Photos: At the Kumbh Mela, it's a multitude of colour and culture
Religious fervour is at its zenith as Nashik hosts the Kumbh Mela.
I spy the naked sadhu going about his ablutions and lift my camera to frame him in the viewfinder. “Nahi! Photu mat nikalna," he glowers. No, don't take my photo. True to my code as a street photographer, I ignore him and click anyway. As I type with a bandaged forefinger, I can see him now, in slow motion, as he rears and grasps the first thing that he can find ‒ his bathing stone ‒ and flings it at me in indescribable fury. And that's when I felt the stab of pain as the projectile, a pumice stone as I later found out, slammed into my knuckles and opened out an arc of blood.
My camera, over which my hand had instinctively flown, was spared the force of the impact and escaped with just a scratch across the lens hood. The hobnail booted, khaki-clad policeman to my right, clucked sympathetically but didn’t leave his place. “You deserve it, you have no right to be photographing naked sadhus bathing in the holy pond,” was undoubtedly what he muttered to himself.
I hobbled away with as much dignity as my situation allowed, as the crowd clucked and parted to let me leave. In the fresh and cool air of a quiet side lane, I sat down at the base of an ancient banyan tree to lick my wounds and reflect on my sins. I checked my camera. It stayed mute, unyielding and silent. I examined my bleeding hand and cursed my luck.
I am in Trimbakeshwar, a sacred town located 30-km from Nashik and one of the four locations where the Kumbh Mela is held every three years. Like Ujjain, Prayag and Haridwar before it, this year it will be hosting the Kumbh Mela after a gap of 12 years. The local administration has turned the little town into a secure garrison, with bamboo and metal barricades parcelling its narrow lanes and chowks into no-vehicle zones.
Sweepers in blue overcoats industriously push the trash into waiting handcarts. All around is a sense of anticipation. It's a Thursday, and in three days this place is expected to be swamped by over two million devotees who will come to the Kushavarta, the "kunda" or pond considered the source of the Godavari river, to immerse themselves in a show of religious fervour.
“What to do, sir, rooms are just not available,” says Kishore, the manager of the Rushi Prasad Lodge, as he wrings his hands in mock distress. There is just one room vacant and he quotes Rs 2,000, four times the usual rate. This is one of the rare occasions when the inhabitants of this town stand to earn some extra money.
The room is basic but clean and overlooks the main road that leads to the Trimbakeshwar temple, a few hundred metres away. Built in black basalt stone, it rears its bulk against the lushness of the Brahmagiri mountains that form an enviable backdrop to the ensemble of stone structures that constitute the temple complex.
The timber-framed structures, which line the ancient lanes that snake around the temple, sell the usual religious paraphernalia that one would expect in such a place. What strikes you as you stand here is the sense of orderliness and cleanliness, traits that are not usually associated with religious congregations. There's something impassive about the place as opposed to the fierce competitiveness I have witnessed at Benares and Prayag.
The Kushavarta is filled with bobbing heads. Holding their noses, they stay under for imperceptible moments before surfacing with exaggerated gasps. A few feet away, an ash-smeared naked sadhu washes himself. Religious fervour makes you blind to the obvious, I mutter to myself.
The water is murky. Braided nylon ropes keep the devotees from venturing too far. They come in their multitudes, reveling in the cacophony and the slush. Hindu festivities differ from Western ones in this respect. We thrive in the planned confusion brought about by religion. The absence of it makes any festivity appear funereal and sombre.
The Kumbh is a congregation of the faithful from across the subcontinent for whom the administration has created Akhadas, or camping grounds. The various religious sects that gather are grouped in separate camps. Caste, politics and allegiance play a big role in their outlook to life. Consequently, disputes and fights are common and inevitable.
The Juna Akhada, a gigantic edifice in eye-popping saffron, crowns the Neel Parbat, a smooth hillock located at the northern edge of the town limits. Ancient stone steps built, as the local legend goes, by a certain Seth Kapol, are hewed into the mountainside and as you climb them, which involves 30 minutes of heavy breathing, they bring you to the Akhada and offer you a bird’s eye view of the town.
Makeshift plastic tarpaulin tents that line the way are inhabited by wild-eyed, ash-smeared mendicants indulging in a chillum of the good stuff. They call out to you as you ascend and promise to reveal what they have learnt about the meaning, the futility and the mysteries of life, all for a small donation. Sukhdev Baba is one of them. Stark naked and full in girth, he makes for a lazy sight as he lies on his side, one foot folded in a semi-lotus position. His countenance is impassive and serene as he sits beneath the yellow tarpaulin and observes the people passing by. Unlike his belligerent compatriot in the bathing pond, he affably agrees to being photographed and later accepts my donation with a satisfied grunt.
It is here, at the summit, that you begin to understand the geography of the place and what makes it unique. Trimbakeshwar sits in a cauldron formed by a ring of ancient basalt mountains, their silhouettes scarred and twisted by the relentless winds that have scoured them over the eons.
