"Ganges Festival Draws Millions"
by Barry Bearak ("New York Times," Jan. 25, 2001)

ALLAHABAD, India, Jan. 24 — First into the sacred waters were the naga sadhus — the naked mystics — a powder of ceremonial ashes anointing their bodies and swords and tridents brandished in their hands. The more modest among them wore loincloths, though none any wider than the tail of a kite.

Following them toward the ritual bathing platforms were the bearded gurus, seated on great ornamental thrones that were pulled by tractors. Favored disciples hovered near, protecting the revered sages with gilded parasols.

And finally the procession was given over to the pilgrims. Then more and more of them. And more yet.  

And still more. They numbered in the millions, all on a personal search for the divine, there for a miraculous dip into the bracing chill of the merging rivers.

Officials variously put the number at 20 million to 30 million, enough to temporarily make historic Allahabad into one of the biggest cities in the world. But people were spread widely across a vast riverside flood plain. Any count was seat-of-the- pants guesswork.

The faithful had come for the gargantuan Hindu festival known as the Purna Kumbh Mela. It is a six- week fling, and it began on Jan. 9. According to the astrological positions of the sun, the moon and Jupiter, this morning's predawn offered the most auspicious moments of the most auspicious day in this most auspicious of events.

And Allahabad is considered among India's most auspicious cities, home to the "sangam," the confluence of three holy rivers, two of them real, the Ganges and the Yamuna, and one that exists only in myth, the Saraswati.

"How a bath here makes one feel is beyond words, beyond even thought," said one pilgrim, Ravindra Sharma, 72, a retired government employee. "The water flows through you; the water surrounds you. But that doesn't explain it. It's beyond explaining."

The pilgrims, themselves an assortment of ages and occupations, arrived with an assortment of beliefs and expectations. Some said the immersion vouchsafed them eternal salvation, freeing them from the cycle of birth, death and reincarnation; some said it cleansed them of all sin; some said it simply refreshed the spirit.

Whatever the reason, they arrived in multitudes, lined up on the thin and bumpy roads, jostling in the chaotic train stations. The greatest numbers were woefully poor but highly portable. In bundles held on their heads, they carried blankets, cooking utensils and enough food for however long the stay. They slept on the sandy ground wherever weariness overtook them.

The notion of pilgrimage is a powerful lodestar in predominantly Hindu India, a country of more than a billion people. The religion's mythology comes alive within the nation's borders. Gods reside in the Himalayas, and the life-giving Ganges and Yamuna, which start in these heavenly mountains, ripple across India's vast northern plain.

The origins of the Kumbh Mela reside in the ancient memory of this mythology. By legend, gods and demons churned the primeval ocean, summoning treasures from the depths. The gods made off with most of the riches, but there was a fight for the final bounty, the coveted kumbh, or pitcher, which contained the nectar of immortality.

In a chase toward heaven, some of the elixir was spilled onto what are present-day Allahabad, Hardwar, Ujjian and Nashik — marking them as special places. Each of these cities has a Purna Kumbh Mela at 12-year intervals.

Historians say the practice dates back centuries, and the mela, or festival, has commonly included a conclave of the powerful swamis, gurus and yogis of the day. In recent years, the events seem to be growing ever larger. It has now become routine for the organizers to hail each one as the largest religious gathering of all time.

"To be here is to be with all these holy men," Ashi Nath Das, 61, a retired salesman, said while in the midst of his purposeful bath. "You listen to them reading the holy texts, hear them speak. You learn. And after all, the reason for human life is to worship God."

The kumbh is part religious observance and part fair, and the property itself takes on many aspects of a fairground. Vendors sell peanuts in bags made from scraps of newspaper. A hurdy-gurdy man shows off a pet monkey that does headstands. Overhead flies a huge blue balloon, beseeching the faithful to drink Nescafé.

Hundreds of Hindu sects have been given their own campsites. Erected before some of them are huge facades with blinking lights and larger- than-life paintings of an esteemed guru. Some billboards and leaflets are written with exceptional confidence, one promising "the only true teacher of the world," another "the science of absolute knowledge."

