REPORTER'S NOTEBOOK 
If you’ve never been
to a really big mela, it’s a bit like an open-air rock concert at the
edge of the sea, but with two important differences - no entrance fee and
no age restrictions. Nobody advertises the mela. It just is. Everybody knows.
You just get there anyway you can - by train, by bus, by foot. And once you’re
there you can sleep anywhere you can find, wash, eat, chat, meet people, sing
bhajans, visit stalls selling just about everything - conch shells, beads,
books, cassettes, even DVDs. At the mela at Ganga Sagar the only thing that
is fixed and immutable is that on the 
great day you take your ‘holy
dip’. Precisely when is a bit more problematical.
I know some Kolkata socialites who’ve
travelled to Sagar for past Makar Sankrantis from Kolkata by motor launch.
But they were VIPs and guests of the government. Ordinary people have to take
the ferry across from Kakdwip. We’re not quite ordinary, but neither
are we special. However, we do need to take the Scorpio across and find somewhere
to stay where our recording equipment will be safe and we can recharge batteries.
The hotel has been completely booked by VIPs for many months. We go to Alipore
to see Mr Choudhary, the Additional District Magistrate of 24 South Parganas.
Letters are typed and signed; a pass for us and the Scorpio. ‘
Go to
the mela office as soon as you arrive. They will look after your accommodation.’
We (Raja, Bijoy, James Ashby and myself - Martine
has returned to the USA to deal with a fiscal deadline) leave early to get
there before the crowds. Fat chance! The Prime Minister is in town, so most
of the main roads in Alipore have become one-way overnight. Round and round
in circles till we finally get out of the city. But it’s a lovely winter’s
day with very little traffic. We’re aiming to reach the loading bay
at Kakdwip by 2 pm, so we can get to the mela grounds while it is still light.
But when we get to Bay No.
8 at Kakdwip we find half of India already there (where did they come from?),
and no ferry. Why the delay? Tides! We’ve missed high tide by thirty
minutes. Now the water in the straits is so low the ferries can’t load.
They’re stranded on the beach like exhausted, snub-nosed whales covered
in mud and oil. We will have to wait another six hours. So we read, walk,
and eat - samosas, pakoras, fresh coconut juice. When in doubt follow the
driver, Tivari has always known where to eat!
Finally we reach the other side, along with
thousands of other Indians. We drive off in our Scorpio. They are herded on
to buses. But the destination is the same - Ganga Sagar, the spot where Ganga
and the sea finally merge. Good roads, little traffic. Suddenly we cross a
bridge and enter an immense fairground. Or is it a film set? Floodlights as
far as the eye can see. And who is waiting for us but Mr Choudhary from Alipore,
transformed into Mela Officer, holding court in a small house on the outskirts
of Sagar City. Another chit is signed: ‘Go to the Information Tower
and give this to DICO.’ An attractive young woman called Malvika Goswami
- the District Information an
d Cultural Officer - is waiting to show us to
our quarters as members of the media. It appears we are the only firangs.
We cross a broad avenue of
loose sand and dart between two stalls, left down an alleyway, to our new
home - individual bamboo and Ganga grass thatched huts with verandah, bedroom,
open-air shower and latrine. One lock, one chair, one bucket, one blanket,
one electric light, one solid wooden bed - all enclosed by a wall 
of Ganga
grass to keep curious eyes out.
There’s a particularly
noisy generator at the end of our block, doubtless powering the floodlights
and the bulbs in all the stalls that front the avenue leading to the water.
Throughout the night, a continuous stream of pilgrims shuffles down past our
huts to the sea, to take a dip, chat and then come back, stopping to buy conch
shells and other souvenirs at these stalls. Some fall asleep on the sand in
this broad avenue. Others head off to other areas in mela city - it’s
all signposted by block. At the h
ead of the avenue is the only solid permanent
structure - Rishi Kapil Muni’s temple.
It’s not the original
by any means. The spot where the sage meditated is now way out to sea under
the advancing tide. Inside the temple are three stone images: Kapil Muni himself,
eyes wide open, looking out to sea with thousands of devotees waiting on his
every word, with Ganga and King Sagar flanking him. The horse of the sacrificial
yagna, which caused all the problems in the first place, stands off to one
side. Next to the temple are rows of tiny stalls. Inside sit naked nagas,
bodies smeared in ash, vaunting the size of their penises in proportion to
the charms of female pilgrims (especially any foreign tourists) who have to
pass their gauntlet to get to the temple and the sea. I ask Raja if the ash
has some religious significance. After all Catholics smear their foreheads
with ash at the start of Lent 
to signify that man comes from dust and will
return to dust.
‘No man, it’s to keep warm! Smearing
ash locks body heat in.’
‘Oh!’
