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Of Piety, Pitfalls And Pitstops
In A Dip Into The Kumbh

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Kajal Basu
You go into the Kumbh and come out again not the same person. It's afternoon of the the biggest snaan, the Mauni Amavasya: spread out below is a widest angle, long-range panorama straight out of a roiling scene that Cecil B De Mille would have shot were he making the Mahabharat (Spielberg would have to digitise the scene to pack in the two crore-odd pilgrims before you - you see seven out of the 18 at Kumbh Nagar) pontoon bridges tightly packed with shuffling devotees, being centripetally sucked into a sea of heads milling about trying to find a way to take their purificatory dunk in the river. All the colours are in the warm shades - from (probably) infrared through saffron to sun yellow. The sun is dying, blanked out by gobs of dust and smoke and, for all you know, gratuitous ejections of human methane - the food here is meant for commerce, not digestion, the water for washing your arse after ablution, the air is germ warfare.
You see things you wouldn't tell your mother; you hear things that are a tympanic offence; you smell the dank, hashed-out fug of lives in a state of protracted waiting for salvation. When you hit the Kumbh and settle in, spending the days - and nights - among the sadhus and the kalpavasis and the confidence tricksters, you are witness to things that never make the media.
The Juna Naga with his right arm stuck upwards for the past six years - certainly an orthopaedic condition, not pious self-mortification - getting a rub down by two giggly, vacuous white women he has literally summoned off the streets. The only covering this Naga baba has is a caking of ash - if this flake's not tumescent, it's only because he has been chuffing on ganja since the sun went up and the blood's gone to his head, not southwards.
Another Naga baba at the Juna akhara, who has (apparently) been standing for the past nine years, is said to do everything, ingesting and vacating, while vertical. I'm determined to find out how, so I spend the night outside his tent, within the akhara campus. At about 3 am, he is helped out by an acolyte to the communal shit pit, where he spends the next two hours, squatting, taking a break.
But this reworking of self and reality outside the public eye is hardly the sole prerogative of the Indian sadhus - the urge to con, using faith as an accomplice, is universal. Baba Shiv Parmatma (sic) and his blonde wife, both Swiss, make an impressive couple: both have Nordic builds, idealised in religious Hindu calendar art, soft grey eyes, and are dressed ornately as if ready to shoot for a Bollywood Mahabharat. He says that he is the incarnation of Shiva, his wife of Parvati. To underscore the point, he grips a huge trident made of solid gold - how much the thing cost, and how it got through customs, is anyone's guess. There's not an inch of piety or penance in their carcasses.
You could probably count on five fingers the acreage of piety and penance at this most humongous gathering of the faithful in the world - and they do not belong in the sadhus' campuses. It's also the best human interest photo op in the world, one that will not recur for the next 144 years. By then, god knows what shape faith will have taken, the form and content of the art of making patsies. But one thing is certain - you won't be around to make note of it: by not being at the Maha Kumbh this time, you've missed the biggest lesson in learning in the world.

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Kajal Basu is the Executive Editor of Tehelka

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