If the festival had a main street, it would be the one housing the major akharas, or religious schools. Their holy men are the ones who lead the procession to the bathing ghats, using an assigned order. In the past, the devout have occasionally engaged in fisticuffs about the pecking order for the most favorable times to take the plunge.

Pilgrims often wander among the akhara camps, seeking blessings and observing the holy men, especially the reclusive naga sadhus, many of whom live in forest hideaways and caves.

Just inside the Juna Akhara's gate sits the naga Amar Bharti Baba. A hushed crowd is usually watching him. As an act of renunciation, he keeps his right arm steadfastly lifted in the air like a schoolboy certain he knows the answer. He gave his age as 60 and said he had kept his arm hoisted for half his life or so.

The renounced arm has petrified. His fingers are gnarled, the growth of the nails distorted into long curlicues, like wood shavings. Disciples knelt at his side as pilgrims laid money at his feet. His left arm, as spry as the right one is lame, protectively tucked the larger bills beneath a carpet.

"These are not gifts for me; these are the fruits of my labors," he said of the donated cash. He is well used to being asked the purpose of his arduous penitence. "Only if you do this can you learn why it makes sense to do this," he said with a trace of humor. "You learn the taste of bread only when you eat it."

Around the corner were several younger sadhus in the walking sleep of a meditative trance. Most had matted hair, including one who could toss out a thick braid like the tie line of a boat.

Radhey Puri Naga Baba, 33, was leaning on a swing covered with a folded towel and a garland of marigolds. He said he had vowed to remain standing for 12 years and was now about two-thirds done with the ordeal. His feet are swollen.

This renunciation, he explained, was a learning exercise, teaching him to will away the distractions of pain and pleasure and other attachments to the world.

"This is nothing much that I do," he said, dismissing any suggestion of difficulty. "It is just my way of meditation. There are many others."

Nearby, other sadhus chanted around small fires. Some recited recognizable prayers. Others were more idiosyncratic, one of them muttering a personal poem with a thousand verses all the same: "Where do I go? My mother has died. I have no wife."

But despite the captivating presence of these unusual sadhus — and most sadhus are far less exotic — the mela is more about the common people of India and their devotion to the living traditions of the Hindu faith.

For many pilgrims, the goal of their visit was not just to bathe, but to do it at the prime spot, the sangam. An armada of decrepit but functional boats ferried pilgrims there at 40 cents apiece. Men stripped down to undershorts and lowered themselves into the water. Women waded in in their saris. The Ganges, these days infused with raw sewage as well as religious sanctity, is relatively clean at this hallowed location.

"This brings me complete happiness," said Suraj Bhan Agarwal, a businessman from New Delhi, as he splashed in the water. Like many others, he and his wife, Maya Devi, fashioned their own offering, a palm- sized boat with tinfoil as a hull and coconut, marigolds, incense and coins as the cargo. They poured oil into the tiny vessel and launched it with a prayer.

So many pilgrims wanted to make their way to the sangam that officials pleaded for restraint. "Here in Allahabad, all bathing areas have the same religious value," was a message repeated again and again over loudspeakers.

For so large an event, the mela has so far been run with remarkable efficiency. More than 100 miles of pipelines have provided drinking water without long waits. One-way bridges built on pontoons have kept foot traffic moving in an orderly way, even if the crowds only inch along and the crush of humanity can sometimes seems rib-breaking.

Walking along one bridge was Rathnakar Shetty, a young merchant from Bombay. He had had his ritual bath and was now cold, hungry and utterly joyful.

"My soul is absolutely cleansed," he said as if he himself was surprised at the feeling. He suddenly stopped, which was not a popular thing with those behind him.

But he had something to say he considered profound. It was not anything new, he admitted sheepishly. But he thought it profound nonetheless.

"If you have faith, you get all the benefits God intends," he said. "If you don't believe, you get nothing."