THE CHARGE OF THE HEAVY BRIGADE
Tension
has been rising steadily over the last forty-eight hours and now the night
is crackling with electric expectation. Attempting to sleep is little
more than a token gesture. Inside my tent I meditate upon the cacophony
of religious fervour that swirls about me. Disembodied Babas jostle the
amplified airwaves alongside garbled lists of missing individuals. In
addition to this a wall of white noise emanates from hundreds of thousands
of campfires tended by chanting individuals. Unlike anything I have ever
heard before it is the sound of approximately ten million people baying
for a bathe in the purifying waters of ‘Mother Ganga’. Lying
awake I feel as if my twenty-year obsession with travelling is being condensed
into this, the ultimate significant bathing day of what has been christened
the ‘greatest show on earth’ - the Kumbh Mela.
Grappling with the concept of the Mela had been sending me into a state of mental meltdown for much of the preceding month. Like a child contemplating infinity, I found as soon as I tried to envisage the spectacle my mind just shut down unable to cope with the information on offer. Pundits were predicting crowds of twenty million for the penultimate bathing day. How can anyone even start to process figures of such enormity? That’s two hundred Glastonburys, twenty Notting Hill Carnivals, or the entire population of London and Birmingham descending on Southend for a spot of camping. From day one of its preparations Mela 2001 was sailing in completely uncharted waters. With an anticipated seventy million visitors over its six week span the event was unquestionably going to be the world’s largest ever gathering. No precedent existed. Without parameters or limitations the whole colossal undertaking was nothing less than a gigantic leap of faith. Repelled and attracted in equal yet extreme measures, the prospect of such an unbridled happening filled me with tantalisingly sweet nightmares. Attendance was both terrifying and mandatory.
Shortly after 5am eight of us assemble ragged from lack of sleep, our breath condensing in the freezing mist. Accompanying me are the remnants of Channel Four’s film crew, responsible for the daily satellite broadcasts going out after the main evening news. Having survived a month of Mela madness they know the form in terms of positioning and approach. This morning we are planning our assault from up river. Waking a sleeping boatman hidden underneath a battered tarpaulin we climb aboard his leaky vessel and row off into the night. As the oars cut through glassy, star spangled waters it is a relief to be momentarily on the fringe of the festival. Nearing the middle of the Ganges a clammy stillness descends, totally at odds with our impending destination.
The Kumbh Mela is co-ordinated around complex astrological calculations determining the most propitious times to bathe. Appropriate planetary alignments are rare, dictating there is only a Mela (quite literally - festival) every four years and a Kumbh (pitcher) Mela every twelve. In addition to this the portents for the 2001 Kumbh made it the most auspicious Mela for over a century. Every one of the millions of pilgrims flocking to Allahabad were essentially heading for the Sangam. Here the shallow, muddy Ganges (over a mile wide at this point) merge with the clearer, deeper Yamuna and the invisible river of myths, the Saraswati. Bathing at this holy confluence, (the Sangam), is believed to have great soul-cleaning powers, absolving the pilgrim of all worldly wrongdoings. My presence at the Mela was initially conceived as an act of outright secular tourism. Yet as I talked it over with assorted friends it became clear to me that I couldn’t go half way round the world and not ‘get in’. At Heathrow I made the decision to renounce both meat and alcohol during my entire trip and completely submerse myself at least one time in ‘Mother Ganga’.
Igniting the sky and warming my bones the sun follows us up river. From being dotted with a patchwork of settlements the banks gradually change into seething, unbroken hives of human activity. Out of the scrambled soundtrack I start to distinguish certain sounds and rhythms, their volumes rising with the temperature. The whole Mela is pulling focus. Starting to move with one body, a palpable and unifying sense of the moment is evolving. We are all converging on the same point. The Sangam is exerting a magnetic force, sucking us into its vortex of frenetic activity. When the site of confluence finally comes into view a scene of biblical magnitude confronts us. Thousands of boats are tied together and crammed with pilgrims preparing for the holy ritual of ‘puja’, it is literally possible to walk from one side of the Ganges to the other without touching water. Around me in every direction all heaven is breaking loose.
