anywhere in the world. Hieun-Tsang has recorded how the king shed his royal robes and distributed his wealth and then forsook his royal duties to become a monk. All those who have ever lived in Allahabad will recall the special fervour that grips the city of Prayag (its ancient name) at this time and how every house is inundated with relatives and friends who come to take a dip in the Ganga during the month of Magh.

A mela (called the Magh mela) springs up on the banks of the Ganga and continues for a month, with special days marked for a dip in the Sangam or Triveni, where the Ganga, Yamuna and the unseen Saraswati meet in a confluence regarded as divine. Myths and stories abound and are believed no matter how bizarre they may sound to some of us.

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Diana Eck, a Harvard professor of comparative religions, has written a brilliant book, ‘India’s Sacred Geography’, that highlights the significance of the pilgrimages that constitute our cultural and sacred geography. She once came with a band of her students to show them the celebration of the Kumbh. She gave a talk at the Jaipur Lit Fest that year about the phenomenon of a city that comes up magically on the floodplains of the Ganga each year in the month of Magh, and then vanishes just as magically as the river flows back to reclaim its floodplain.

Villagers who come on foot from far away and walk for weeks to reach the Sangam, sadhus and holy men and women from their ashrams and Himalayan caves, the Shankarcharyas, the fearful Naga sadhus who are covered in nothing but holy ash and wear just a loin cloth, with matted locks and red eyes… the list is endless. This year, there were filmstars, celebrities from abroad, politicians and ministers as there was virtually no Indian city that did not find representation there. They all managed to find their own spaces, stay connected and were fed and housed by rich donors and philanthropists. Even our Sikh jathas landed up to serve food and help the pilgrims. To say that this was unbelievable is just a cliche.

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However, the Kumbh also has a history of disasters: in 1954, at India’s first Kumbh after Independence, a stampede caused by the unruly run of the Naga sadhus led to hundreds of deaths. In the last one 12 years ago, a bridge collapse at the railway station led to a similar tragedy, and this year, no one still has any idea of how many lost their lives on January 29. The blame game that follows is also a regular feature and it is only the poor who lose their lives and meagre belongings. No VIP suffers any discomfort or injury. The simple folk get trodden under the bandobast for the rich and famous. There is a lesson there for all to see and condemn.

Let me take you back to 1966, when I witnessed the Purna Kumbh in Allahabad. I was 15 years old then and my two older sisters and younger brother were permitted to spend a night at the mela grounds as my uncle was the mela officer and our parents were unable to accompany us. Even after all these years, I can recall the thrill of being an anonymous girl in a swirl of people: we all held hands as we made our way to the river. Mind you, in those days, girls were guarded like gold and bathing in the open alongside men was unthinkable. And yet, as we stripped down to our basics, there was no sense of shame or awkwardness. That memory still warms my heart.

Later, we ate poori-aloo and halwa from a dhaba (something we would never be normally allowed for fear of infection) and came back with knick-knacks picked up from the colourful stalls all along the mela. I also remember visiting the holy men and women who had special enclosures and seeing Mata Anandmai Ma is a distinct memory. I swear I thought she exuded light from her radiant face as she blessed us.

Sadly, that innocent time is buried now under the glamour and glitz of CCTV cameras, drones and what have you. More people go there to take selfies and out of a fear of missing out (FOMO) than genuine bhakti. And so, the curtains come down on the grandest show on earth.

— The writer is a social commentator

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