So apparently does mud, which may explain another
image that has haunted me for several years. In 2001, I watched as a man above
Asi Ghat in Varanasi sat in what passed for the Asi stream and slathered himself
with black mud. At the time this seemed the height of madness: that ooze was
probably toxic, certainly full of pathogens. But maybe that wasn’t the
point?
Gazing at this vast scene, trite thoughts come
to mind: this is truly a mela! Not for the tourists or the Indian middle classes.
Definitely not a media event. Of the people, for the people, by the people!
Next morning Jeeta Babu is
seated on a mat, holding court in the middle of the avenue just behind our
compound. His fifteen-foot long tresses, like hawsers on a ship, are stretched
out in front of him. ‘I don’t want to talk with you! I know all
about you.’ Not for the first time microphones are mistaken for cameras.
‘You will get a lot of money for my photo,
won’t you? I won’t give anything.’
Raja asks,’How much money do you want?’
Jeeta Babu is adamant. I can’t blame him.
‘No, I won’t give it.’
Raja tries flattery. I’m staying well
out of this fawning. It won’t work, I know it.
‘You know everything - you have such huge
hair. You are a great man with great thoughts. ’
‘Yes, I also think so!’
Raja doesn’t know when to stop: ‘This
is a place for saints and peace.’
‘Yes I am for all people - but not for
you.’
No point in flogging a dead horse. Time to move
on. I sympathize with Jeeta Babu. Of course, he’s been spoilt by media
attention up in Kolkata. His photo was in The Telegraph earlier this week.
Now he will only talk with a substantial down payment.
Just behind Jeeta Babu are
a group of some fifty peasants wrapped in winter woolens, sitting on the sand
under the Information Tower, bundles around them, waiting for one of their
group to turn up so they can leave the island. Most of them work carving temples
in Udaipur. Their leader is Dhan Singh Kumaut.
‘This is our pilgrimage. We will complete
it and then we will go home. We came yesterday. We’ve already taken
our bath. We leave tomorrow evening.’
In fact they left Udaipur by bus back on December
27th. They’re taking six weeks off from work to go on a yatra around
the entire country. They’ve already been to Haridwar and Rishikesh.
After this they’ll head south to Tirupati, Kanyakumari and Rameshwaram
endin
g up in Dwarka.
It’s a long way from Udaipur. ‘Why
do you make a yatra like this? Purely for religious reasons?’
‘We come to see the gods and goddesses
and worship them.’ But there’s also another very important reason.
‘In this way we’ll meet people on this journey. So yes, it’s
also about meeting people. And it gives peace to the soul.’ What’s
important to them is just being here, seeing where Ganga has washed over the
ashes of Sagar’s sixty thousand sons, and discovering their country
and countrymen. A wonderful reason to make the journey.
But one of the group is missing; the group need
to catch the ferry and get to Kolkata tonight so they can take the train back
to Rajasthan. ‘We have informed the Information Centre.’ That’s
why they’re sitting here, waiting till the missing villager shows up.
In the Watch Tower behind us the P/A is appealing to the missing person -
Ganesh Pal - to come quickly. But another
villager says there’s no need
to worry: ‘He will come here after wandering around.’
Here on the beach everyone wants
to tell me his or her life history. Kailash Baba, for instance, lives on the
banks of the Sipra river near Ujjain He’s done the entire parikrama
of the Narmada twice. (‘Two circles, two thousand, six hundred and eighty
kilometres of the Narmada is the pilgrimage. I’ve done it twice.’)
He walked here from Nasik. After Ganga Sagar he’s off to the Kamakshi
temple near Guwahati in Assam - a long yatra. You name it, he’s been
everywhere: Gaumukh, Gangotri, Haridwar, Allahabad, three times alone to Shiva’s
cave at Amarnath in the Himalayas. And with just a bundle on a stick slung
over his shoulder.
‘These are all your worldly possessions,
I take it, you have on you?’ I ask.
‘This is bedding to lie down on; this
is my blanket. That’s all I have. If I get some food, that’s OK.
And there’s always water from Ganga’
Tulsi Ram is burly, with close-cropped hair.
He’s dressed in a white kurta with an orange scarf. He comes from Mathura-Brindavan.
‘Varsana, to be precise. Radha also comes from Varsana.’ (Note
the present tense.) ‘We call it Brij - the leela area - the playground
of Krishna and Radha. My ancestors were friends of Krishna.’ (Another
wonderful example of how time collapses - it’s the event that is the
defining factor. When is unimportant.) We’re related to a friend of
Krishna’s - Sudama.’