Precipitous cliff faces hasten the rush of rainwater that get funneled into the natural bowl that is the Kushavarta. In the 1750s, Nanasaheb Peshwa built this temple from the local stone, the black basalt that gives this structure its regal air. It houses one of India's 12 jyotirlingas ‒ ancient symbols of Shaivite worship.
You can see this devotion behind the closed, beatific eyes of the women who stand waist deep in the murky waters of the pond, oblivious to the crowds milling around. You see the devotion in the queues that loop around the temple periphery at 4 am.
It's now Friday, the day before the Shahi Snan, or the big bath. There is palpable excitement in the air. At an Akhada at the base of the Neel Parbat, the caparisoned horses attached to the hackney carriages snort and paw the ground impatiently.
An orange-hued hustle of seers and sadhus are waiting at the entrance of the building as they ready a tinseled palanquin festooned with plastic flowers and saffron flags. A naked mendicant keeps the crowd entertained as he tosses his matted locks theatrically in the air. The elderly among the women bow down to him, while the younger keep a wary distance. As the main seer, the Mahant ascends the palanquin and cheers arise from the crowds who have gathered to shower rose petals upon him. The procession winds its way through the town and arrives with a great deal of fanfare and cacophony at the Kushavarta.
Nilesh Shinde drives the battered Maruti Omni van that ferries me and 10 others from the Central Bus Stand at Nashik to the town of Trimbak. He has managed to nearly triple the allowed capacity of four passengers with a combination of harmless badgering, subtle threats and brute force. “What to do sir,” he explains with flawless logic, “the government is not allowing me to shift from LPG to CNG. At the current fuel rates it not possible to offer workable rates to the pilgrims." He speaks with the fervour of an evangelist who assumes he is the saviour of the Shaivite faith. The only way, he argues, is to treble the capacity of the taxi. He drives at breakneck speed through the newly tarred Nashik-Trimbakeshwar road, his forefinger welded to the horn.
Over the squeals of slammed brakes from oncoming traffic, he argues his case against caste-based politics, international crude oil prices, the performance of the current Narendra Modi government and anything else that catches his fancy. Nilesh is the face of the modern commerce that is now the Kumbh Mela. While not as crass as its northern compatriots, the Mela at Trimbakeshwar now straddles the fine balance between faith and commercialisation. Religion is the industry here, and the awed, slack-jawed pilgrims its raw product. How the administration retains the innocent charm and air of trusting religiosity is what matters in the future. This town has much going for it. It's incredibly clean, surrounded by natural beauty and is inhabited by simple, passive people who go about their duties with an unaffected air.
In the meantime, I keep an eye out for naked bathing sadhus with sharp objects within arm's reach.
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My camera, over which my hand had instinctively flown, was spared the force of the impact and escaped with just a scratch across the lens hood. The hobnail booted, khaki-clad policeman to my right, clucked sympathetically but didn’t leave his place. “You deserve it, you have no right to be photographing naked sadhus bathing in the holy pond,” was undoubtedly what he muttered to himself.
I hobbled away with as much dignity as my situation allowed, as the crowd clucked and parted to let me leave. In the fresh and cool air of a quiet side lane, I sat down at the base of an ancient banyan tree to lick my wounds and reflect on my sins. I checked my camera. It stayed mute, unyielding and silent. I examined my bleeding hand and cursed my luck.
I am in Trimbakeshwar, a sacred town located 30-km from Nashik and one of the four locations where the Kumbh Mela is held every three years. Like Ujjain, Prayag and Haridwar before it, this year it will be hosting the Kumbh Mela after a gap of 12 years. The local administration has turned the little town into a secure garrison, with bamboo and metal barricades parcelling its narrow lanes and chowks into no-vehicle zones.
Sweepers in blue overcoats industriously push the trash into waiting handcarts. All around is a sense of anticipation. It's a Thursday, and in three days this place is expected to be swamped by over two million devotees who will come to the Kushavarta, the "kunda" or pond considered the source of the Godavari river, to immerse themselves in a show of religious fervour.
“What to do, sir, rooms are just not available,” says Kishore, the manager of the Rushi Prasad Lodge, as he wrings his hands in mock distress. There is just one room vacant and he quotes Rs 2,000, four times the usual rate. This is one of the rare occasions when the inhabitants of this town stand to earn some extra money.
The room is basic but clean and overlooks the main road that leads to the Trimbakeshwar temple, a few hundred metres away. Built in black basalt stone, it rears its bulk against the lushness of the Brahmagiri mountains that form an enviable backdrop to the ensemble of stone structures that constitute the temple complex.
The timber-framed structures, which line the ancient lanes that snake around the temple, sell the usual religious paraphernalia that one would expect in such a place. What strikes you as you stand here is the sense of orderliness and cleanliness, traits that are not usually associated with religious congregations. There's something impassive about the place as opposed to the fierce competitiveness I have witnessed at Benares and Prayag.
