with Maya Devi, the painful secretary and a guest appearance by Maharaj Shivraj Giri.
We woke up earlyish (the crazy and the faithful preferred to have their bath at the most auspicious time of the Brahma Mahurth which starts at 3am), had some chai and got ready to walk with Maya Devi towards the Sangam. We were not really sure if we wanted to take a dip - firstly we were confused with the events of the last few days, especially the misogyny and the secretary's disciple-cravings, and then of course the dirty water, the crowds, the cold. What purpose does this ritual serve? Is not the festival of the world within the body-pot and the Ganga and Yamuna its energy channels? Is the real dip at the base of the spine where the Ida and Pingala meet and emerge as the one Sushumna? After all Swami Vimalananda's interpretation does make sense, for if a quick dip in the icy waters of our revered-polluted rivers is all it takes to achieve liberation wouldn't most of India be enlightened by now?
Nonetheless we walked along with Maya Devi who had no towels or change of clothes, for she preferred to walk back dripping wet. As we walked towards the confluence we merged into the devotee droves as they marched towards their salvation. The air reverberated with loud-speaker announcements from the police telling people to be careful of unattended and suspicious items and to remember to clear out of the river quickly and keep the bathing queues moving along. And then there were the tragic messages of the lost and innocent - "Krishna Yadav who is wearing green shirt and black pant, your wife Radharani is waiting with child at the lost and found camp. Please come and collect", "Geeta Devi from Behrampur village, Geeta Devi who was last seen wearing yellow saree near Monkey Temple, please reunite with your family who is waiting for you at police booth near the fort" and suchlike.
We finally reached the sacred spot. People undressed in preparation - fat uncles with their white-threads and torn underwear applied mustard-oil over their multi-tyred abdomens, while children cavorted naked, running into the waters screaming and splashing each other without care, older women were unabashed about their sagging breasts, while the younger women hesitantly treaded in with all their clothes. Many stood shivering, offering water to the sun, baptising themselves thrice. While on the straw-covered banks people held up their wet clothes to dry, and groups of women formed make-shift changing rooms with their saris. In between the police took turns at chasing people with their lathis - "move along, give everyone a chance to bathe!"
"It's the world's largest communal bath!" I exclaimed in realisation.
We chose a spot to keep our things, we would take turns to go in - cosmic pilots first, then Maya Devi. Nearby a couple of foreigners surveyed the madness bewildered. "We're as confused as you are", I thought.
And then we went in - GANGA MAI KI JAI!
One thing was for sure - the icy water is intensely invigorating!
Having dried we started to walk back the way we came. Lost and found and other public service announcements continued to echo around us.
As we neared our tent we heard sharp, glottal cries from another tent nearby - "HAI HAI HAI HAI AAAAAAAAALEKH! HAI HAI HAI HAI AAAAAAAAALEKH!" It sounded almost unnatural, like bursts of air involuntarily escaping the mouth of someone having a seizure. As we passed the tent from where the sound emanated a dozen ash-smeared, naked men simultaneously turned and looked straight into our eyes, as the one who was the source of the sounds let out one last loud cry - "AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAALEKH!" and pulled a long, hard drag from a chillum. For a brief moment I switched places, catching my own eyes through the eyes of the screamer as he turned to look at us.
Surreal moment finished, we continued along, debating how we could escape our insistent guru-wannabe. Back at the tent, we quickly packed our bags, ready to make a dash for it. We said our hurried goodbyes and started to leave when a sadhu walked in and informed us that he would escort us to the tent of the secretary. It seemed like there was no escape now, we'd either have to become unwilling disciples or concoct some pretense to get away.
I sighed as I saw his bulky frame in the distance, slowly we trudged towards him, my mind racing. "There you are," he said, "where were you going?"
"We're going to Kashi. We'll be back on the 6th."
He looked uncertain. "Ok," was all he said. Something beyond us had voided his insistence. Relief! We quickly walked away before he changed his mind.
Suddenly we remembered - the Poison Pooja! We turned back and took another route to the riverside, not wanting to cross paths with the Secretary again. Strangely enough his entourage pulled out of a turn onto the road we were on and he passed us. I averted my gaze, and he didn't stop his vehicle to call us.
Having finished our little ritual on the banks of the river, we headed back to the city to get ready for our next journey. It had been a strange few days and we felt like we were leaving with an odd taste in our mouths. But there was still time for one last magical synchronicity for this leg of the journey.
As I navigated our way out, my co-pilot in a moment of truth, stopped to ask for directions (as she usually does, not trusting my navigational skills). We were pointed to the straight and narrow, instead of the broader, common road I had intended to take. As we walked up the alleyway we saw someone we were not expecting to see - Shivraj Giri, an old and powerful ascetic who we had met on the banks of the Ganga three years ago. This was a yogi who had pulled a jeep with his penis (while it was wrapped around a sword), but I was in no mood for more sadhus and walked along trying to avoid eye-contact. Luckily he was engaged in conversation with some foreigners in his tent and we walked past him. I turned to look back and just then he turned around and caught sight of us, in slow-motion, like a movie. "Come", he motioned. And we sat down at his Dhuni.
He was in the middle of instructing his two foreign helpers on how to cook a dal for lunch, and laughed as he told us that these foreigners had much to learn. Then a bit more serious he gave us the two answers we were looking for.
One - "You two are sadhus. A sadhu is not made by vestments, a sadhu is made by his heart and thoughts."
Two - "Many sadhus here, don't think much of women. But where did they come from? Their mothers' wombs. If you don't have respect for women, if you do not respect the great mother, you cannot achieve liberation."
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