Tulsi Ram also says that tonight something wonderful
will happen: ‘There will be a rain of amrit. That’s why it’s
auspicious to bathe here. People will come from India and all corners of the
world. The gods will drop a rain of nectar here on this area tomorrow, for
the welfare of all the believers. Our souls will be released. This is why
this day is so important.’ So when will Tulsi Ram take his bath? ‘Six
o’clock, as soon as the sun god comes up.’ (I store that away
for future reference.)
Meanwhile, the tide is starting to come in.
As if on cue, a group of villagers seated on the sand starts chanting ‘Radhe, Radhe.’ One of them wanders off, starts playing small cymbals, singing a bhajan to Krishna. Meanwhile, a brass band advances across the beach, preceding a village deity carried on a palanquin, conch shells blowing and women ululating. A hundred yards offshore, a large hovercraft is crisscrossing the bathing area. A Kashmiri terrorist group is reported to have threatened to attack bathers on Makar Sankranti, so the army is taking no chances.
Two women - Babli Jha and
Pramila Mishra from Patna, are doing something odd, scooping sand into a plastic
bag. Not for sandcastles, I think.
‘We will mix it in the foundations of
our houses so our new houses will be blessed,’ they tell me. The thought
had not occurred to me.
Equally odd: why are so many calves on the beach?
Raja is astonished I don’t know the significance.
‘Gou daan - this is for gou daan (donation
of the cow to the puja). You should touch its tail.‘Then you will go
to the next world.’ ‘How?’ I ask.
Raja mutters, ‘This is Baitarini.’
Baitarini is an actual river in Orissa that
is mentioned in several myths in the Ramayana. The devotees here at Ganga
Sagar tell Raja that the waters of the Baitarini are red and its source looks
like a cow’s face. In Hindu mythology Baitarini is the river of life
which you cross to get to the next world. So a cow with its tail painted red
is the symbol of this river. If you catch its tail and take a few steps into
the surf you’re saved. Yet another way to be saved! Raja’s disappointed
I don’t want to perform the ritual. The man leading the calf is not
amused either.
The band is returning down the beach. It’s
probably time to leave and go back up past Kapil Muni’s temple, brave
the nagas, and find somewhere to eat. The tide washes over the pooja offerings
- flowers, sticks of incense, pieces of coconut.
That night I never see a rain
of amrit, not even a mist. I don’t get too much sleep anyway. No one
else can have slept either. The PA system from the Information Tower blares
throughout the night. If there is an official start to the great day, I miss
it. The guidebooks say the priest (which one? From the mandir?) announces
the auspicious moment has arrived and the crowds surge forward chanting ‘Kapil
Muni ki jai’ and plunge into the sea. This may have happened. But that’s
not what I witness.
I peer out at three in the morning. The tide
is so far out and the beach so shallow you have to walk half a mile out before
it ever reaches over your head. Crowds are indeed bathing to chants of Gangaji.
There are also a lot of calves in evidence (mooing in protest or in prayer?),
brass cymbals beating rhythmically on the beach, and everywhere lots of people
talking, having a good time. A night out at the seaside. The conch shell stores
are doing brisk business. I pad back to my bed.
Up again at six o’clock, in expectation
of something momentous. Malvika Goswami, the Cultural Liaison Officer, told
me yesterday, ‘The auspicious time is ten minutes before sunrise till
ten minutes after. A window between six sixteen and six thirty six.’
But nothing seems to have changed much since
my earlier sortie. The tide is still way out. To get to the sea one has to
walk a long way. Same PA blaring, same cows, same clappers, same crowds -
well, they do seem greater. Groups of women are seated on the dry sand near
the Behula and Lakhindar pandals singing bhajans. So many people. Someone
tells me huge crowds have arrived during the night. They surge down the avenue
towards the sea. Village pandits are chanting ‘sab teerth baar baar,
Ganga Sargar ek bar.’
One group of villagers, swaddled
in thick woollens, shuffle in lockstep, held together with a thick rope tied
round their perimeter so no one will get lost on land or at sea. It’s
possibly the one and only time they have seen the sea, except on the ferry
across. Certainly their first time actually in the sea: and all this less
than three weeks after the tsunami. No wonder they look bewildered and apprehensive,
while all around them there’s a raucous cacophony of spontaneous joy.
Conversations with bathers are necessarily brief.
Why get in their way? One fully-dressed man mummified in layers of woollens
is watching the bathers to see how they do it. He says he lives on the island.
Strange to think you could live here and not know all the rituals - the mantras
and the turning seven times in the water. But there has to be a first time
for anything and everything.
A man from Chhapra in Bihar has just come out
and looks very cold. ‘Yes, I’m shivering a little bit. After you
have a bath when you come out you always shiver. It’s the air that’s
cold. But the water is warm. (This is true; when you bathe in the morning,
water always feels warm because of the contrast with the outside temperature.)
It’s my first time, and I wouldn’t miss this for the world. This
bath is very important!’