Resembling India in microcosm, the Mela’s driving force is entirely spiritual. The Kumbh is essentially a gigantic religious trade fare. Thousands of stages form centrepieces in elaborately shrined and decorated enclosures erected by every conceivable Hindu sect. Host to an infinite variety of Baba blessings, Guru gimmicks and Sadhu sideshows these stages provide the backbone of ‘entertainment’ on offer. Twentyfour-seven the pilgrim can choose from a mind-boggling massala of costumed pageants, yogic teachings, group meditations and tantric workshops to name but a few. These ‘performances’ are all free, designed for the enlightenment of the viewer and usually conducted against a backdrop of over-amplified tabla & squeezebox. Concentrated in close proximity to the Sangam the most prestigious encampments form a ‘downtown’ area in what is a makeshift Manhattan of bamboo and canvas complete with five story temples and fifteen metre high statues. Built on a regimented grid system Mela City is a fully functioning yet amazingly disposable Metropolis. Like a Tibetan sand mandala it is an awe-inspiring testament to the impermanence of all things. Come back in six months and the entire valley will be a raging river, bloated with the rains. Every structure will have been recycled. Nothing will remain, not a single shrine.
Obscuring yesterday’s sandy banks the Sangam is invisible behind a carpet of movement. The landscape is now human. Out in the water I am regretting our lazing in bed till 5am as mooring in our desired location, where we can see the holiest Babas bathing, is out of the question. Whichever way we turn nautical gridlock confronts us. There is a dam of vessels tied together up to six thick stretching across the entirety of the confluence. Gulls screech and circle overhead, tapping into the seismographic energy field emanating from the crowds. One of our crew knows of a sand dune in the middle of the Ganges that will make for an ideal viewing platform for the entire spectacle. The only snag is that we will have to wade through an ocean of boats and bathers to get there. Questioning the sanity of such a plan I remove my shoes and attempt to waterproof my camera bag. I have come this far and, it seems, for the second time in as many days, I am going in.
With my eyes and mouth clamped firmly shut the first thing that struck me was silence rather than salvation. Containing a fair percentage of human effluent, bathing in ‘Mother Ganga’ is a sharing experience in every sense of the word. Water cascading off me, I re-emerged into the late afternoon sunshine officially at one with my surroundings. Smiling faces zeroed in and bombarded me with questions. Westerners so far displaced are subject to intense curiosity. For this reason I had opted to bathe away from the auspicious hours, not wishing to offend or appear intrusive. I need not have worried. During every waking hour I had spent trudging the vast network of dusty Mela City I had encountered nothing but acceptance. Forget everything you know about our puny Western dabblings, Kumbh 2001 was a true peace festival. No matter how colossal the queue, patience abounded. Free food was doled out to those unable to eat and shelter provided for all pilgrims in the form of over a million tents. Amid a skewed blend of deafening tranquillity and whirling serenity the Mela embraced all creeds, cultures and races with open arms.
This morning’s ‘Ganga’ is several degrees colder than yesterday afternoon’s and delivers an unpleasant wake up call. Immersed up to my thighs I wade through a bubbling cauldron of bodies dunking themselves in wild abandon. Thirty meters to my left it is impossible to see where land and water meet due to the surging crowds. Once clear of the giant flotilla I get my first unfettered view of the Sangam’s holiest bathing site. At the exact point of confluence a strip leading up from the water’s edge no more than ten meters wide is barricaded off. From my vantage point it looks as if a giant razor has shaved this thin patch of sand bare of humanity. This is where the most important tribes at the Mela get to bathe. Timings are worked out to the second in a hotly disputed ‘Holy Dip Schedule’. At appointed auspicious moments chosen sects get to experience the Mela with regal fanfare as they bathe in the eye of the storm. Feeling my waist sink under water I pass barricades that run parallel with the shoreline, in place to stop pilgrims getting swept into the murky depths and drowned. Pausing for thought I wonder if we are getting carried away in our desire to be in the right place at the right time.
If the Kumbh was incomprehensible before arrival its mysteries only increase during the festivities. Executed on a meagre budget of two million pounds it is a triumph of order over unimaginable chaos. Amazingly safe it is inconceivable that any such over-subscribed institution could exist outside of India. Within its confines I was surprised to find virtually no rubbish and a level of tidiness unprecedented by any of the country’s major cities. Armies of ‘turd-wallahs’ with trowels and wicker baskets laboured to clean up the continually fowled perimeter embankments. The authorities had promised a disease, trouble and fly-free festival and had delivered against extremely unfavourable odds. Wood smoke at night and dust by day were the only major irritants especially as the reviled spraying of DDT at night has been replaced by sparing use of more environmentally friendly chemicals. Having learnt from other years, the organisers managed to downgrade on potential tragedies lying in wait owing to the huge attendance figures. Back in the fifties 350 were killed in a stampede to the water, a nightmare scenario vividly recreated In Vikram Seth’s ‘A Suitable Boy’. Such claustrophobic images played havoc with my imagination before departure, though in reality I was adequately comforted by the Mela’s spacious, open plan feel. As a safety valve to contain dangerously swelling numbers the organisers even hold the incredible power to stop all rail links and roads bound for Allahabad.
