Scared of the faithful

MANJU GUPTA

As we weaved our way through them, I could sense the fear. Our driver was overtly overly cautious. I wondered whether it was their overwhelming numbers or the unrestrained joyous kinesics. Some prodding and the driver blurted how a car was trashed and upturned earlier in the day because it had touched one of them. He recounted a similar incident in his own company the previous year. Having suffered the loss of a car, his employer had kept his taxis off the road; this being the first time he let them out after a fortnight — a calculated risk to keep the wolf from the door.

Let me first stop those of you who have conjured up images of us travelling through some Godforsaken land with unruly mobs on the streets. We were in Devbhoomi, the land of Gods, returning from a trek to the Valley of Flowers and our cause for concern was the hordes of pilgrims. Decades ago, I would silently admire the fortitude and devotion of those who believed that bringing holy Ganga water to bathe the Linga at their local shrine made them a true Shiv Bhakt. Over the years, as they have increased in numbers and notoriety, my adulation has slowly turned from dismay and disapproval to plain dread. 

Back then, I found that they were idolised and revered, their feet washed by village elders uncalled for, a little over the top. But it was understandable as a way of social recognition of the marginalised, a time for them to step out of their exclusionary, often humiliating life and claim the centre stage. Establishing proximity with the absolute was a bonus. Now, as rose petals are showered from choppers, politicians make a beeline to honour them, the state administration strives to facilitate their yatra and the police ignore their unruly behavior, I wonder where this is heading. 

Religion is messy and politics makes it messier. As I rode past the chaos, a trail of plastic on the roadside, the stench of human excreta near the shivirs, I noticed that traditional Kanwariyas were missing. The word ‘Kaavad’ stems from Sanskrit, which means a pole on the ends of which pots are hung. The undernourished, impoverished, saffron clad, barefoot man walking on the roadside, with urns tied to a decorated bamboo on his shoulders is a rare sight. In his place were these fighting fit boisterous men, bare chest or wearing matching t-shirts, riding recklessly on motorbikes, jeeps and tractor trolleys, loud music blaring from their vehicles, claiming the road and other open spaces, a sense of entitlement in their demeanour.

Another noticeable development was the use of the National Flag instead of the traditional saffron flag for decoration. Can and should the National Flag be used in a religious function in a country as diverse as India? Is it, as some perceive, a way to establish that all Hindu rituals are cultural and national while minority practices are alien and a nuisance to public order? An issue worth pondering, because when Shiva Bhakti is not enough and some Desh Bhakti has to be thrown in; when devotees sing praise of political leaders instead of the divine, when chants are replaced by loud digital music and when Kanwariyas are neither ‘Bhole’ nor bear ‘Kaavad’, one should be wary, even scared of what is claimed to be sacred and sacrosanct.

(The writer is a gynaecologist based at Gharaunda)