A husband and wife are scavenging
discarded coconut shells at the water’s edge, obviously offerings to
Ganga left only an hour ago. Is there any fruit left inside? If yes, they’ll
take them back home to resell. They’re quite unashamed about it. In
the city or in the West that would be a big scandal. Dirty, sign of poverty.
Here at the mela it’s so normal no one even thinks twice.
A boy has a pile of green coconuts on a handcart:
‘Fifty paisa. Need to make an offering? Coconuts. Fifty paisa.’
A villager asks: ‘Do you have any daab - green ones?’ They’re
cheaper.
Three women from Nagpur are raking the wet sand.
‘I’m picking up the coins that were
offered to the sea,’ one tells me. I ask her how much she’ll make.
‘Oh about twenty-thirty rupees. Something
like that.’
No trumpets this morning, just big bass dhols
banging rhythmically away, up and down the beach. A quick sample of bathers
suggests the net has been cast pretty wide - Agra, Delhi, Nepal. All of them
say the same thing: ‘This is the most important day of the year. If
I take holy dip here, it will purify me and bring me closer to God.’
A family from Mienpuri in Uttar Pradesh spontaneously
burst into a round, each one singing a different line:
‘This is about Kapil Muni maharaj. He
had done a meditation over here. And all the sons of Raja Sagar, they had
been burnt to ashes over here.’ (soprano)
‘He had given a curse.’ (mezzo)
‘And the Ganga is also here , and she…’
(alto)
‘Raja Bhagirath , he had done the meditation
here standing on one leg...’ (tenor)
‘And it is known as Ganga bath...’
(baritone)
‘Sagar’s sons they get back their
life... the Bhagirath brought the Ganga here.’ (bass)
And on and on it goes.
Two elderly swamis are holding
court on the sand. They have come from Jharkhand, complete with trishul and
bell. They’re playing on a dumroo - a small drum that’s played
in one hand, with a string tied to the middle and beads at either end. When
you shake it the beads hit the drum part and make the sound.
They bathed at four in the morning, spent an
hour praying, and now they’re ready to talk world peace to all and sundry.
One rings a bell, then the dumroo, which is attached halfway down the trishul.
His colleague then blows on the conch and they begin chanting ‘Ganga,
Ganga.’
Raja, trying to be helpful, asks them about
Makar Sankranti. One of them starts telling the story rather well. His colleague
interrupts and goes off on a tangent about a river called Ulta Ganga (which
exists in West Bengal): ‘Normally the Ganga flows from west to east.
But here on this day it is flowing the other way. It is Ulta Ganga. It flows
the other way and at night.’ (The most extraordinary stories get told
here!) They start arguing - verbally, then physically.
‘I’m telling him about Makar Sankranti.
I won’t move. I’ve planted my flag here..’
‘I’ll cut off your....’
‘What do mean? You’ll cut off my...’
A policeman appears from nowhere, tells them
to leave. ‘Come on you two, break it up. Or off to the thana.’
Raja doesn’t bathe or go into mandirs.
He’s been depressed much of this trip. But he’s visibly energized
today: ‘I just can’t believe such a big bath. Amazing. People
are crazy or we are crazy.’
Tivari returns from bathing.
If Sagar’s sons can get back their lives then we all can. Here on the
beach at six thirty in the morning on Makar Sankranti, we look back at our
many months spent together on Ganga. We’re nearing the end of this yatra
down Ganga. But I think both of us also realise this could also be the swan
song of a working relationship that’s lasted now twenty years.
‘This is the end of our yatra,’
I say.
‘Yes this is the end.’ He looks
suddenly solemn, almost sad.
I ask Bijoy which has been the single most memorable occasion on this trip.
He thinks a few minutes, lists all the tirthas he bathed at.
‘Which one? Actually each place has its own significance. But the most
important was Prayag. This is also a very important and historical tirtha.
That’s why people come because they believe that their souls will be
freed if they have a bath here.’
Shivering, Bijoy looks seriously at me:
‘Chief, what a great journey we have
made.’
Indeed we have. It’s hard not to think
in clichés. This really is an extraordinary mass of humanity: the whole
of India really does seem to be here. Fitting that our yatra down Ganga should
end here on this day. I really wouldn’t have missed this for the world.
We have to pack up and get back to the ferry,
the mainland and Kolkata. Slowly and reluctantly I move away back to the dry
sand. I cross the path of a man rattling off the names of gods - great and
small. The mobile phone rings.
‘Hello. Who is it?’
‘It’s Martine, your wife. Calling
from America. Remember me? I need to check something on your Visa bill.’
‘Can you phone back later?’ I tell
her. ‘It’s Makar Sankranti. I need a few moments alone. It’s
the end of a wonderful journey.’