The Kushavarta is filled with bobbing heads. Holding their noses, they stay under for imperceptible moments before surfacing with exaggerated gasps. A few feet away, an ash-smeared naked sadhu washes himself. Religious fervour makes you blind to the obvious, I mutter to myself.
The water is murky. Braided nylon ropes keep the devotees from venturing too far. They come in their multitudes, reveling in the cacophony and the slush. Hindu festivities differ from Western ones in this respect. We thrive in the planned confusion brought about by religion. The absence of it makes any festivity appear funereal and sombre.
The Kumbh is a congregation of the faithful from across the subcontinent for whom the administration has created Akhadas, or camping grounds. The various religious sects that gather are grouped in separate camps. Caste, politics and allegiance play a big role in their outlook to life. Consequently, disputes and fights are common and inevitable.
The Juna Akhada, a gigantic edifice in eye-popping saffron, crowns the Neel Parbat, a smooth hillock located at the northern edge of the town limits. Ancient stone steps built, as the local legend goes, by a certain Seth Kapol, are hewed into the mountainside and as you climb them, which involves 30 minutes of heavy breathing, they bring you to the Akhada and offer you a bird’s eye view of the town.
Makeshift plastic tarpaulin tents that line the way are inhabited by wild-eyed, ash-smeared mendicants indulging in a chillum of the good stuff. They call out to you as you ascend and promise to reveal what they have learnt about the meaning, the futility and the mysteries of life, all for a small donation. Sukhdev Baba is one of them. Stark naked and full in girth, he makes for a lazy sight as he lies on his side, one foot folded in a semi-lotus position. His countenance is impassive and serene as he sits beneath the yellow tarpaulin and observes the people passing by. Unlike his belligerent compatriot in the bathing pond, he affably agrees to being photographed and later accepts my donation with a satisfied grunt.
It is here, at the summit, that you begin to understand the geography of the place and what makes it unique. Trimbakeshwar sits in a cauldron formed by a ring of ancient basalt mountains, their silhouettes scarred and twisted by the relentless winds that have scoured them over the eons.
Precipitous cliff faces hasten the rush of rainwater that get funneled into the natural bowl that is the Kushavarta. In the 1750s, Nanasaheb Peshwa built this temple from the local stone, the black basalt that gives this structure its regal air. It houses one of India's 12 jyotirlingas ‒ ancient symbols of Shaivite worship.
You can see this devotion behind the closed, beatific eyes of the women who stand waist deep in the murky waters of the pond, oblivious to the crowds milling around. You see the devotion in the queues that loop around the temple periphery at 4 am.
It's now Friday, the day before the Shahi Snan, or the big bath. There is palpable excitement in the air. At an Akhada at the base of the Neel Parbat, the caparisoned horses attached to the hackney carriages snort and paw the ground impatiently.
An orange-hued hustle of seers and sadhus are waiting at the entrance of the building as they ready a tinseled palanquin festooned with plastic flowers and saffron flags. A naked mendicant keeps the crowd entertained as he tosses his matted locks theatrically in the air. The elderly among the women bow down to him, while the younger keep a wary distance. As the main seer, the Mahant ascends the palanquin and cheers arise from the crowds who have gathered to shower rose petals upon him. The procession winds its way through the town and arrives with a great deal of fanfare and cacophony at the Kushavarta.
Nilesh Shinde drives the battered Maruti Omni van that ferries me and 10 others from the Central Bus Stand at Nashik to the town of Trimbak. He has managed to nearly triple the allowed capacity of four passengers with a combination of harmless badgering, subtle threats and brute force. “What to do sir,” he explains with flawless logic, “the government is not allowing me to shift from LPG to CNG. At the current fuel rates it not possible to offer workable rates to the pilgrims." He speaks with the fervour of an evangelist who assumes he is the saviour of the Shaivite faith. The only way, he argues, is to treble the capacity of the taxi. He drives at breakneck speed through the newly tarred Nashik-Trimbakeshwar road, his forefinger welded to the horn.
Over the squeals of slammed brakes from oncoming traffic, he argues his case against caste-based politics, international crude oil prices, the performance of the current Narendra Modi government and anything else that catches his fancy. Nilesh is the face of the modern commerce that is now the Kumbh Mela. While not as crass as its northern compatriots, the Mela at Trimbakeshwar now straddles the fine balance between faith and commercialisation. Religion is the industry here, and the awed, slack-jawed pilgrims its raw product. How the administration retains the innocent charm and air of trusting religiosity is what matters in the future. This town has much going for it. It's incredibly clean, surrounded by natural beauty and is inhabited by simple, passive people who go about their duties with an unaffected air.
In the meantime, I keep an eye out for naked bathing sadhus with sharp objects within arm's reach.
