No Full Stops in India
Page 12
‘The akharas’, he told me, ‘are the focal point of the Kumbh Mela – the big draw, with their naked sadhus. They are the gymnosophists, the warriors of the faith. They have the right to march in processions to the central point of the Sangam to bathe on the big days, and they guard that right jealously.’
That is not surprising, because the Allahabad Mela is the most important gathering of Hindu holy men. The akharas are monastic orders of militant sadhus. Historians are not entirely clear about their origins, but they are related to the ascetic orders founded by the great Hindu reformer the Shankaracharya. He lived in the eighth or ninth century and is often credited with the final defeat of Buddhism in India, although some scholars argue that Buddhism was already on the way out. The Shankaracharya learnt from his enemies and introduced the Buddhist tradition of monasticism to strengthen the sinews of Hinduism.
The akharas are said to have defended Hindu ascetics against attacks from militant Muslim fakirs, or holy men. Some of them also hired out their services as mercenaries. As with all good soldiers, there was considerable rivalry between the different regiments, which often led to fights. The British administration put strict restrictions on the movement of the akharas’ naked sadhus, or nagas, but even Victorian prudery could not prevent them marching at Kumbh Melas. The administrator of the 1906 Kumbh Mela had had to order a cavalry charge to break up a battle between the nagas. D. I. G. Mishra was to have his own difficulties with these quick-tempered ascetics, although he had taken the precaution of separating the camps of the akharas who followed the god Shiva from those of their long-standing enemies who followed Vishnu.
The akharas were now changing, as Mishra explained to me.
‘Most of the sadhus now wear clothes. They are also out to recruit a better class of person. For many years now there has been intense rivalry between them to attract good scholars, because they realize now that faith must be tempered with reason. They are also anxious to get older people with influence. Everyone has to deal with government - even sadhus – and for that you need influence.’
‘But do many influential people take sannyas [renounce all worldly ties] nowadays? Surely they don't want to give up their modern lifestyle.’
‘Oh yes, plenty do. I think I will take the robe when I have finished with the police.’
‘Will you join an akhara?’
‘I think I will go for one of the modern organizations.’
The great reformer the Shankaracharya formed four monasteries – one in the north, one in the south, one in the east and one in the west – to be bastions of the faith. Each is still headed by a shankaracharya, and three of them had come with their followers to the Mela. A fifth shankaracharya, whose claim to enjoy the Hindu equivalent of apostolic succession is disputed, was also there.
There were hundreds of other holy men and organizations whose pedigrees were not as good as the akharas' and shankaracharyas' but who all had their disciples. Gurus known in the West, like the Maharishi Yogi, were well-represented at this Mela, and so was the Hare Krishna movement. One thousand seven hundred other religious organizations applied for places at the Mela for the first time. Mishra said, ‘We decided the best way to deal with them was to say we would charge for all the facilities they got. We didn't hear from them again.’ The Mela is, of course, a wonderful opportunity for religious organizations to recruit and raise funds, but the competition is very stiff.
Mishra also had to deal with the wandering sadhus, the mendicants who were not attached to any akhara or other religious group. They camped near the free kitchens set up by some of the organizations. Mishra was rather dismissive of the mendicants: ‘They normally become viraktas or wandering sadhus’, he said, ‘because they have lost their families or are frustrated with life. But there are some genuinely spiritual people among them.’
According to Mishra most of the pilgrims came for only one of the big days, but he estimated there were also some 100,000 kalpvasis, pilgrims who came for a longer stay and who took a vow to bathe three times a day in the Ganges, to eat just one meal a day – and that uncooked or cooked by their own hands – and to spend their time meditating and reflecting on the state of their soul.
Mishra told me that he was about to umpire a dispute between the three akharas which followed the god Vishnu. They were arguing with each other over the election of their leader. Two of the akharas had chosen one sadhu and the third another. The dispute had to be resolved quickly, because the leader would be surrounded by special pomp and splendour during the procession of the akharas on the big day. I left the deputy inspector general to judge this spiritual contest and set off to find out more about the Mela for myself.
Hindu sages have said that to learn you have to be like a honeybee, flying from flower to flower to extract the nectar which will eventually make up the honey of knowledge. D. I. G. Mishra had given my nectar-gathering a good start, but as a civil servant he could not talk about the politics of the Mela and of Hinduism.
The Vishwa Hindu Parishad, or World Council of Hindus, which coordinates the activities of many organizations, was present in strength at the Mela. It was leading controversial campaigns to convert Muslims and Christians, and to pull down mosques which it claims were built by Muslim rulers on the sites of Hindu temples they had destroyed. I went to see its president, Shivnath Katju, a retired judge of the Allahabad High Court. His father had been a leading member of Pandit Nehru's secular government.