Out in the middle of the river, water is lapping over my stomach as I precariously hold camera and passport aloft. Deep currents threaten to destabilise my balance and tow me under. Muttering profanities I question our collective sanity whilst looking for solid footing in shifting sands. As I contemplate turning back the riverbed rises beneath me and within a minute I am re-united with my shivering, bedraggled colleagues. We may be stranded on an isolated sand-bank but our sorry condition is more than adequately compensated for by the panoramic spectacle before us. The Mela belongs to us. With Maharaja style appointment I set up my tripod and ageing Nikon only to be told that the ‘Juna Akhara’ are next to bathe.
The most devout and revered of any of the myriad of Hindu sects, the Juna Akhara have a reputation that precedes them. Applied in the context of the Mela ‘Akhara’ designates a great congregation of Sadhus. The ‘Shaviva Akharas’ or ‘Naga Babas’ are tribes (of which the Juna Akhara are one) who worship Shiva and embody the harshest forms of religious asceticism. Naked, celibate, dreadlocked and smeared in ash these spiritual wanderers often live in caves and forests on meagre diets of roots and herbs. Shunning all forms of secular life the Naga Babas were founded centuries ago to protect Hinduism from outside influences like Islam and Buddhism. These days they are generally famous in the West because of their ritual smoking of marijuana. Of the Naga Babas the Juna Akhara are the most austere. Not only proficient in religious literature and teachings they are equally well known for their baring and using of arms. At the last Mela they were responsible for machete attacks on a rival Akhara over disputed bathing times. Lives were lost and the Ganges flowed red. Proud, uncompromising and fearsome in appearance the Juna Akhara are the Heavyweight Holy Brigade.
Emerging over the brow of the bank they come waving swords, sticks, tridents and ceremonial axes, their war-like cries reaching me across a hundred-meter divide. Approximating two hundred in number there is a vast range in both age and appearance. Some of the Sadhus are caked in ash, others are garlanded in flowers while the novices have been shaved of all body hair. I am briefly reminded of the film ‘Zulu’, awe-struck at the tribal power of the spectacle. At this moment I could be in any century. Converging at the waters edge the Juna Akhara bide their time, a cosmic alignment must be adhered to and seconds are crucial. The tension that has been building in me all night and for much of the previous month is ready to explode in release. We are all suspended in a theatre of anticipation and I feel as if the whole festival is holding its breath, waiting for the moment, praying for the moment.
And then, with a surging urgency, it is upon us. Charging into the waters the Naga Babas are momentarily lost behind a wall of surf and spray. Some thrash about at the water’s edge, others head out towards the barriers, their wielding weapons glinting in the morning light. The chase is on and salvation is at hand. And still they’re coming, possessed in ecstasy, focused in their mission, bearing down upon the bathing barriers. Immersed to their thighs the fastest Juna Akhara reach the perimeter fence and with a single vault clear it and head out towards deeper waters, out towards a lonely sand-bank and out towards us.
Instantly every sinew in my body is shocked into the present. I am being charged by at least thirty naked, fully armed warriors with a long history of carnage. Continuing filming the Channel 4 producer reassures us that the Juna Akhara are not renowned for unprovoked hostility. Summoning contrary thoughts I recall the plethora of reports I’ve read detailing tensions between the media and the Naga Babas over the course of the Mela. Still, with nowhere to run to we are about to put his theories to the test. Out in the Ganges the first wave of Sadhus are no more than twenty meters away. The whole weight of the Kumbh is being forced through the needle’s eye of the Sangam and transformed into white light. I feel as if this beam of energy is continuing on its trajectory, passing straight through my body and vaporising my soul. Never have I felt more alive, with my hands clasped together and shaking in a combination of fear and cold I meet our deliverers with a bowed head and a spoken greeting of “Namaste, namaste, namaste……”
Singing victory chants the Juna Akhara are amongst us, brandishing swords, waving into the camera and glorying in the moment. As they dance about, transported to another dimension by the culmination of their pilgrimage, I try to take pictures but find my vision is blurred with tears. I am experiencing something for which I have no words. Transcending all expectations the Mela is re-mapping my spiritual geography. This is more than the Greatest Show on Earth, transfixed and moved I am filled with emotions that are transporting me half way to heaven.
