Maha Kumbh Mela Part-1: The Pilgrimage

A clear blue sky announces a lovely day as the car speeds away from Trichur along a broad, six-laned highway. Gorgeous, thickly-wooded hillocks come into view, staying in sight long enough to form a memorable sight, before gently making way for nature’s next scenic canvas. The stereo sets the mood with an old favourite, Kishore Kumar’s Pal pal dil ke paas.

It is the first leg of a long pilgrimage by road from Ernakulam in Kerala to the Maha Kumbh Mela at Prayagraj in Uttar Pradesh. The distance to the sacred confluence at Triveni Sangam in Prayagraj, and back, is approximately 4,500 kilometres. A very long journey by any standards, up the spine of the subcontinent, and then down again. And it is to be completed in seven days.

The pilgrims are filled with a sense of apprehension, even foreboding, considering the number of things which can go wrong en route. But then, that’s what prayers are there for, right? Yes, replies the Palghat Gap, so keep driving, for the Tamil-speaking lands beckon.

There is a sense of purpose which gets augmented when the undulating plains spread out, once past the cleft between the Western Ghats and the Cardamom Hills. This journey is a choice, taken because of that other eternal confluence, the one between faith, tradition, and will. It is the prime mover for not just the decision, but for the journey as well. May it last the course.

There is also a sense of self, one which transcends the individual, the immediate, and identities. This pilgrimage is less about the pilgrim, and more about the family – all of them, known, unknown, and yet to be; ancestors, whose actions from aeons before, in their own way, have resonated through the ages and culminated in the present set of circumstances which one experiences as life; extant bonds, familial and of friends, which give meaning to this life; and the generations which have yet to be born. It is a humbling thought.

There is thrill too, because a pilgrimage is also an adventure. Animated chatter erupts on how many sacred rivers will be crossed on this journey to Prayagraj. Everyone gets their lists wrong. In the end, a compromise of sorts is made when the ranking senior declares with resolute finality that all rivers are sacred. More thrill, as you skirt the Nilgiris to make the stiff ascent onto the Deccan Plateau. Gasps, at the first sight of the Cauvery. Sighs of contentment for a tasty cup of tea in Mysore state, in the middle of a reserved forest.

Further north, past Tumkur, there is a sense of amazement at the lunar landscapes so characteristic of the plateau’s southern realms. Monolithic hillocks of pale brown stone, as smooth as silk, or neatly covered with eroded boulders, as if some divine designer had sought to embroider a tapestry as large as a town. The driver’s pidgin geological skills are enthusiastically pressed into service, for details on Cretaceous lava flows, and the mechanics of weathering.

There is a sense of contrast, between the myriad, multi-pronged activities which make up one’s daily routine – work, home, family, friends, chores, reading – and the single-minded objective of the considerable efforts employed here solely for the purpose of this pilgrimage. A contrast as stark as that between the moffusil drabness of the belt between Penukonda, Anantapur, and Kurnool, the sprawling ultra-modern Kia plant at Erramanchi (not far from Puttaparthi), and the refreshingly lush greenness of vast sweet lime orchards. The Deccan Plateau is full of surprises.

When the old Nizam dominions make way for Maratha confederacy lands, when you enter Bhonsle territory and Central India proper, it is a sense of history which reigns. What would it have been like here during the Maha Kumbh Mela of 1739? Bullock carts instead of Cretas and Crystas, horses instead of Harriers. Imagine those times.

Peshwa Baji Rao I had just seized the Malwa plateau, on the heels of his having taken Delhi. It was the first time in some centuries that pilgrims would have made the journey to Prayagraj, free of foreign yoke. How many of the confederate chiefs went for a holy dip? What was the mood like? The records are meagre, but we do know that by the time of the next Maha Kumbh, in 1882, the subcontinent lay squashed under a foreign heel once again (see here for a detailed piece).

It is a time for leisurely cogitation, one way of preventing the arduousness of the trip from affecting you. A time to think of the inherent fragility of Dharma, and what it takes from time to time, to revive and reinstitute it across this sacred land. But the rush starts to intrude. The honking, the crazy driving, the frenetic speeds at which pilgrims hastily progress towards their destination in ever increasing numbers. So much so, that petrol and diesel shortages become rampant from Jabalpur onwards. The smart ones turn off from the main highways to fill up at bunks in small towns, but they are a minuscular minority. The rest lie stranded in long queues waiting for tankers to arrive.

The closer you get to Prayagraj, the greater the frenzy to arrive at the earliest. It is a mass psychosis which inevitably leads to hours-long traffic jams, in Sleemanabad, in Rewa, at toll booths, and on the sharp descent from the Malwa plateau into the Gangetic plains. Never mind. After crossing the Tungabhadra, the Krishna, the Godavari, the Narmada, and skirting the Tapti and the Sone, you finally arrive at the bridge over the Tamas at Chakghat, the last river before Triveni Sangam.

And at the ghats, well past midnight, after the holy dip and prayers, there is a sense of calm, a sense of peace. The body has withstood the rigors of three long days, and the mind sighs in relief that the destination has been reached without incident. Thanks to the Gods. Thanks to Ganga, Yamuna, and Saraswati. Thanks to the blessings of the elders.

It is a deep calm which accompanies you on the return leg, undertaken immediately after the dip, with hardly any respite. The easy banter of the first day makes way for a deep silence of intense fatigue, but the pilgrims do not flag. They press on. A decision is taken that the return leg will be undertaken without hurry, stopping every hour for a cup of tea, or to take in the sights. At Jabalpur, the night’s fare is uthappam, delivered by Swiggy. At Hyderabad, it is ‘South Indian Meals’. Simple food so as to not burden the gut. At Mysore, because you miss the North and the onion pakodas at Rewa, it is missi roti, dal fry, and a curious mixed vegetable dish of extra-terrestrial provenance.

And finally, after seven long days and nights, the Sahyadri Range is crested, and the road through Wayanad commences its steep, twisting descent to the Malabar Coast. Home is at hand. Safely. The invariable audit of travails begins, but it is really of zero consequence: the near misses by mad drivers en route, the hotel booking foul up past midnight at Nagpur, the scramble for alternate accommodation, the mosquitoes, the traffic snarls, the chaotic approach to Triveni Sangam.

The reason is that all of these tribulations pale before the successful accomplishment of the pilgrimage, and the sheer scale of the journey. Instead, there is a sense of relief and gratitude; after 144 years, a member of this family has made the trip, to pray for those who were, are, and will be, with a hope than come the year 2168, a descendant might make a similar trip, seeking salvation for those who have passed on, repentance for the extant, and blessings for the next seven generations.

This is how Dharma is sustained, by forceful effort, and whatever the travails, however toilsome the trip, remember that it cannot be a pilgrimage without hardships. Such is the way of this life.