Katju was small and frail and looked every one of his seventy-nine years. He told me, ‘The Council was formed twenty-six years ago to defend Hinduism. In spite of our independence, Hindus are still under serious attack. The government is always out to appease the minorities, especially the Muslims. We suffered during the Muslim days and we are still suffering now.’
‘But you have freedom to practise your religion. You are not persecuted in any way.’
‘Well, I don't think you are right. There is this issue of the temple in Ayodhya, where our god Lord Ram was born. The Mughals built a mosque there, and it's clear they did so by destroying a Hindu temple, because there are Hindu columns inside the mosque. Images of Ram and Sita his wife have sprung up there. We can only peep at them through locked doors. Ram is under house arrest. If the government doesn't let us build a temple on this site, it will become a very serious political issue.’
I said, ‘The government has suggested compromises which could defuse the issue. Wouldn't it be better to accept one of them rather than risk communal riots?’
‘That’, replied the retired judge firmly, ‘is the problem. Because we are the majority, we are always being asked to make sacrifices to placate the minorities. We can't go on like that.’
Although its president insisted that the Vishwa Hindu Parishad was not inciting religious hatred, the sadhus and saints who gathered for a special meeting under the Parishad's banner did just that. The stage in the vast tented pavilion on Kumbhnagar's main road was crowded with holy men wearing saffron, lemon-yellow, dark-red or white robes. Some were old and frail; some young, sleek-skinned and prosperous. Some were lean and intense, and some rather stout and somnolent. Thousands of people sat shoulder to shoulder on straw strewn on the floor of the pavilion, and thousands more stood outside listening to the speeches on loudspeakers. They shouted, ‘Long live Mother India. Long live the holy place where Ram was born. Long live our mother the cow!’ and many other Hindu slogans. Women stuffed notes into collection boxes tied to posts supporting the pavilion; the men seemed less generous. A thin sadhu with a greying beard ranted over the loudspeaker system: ‘The Muslims stole all our temples. They stole our land. There is Inglistan for the English, Pakistan for the Muslims, there should be Hindustan for the Hindus. Now is the time to fight back. We should undo partition and make our beloved Bharat Mata, Mother India, one again. We will make every sacrifice to achieve our sacred end, to defend Hinduism, and to restore Bharat Mata. Raise your hands if you are ready to sacrifice your lives for Lord Ram!’
A portly white-bearded sadhu bellowed hoarsely, ‘This holy place where we have gathered was known to Hindus as “Prayag”. It was the Muslims who called it “Allahabad”. It's our misfortune that after independence our governments, out of their greed for Muslim votes, have refused to restore the name “Prayag”. We must stand and fight for Hindustan.’
Suddenly the crowd became restless. A murmur went round the pavilion: ‘The baba is coming.’ The sadhus on the platform tried to recapture the crowd's attention by shouting slogans. Marshals ordered people to sit down, but no one heeded them. All eyes were on a wooden platform built just above the right side of the stage. A young man wearing just a white loincloth and a sacred thread, his hair matted and his forehead marked with the tilak of Vishnu, came through the curtains, dusted the platform and spread a white sheet. The sadhus on the stage gave up: the legendary Devraha Baba was about to make his entrance.
It was said – although inevitably some disputed it – that this would be the first time that the hermit had appeared on a public platform. Silence decended on the vast audience as we all excitedly awaited the sage, who was reputed to be 300 years old. The curtains were drawn back slightly and an old man, bent double, shuffled to the front of the platform. The crowd exploded with shouts of ‘Devraha Baba ki jai!’ – ‘Long live Devraha Baba!’ The holy man was naked except for a deerskin he held loosely round his waist. His thighs were emaciated, his skin was blackened by the sun, his eyes were rheumy with age, his hair was matted; but, surprisingly, his beard was quite neatly trimmed. He sat down hurriedly and raised both his hands in blessing. A woman near me stood up and folded her hands in devotion, ignoring the tugs at her sari and the cries of ‘Sit down, we can't see.’
When the crowd had quietened, a former head of the state police force who had turned sadhu – it seems to be a tradition in Uttar Pradesh – read out a statement on behalf of the baba. That, I thought, would be that. But the crowd was not satisfied. They shouted, ‘We want Baba's blessing. Baba speak to us.’ A model of the temple of Ram which the Vishwa Hindu Parishad planned to build if it succeeded in getting that mosque destroyed was brought to the baba, who laid hands on it. The baba, still sitting, pulled himself to the edge of his platform, clasped a microphone and started speaking in a quiet but remarkably clear voice. He told the now silent crowd, ‘Protecting this temple of Ram is holy work. You protect your religion and it protects you. My platform from which I give my blessing every day is the platform of the Vishwa Hindu Parishad. They have my blessings. I want everyone to cooperate with their work.’