.
Grappling with the concept of the Mela had been sending me into a state of mental meltdown for much of the preceding month. Like a child contemplating infinity, I found as soon as I tried to envisage the spectacle my mind just shut down unable to cope with the information on offer. Pundits were predicting crowds of twenty million for the penultimate bathing day. How can anyone even start to process figures of such enormity? That’s two hundred Glastonburys, twenty Notting Hill Carnivals, or the entire population of London and Birmingham descending on Southend for a spot of camping. From day one of its preparations Mela 2001 was sailing in completely uncharted waters. With an anticipated seventy million visitors over its six week span the event was unquestionably going to be the world’s largest ever gathering. No precedent existed. Without parameters or limitations the whole colossal undertaking was nothing less than a gigantic leap of faith. Repelled and attracted in equal yet extreme measures, the prospect of such an unbridled happening filled me with tantalisingly sweet nightmares. Attendance was both terrifying and mandatory.
Shortly after 5am eight of us assemble ragged from lack of sleep, our breath condensing in the freezing mist. Accompanying me are the remnants of Channel Four’s film crew, responsible for the daily satellite broadcasts going out after the main evening news. Having survived a month of Mela madness they know the form in terms of positioning and approach. This morning we are planning our assault from up river. Waking a sleeping boatman hidden underneath a battered tarpaulin we climb aboard his leaky vessel and row off into the night. As the oars cut through glassy, star spangled waters it is a relief to be momentarily on the fringe of the festival. Nearing the middle of the Ganges a clammy stillness descends, totally at odds with our impending destination.
The Kumbh Mela is co-ordinated around complex astrological calculations determining the most propitious times to bathe. Appropriate planetary alignments are rare, dictating there is only a Mela (quite literally - festival) every four years and a Kumbh (pitcher) Mela every twelve. In addition to this the portents for the 2001 Kumbh made it the most auspicious Mela for over a century. Every one of the millions of pilgrims flocking to Allahabad were essentially heading for the Sangam. Here the shallow, muddy Ganges (over a mile wide at this point) merge with the clearer, deeper Yamuna and the invisible river of myths, the Saraswati. Bathing at this holy confluence, (the Sangam), is believed to have great soul-cleaning powers, absolving the pilgrim of all worldly wrongdoings. My presence at the Mela was initially conceived as an act of outright secular tourism. Yet as I talked it over with assorted friends it became clear to me that I couldn’t go half way round the world and not ‘get in’. At Heathrow I made the decision to renounce both meat and alcohol during my entire trip and completely submerse myself at least one time in ‘Mother Ganga’.
Igniting the sky and warming my bones the sun follows us up river. From being dotted with a patchwork of settlements the banks gradually change into seething, unbroken hives of human activity. Out of the scrambled soundtrack I start to distinguish certain sounds and rhythms, their volumes rising with the temperature. The whole Mela is pulling focus. Starting to move with one body, a palpable and unifying sense of the moment is evolving. We are all converging on the same point. The Sangam is exerting a magnetic force, sucking us into its vortex of frenetic activity. When the site of confluence finally comes into view a scene of biblical magnitude confronts us. Thousands of boats are tied together and crammed with pilgrims preparing for the holy ritual of ‘puja’, it is literally possible to walk from one side of the Ganges to the other without touching water. Around me in every direction all heaven is breaking loose.
Resembling India in microcosm, the Mela’s driving force is entirely spiritual. The Kumbh is essentially a gigantic religious trade fare. Thousands of stages form centrepieces in elaborately shrined and decorated enclosures erected by every conceivable Hindu sect. Host to an infinite variety of Baba blessings, Guru gimmicks and Sadhu sideshows these stages provide the backbone of ‘entertainment’ on offer. Twentyfour-seven the pilgrim can choose from a mind-boggling massala of costumed pageants, yogic teachings, group meditations and tantric workshops to name but a few. These ‘performances’ are all free, designed for the enlightenment of the viewer and usually conducted against a backdrop of over-amplified tabla & squeezebox. Concentrated in close proximity to the Sangam the most prestigious encampments form a ‘downtown’ area in what is a makeshift Manhattan of bamboo and canvas complete with five story temples and fifteen metre high statues. Built on a regimented grid system Mela City is a fully functioning yet amazingly disposable Metropolis. Like a Tibetan sand mandala it is an awe-inspiring testament to the impermanence of all things. Come back in six months and the entire valley will be a raging river, bloated with the rains. Every structure will have been recycled. Nothing will remain, not a single shrine.
Obscuring yesterday’s sandy banks the Sangam is invisible behind a carpet of movement. The landscape is now human. Out in the water I am regretting our lazing in bed till 5am as mooring in our desired location, where we can see the holiest Babas bathing, is out of the question. Whichever way we turn nautical gridlock confronts us. There is a dam of vessels tied together up to six thick stretching across the entirety of the confluence. Gulls screech and circle overhead, tapping into the seismographic energy field emanating from the crowds. One of our crew knows of a sand dune in the middle of the Ganges that will make for an ideal viewing platform for the entire spectacle. The only snag is that we will have to wade through an ocean of boats and bathers to get there. Questioning the sanity of such a plan I remove my shoes and attempt to waterproof my camera bag. I have come this far and, it seems, for the second time in as many days, I am going in.
With my eyes and mouth clamped firmly shut the first thing that struck me was silence rather than salvation. Containing a fair percentage of human effluent, bathing in ‘Mother Ganga’ is a sharing experience in every sense of the word. Water cascading off me, I re-emerged into the late afternoon sunshine officially at one with my surroundings. Smiling faces zeroed in and bombarded me with questions. Westerners so far displaced are subject to intense curiosity. For this reason I had opted to bathe away from the auspicious hours, not wishing to offend or appear intrusive. I need not have worried. During every waking hour I had spent trudging the vast network of dusty Mela City I had encountered nothing but acceptance. Forget everything you know about our puny Western dabblings, Kumbh 2001 was a true peace festival. No matter how colossal the queue, patience abounded. Free food was doled out to those unable to eat and shelter provided for all pilgrims in the form of over a million tents. Amid a skewed blend of deafening tranquillity and whirling serenity the Mela embraced all creeds, cultures and races with open arms.
This morning’s ‘Ganga’ is several degrees colder than yesterday afternoon’s and delivers an unpleasant wake up call. Immersed up to my thighs I wade through a bubbling cauldron of bodies dunking themselves in wild abandon. Thirty meters to my left it is impossible to see where land and water meet due to the surging crowds. Once clear of the giant flotilla I get my first unfettered view of the Sangam’s holiest bathing site. At the exact point of confluence a strip leading up from the water’s edge no more than ten meters wide is barricaded off. From my vantage point it looks as if a giant razor has shaved this thin patch of sand bare of humanity. This is where the most important tribes at the Mela get to bathe. Timings are worked out to the second in a hotly disputed ‘Holy Dip Schedule’. At appointed auspicious moments chosen sects get to experience the Mela with regal fanfare as they bathe in the eye of the storm. Feeling my waist sink under water I pass barricades that run parallel with the shoreline, in place to stop pilgrims getting swept into the murky depths and drowned. Pausing for thought I wonder if we are getting carried away in our desire to be in the right place at the right time.
If the Kumbh was incomprehensible before arrival its mysteries only increase during the festivities. Executed on a meagre budget of two million pounds it is a triumph of order over unimaginable chaos. Amazingly safe it is inconceivable that any such over-subscribed institution could exist outside of India. Within its confines I was surprised to find virtually no rubbish and a level of tidiness unprecedented by any of the country’s major cities. Armies of ‘turd-wallahs’ with trowels and wicker baskets laboured to clean up the continually fowled perimeter embankments. The authorities had promised a disease, trouble and fly-free festival and had delivered against extremely unfavourable odds. Wood smoke at night and dust by day were the only major irritants especially as the reviled spraying of DDT at night has been replaced by sparing use of more environmentally friendly chemicals. Having learnt from other years, the organisers managed to downgrade on potential tragedies lying in wait owing to the huge attendance figures. Back in the fifties 350 were killed in a stampede to the water, a nightmare scenario vividly recreated In Vikram Seth’s ‘A Suitable Boy’. Such claustrophobic images played havoc with my imagination before departure, though in reality I was adequately comforted by the Mela’s spacious, open plan feel. As a safety valve to contain dangerously swelling numbers the organisers even hold the incredible power to stop all rail links and roads bound for Allahabad.
Out in the middle of the river, water is lapping over my stomach as I precariously hold camera and passport aloft. Deep currents threaten to destabilise my balance and tow me under. Muttering profanities I question our collective sanity whilst looking for solid footing in shifting sands. As I contemplate turning back the riverbed rises beneath me and within a minute I am re-united with my shivering, bedraggled colleagues. We may be stranded on an isolated sand-bank but our sorry condition is more than adequately compensated for by the panoramic spectacle before us. The Mela belongs to us. With Maharaja style appointment I set up my tripod and ageing Nikon only to be told that the ‘Juna Akhara’ are next to bathe.
The most devout and revered of any of the myriad of Hindu sects, the Juna Akhara have a reputation that precedes them. Applied in the context of the Mela ‘Akhara’ designates a great congregation of Sadhus. The ‘Shaviva Akharas’ or ‘Naga Babas’ are tribes (of which the Juna Akhara are one) who worship Shiva and embody the harshest forms of religious asceticism. Naked, celibate, dreadlocked and smeared in ash these spiritual wanderers often live in caves and forests on meagre diets of roots and herbs. Shunning all forms of secular life the Naga Babas were founded centuries ago to protect Hinduism from outside influences like Islam and Buddhism. These days they are generally famous in the West because of their ritual smoking of marijuana. Of the Naga Babas the Juna Akhara are the most austere. Not only proficient in religious literature and teachings they are equally well known for their baring and using of arms. At the last Mela they were responsible for machete attacks on a rival Akhara over disputed bathing times. Lives were lost and the Ganges flowed red. Proud, uncompromising and fearsome in appearance the Juna Akhara are the Heavyweight Holy Brigade.
Emerging over the brow of the bank they come waving swords, sticks, tridents and ceremonial axes, their war-like cries reaching me across a hundred-meter divide. Approximating two hundred in number there is a vast range in both age and appearance. Some of the Sadhus are caked in ash, others are garlanded in flowers while the novices have been shaved of all body hair. I am briefly reminded of the film ‘Zulu’, awe-struck at the tribal power of the spectacle. At this moment I could be in any century. Converging at the waters edge the Juna Akhara bide their time, a cosmic alignment must be adhered to and seconds are crucial. The tension that has been building in me all night and for much of the previous month is ready to explode in release. We are all suspended in a theatre of anticipation and I feel as if the whole festival is holding its breath, waiting for the moment, praying for the moment.
And then, with a surging urgency, it is upon us. Charging into the waters the Naga Babas are momentarily lost behind a wall of surf and spray. Some thrash about at the water’s edge, others head out towards the barriers, their wielding weapons glinting in the morning light. The chase is on and salvation is at hand. And still they’re coming, possessed in ecstasy, focused in their mission, bearing down upon the bathing barriers. Immersed to their thighs the fastest Juna Akhara reach the perimeter fence and with a single vault clear it and head out towards deeper waters, out towards a lonely sand-bank and out towards us.
Instantly every sinew in my body is shocked into the present. I am being charged by at least thirty naked, fully armed warriors with a long history of carnage. Continuing filming the Channel 4 producer reassures us that the Juna Akhara are not renowned for unprovoked hostility. Summoning contrary thoughts I recall the plethora of reports I’ve read detailing tensions between the media and the Naga Babas over the course of the Mela. Still, with nowhere to run to we are about to put his theories to the test. Out in the Ganges the first wave of Sadhus are no more than twenty meters away. The whole weight of the Kumbh is being forced through the needle’s eye of the Sangam and transformed into white light. I feel as if this beam of energy is continuing on its trajectory, passing straight through my body and vaporising my soul. Never have I felt more alive, with my hands clasped together and shaking in a combination of fear and cold I meet our deliverers with a bowed head and a spoken greeting of “Namaste, namaste, namaste……”
Singing victory chants the Juna Akhara are amongst us, brandishing swords, waving into the camera and glorying in the moment. As they dance about, transported to another dimension by the culmination of their pilgrimage, I try to take pictures but find my vision is blurred with tears. I am experiencing something for which I have no words. Transcending all expectations the Mela is re-mapping my spiritual geography. This is more than the Greatest Show on Earth, transfixed and moved I am filled with emotions that are transporting me half way to heaven.
.