Then he turned to his young disciple and said in a whisper caught by the microphone, ‘Bahut hai? – Is that enough?’ The disciple's reply was inaudible, but apparently he thought not, because the baba started to talk again, this time about the need to protect cows. After a few brief sentences he again turned to his disciple and asked, ‘Bahut hai?’ He was told to exhort the crowd to worship Ram by reciting his name. After a few sentences on that theme, the baba again lifted his hands in blessing. Every woman there seemed to be standing with folded hands. The baba scurried off his platform, and the crowd started to melt away – much to the disappointment of the other saints, many of whom still had plenty of fire and brimstone in their bellies.
There is nothing that Hindus respect more than austerity in others, no matter how much difficulty they may find in practising it themselves. Austerity was one of the keys to Mahatma Gandhi's success. The Vishwa Hindu Parishad knew the value of Devraha Baba's support for their cause. I hoped it might be possible to gather some more nectar by learning about the life of the legendary ascetic, but, when I reached the baba's camp, I found that it was not only the Parishad that was taking advantage of his austerity.
The baba had established his camp about a quarter of a mile from the nearest tents, right on the edge of the Mela. Inside the gateway, a ruffianly guard with a ferocious black moustache told me that, until the great man emerged from the Ganges and began his daily audience, I could not meet any of his associates. I waited with some 300 devotees in front of the baba's small thatched hut standing on stilts about six feet above the ground. After half an hour, the aged hermit, again covered only by his deerskin, scuttled like a crab out of the door of his hut on to the edge of the platform. He lifted his hands in blessing while his henchmen urged the crowd to buy copies of a commentary on the Bhagvat Purana, a scripture dedicated to Vishnu, on sale in one corner of the camp. The baba obligingly touched the books and blessed them. This greatly encouraged the sale of the commentary, to the considerable profit of the publisher, as the book was expensive by Indian standards. Inevitably an impious thought crossed my mind: I wondered what was in it for the baba's disciples.
One villager had the impudence to light up a biri in the presence of the baba. It was snatched from his mouth by one of the baba's guards. Another guard, seeing a man wearing shoes, pointed to me and said, ‘Look, that Englishman has taken his shoes off and you, an Indian, show such disrespect to the baba.’
While the devotees were thronging around the saint's platform, I found two of his disciples. I asked them to tell me about the baba's routine. One who was a printer – not, apparently, the printer of that commentary – said, ‘The baba lives and is everywhere. He has no fixed place, but always stays by riverbanks. He is an ageless man who has travelled all over India on foot. Everyone claims that the baba comes from his area. Some say that he was born of water. He takes bath in the river four or five times every day.’
‘Why does he live on a platform?’
‘Because he says that the public are infected with worms which he will get if he stays on their level. The baba's memory is like a computer – people will tell you that he remembers what they told him thirty years ago.’
‘Some people say he's 300 years old. How old is he really?’
‘No one knows exactly what exercises he does, but he has mastered age and will die only when he wants to. He is a sidh yogi [an ascetic whose mastery of the yogic arts is so great that he has attained supernatural powers and transcended them] – all the time he is practising the yoga position of Udyan Band, which means his stomach touches his back.’
‘What does he eat?’
‘Air. He doesn't even eat fruit. You see, any great yogi can extend his tongue from inside until it touches the top of his head. That's where the nectar is situated, and one drop of nectar is all you need to live for a very long time.’
I couldn't help wondering what happened to all the baskets of fruit which were being given to the baba as offerings.
‘Is it true’, I asked, ‘that Indira Gandhi used to come to see the baba?’
‘Yes, she came several times.’
‘What about Rajiv?’
‘No. He will come when his heart is cleaner.’
When I returned to my jeep, the battery was flat. There were plenty of volunteers to help push it, but the clutch wouldn't engage and I had to abandon it. Until then it had been running perfectly. As I started on the long and dusty walk back, I was reminded of a friend of Sant Bax Singh's. He had told me that all those who travelled to the baba in good faith had a safe journey. Was I being given a reminder about the dangers of cynicism?
It's very hard not to be cynical about the Brahmin priests who attend to the immediate physical and spiritual needs of those who come to bathe in the Sangam. The lesser priests are known as ghatias. They set up stalls on the river edges, or ghats, where they look after the clothes of the bathers, help them with their toilet when they come out of the river and say a brief mantra to complete the process of purification. Shri Ram Mishra was an elderly ghatia who said his family had been ghatias here for generations. He claimed to have looked after Mrs Gandhi when she bathed in the Sangam. He sat cross-legged on a low wooden platform. A piece of sacking draped behind him kept out some of the sand and dust. He had small bowls of
the powders and pastes necessary for replacing the tilaks and sindoor – the vermilion indicating a woman's married status – washed away in the river. There were mirrors and combs too. A woman bather put twenty-five paise – about one penny – into a basket in front of the ghatia and gave him a handful of potatoes. He gave her a piece of sacred grass to hold, poured a teaspoonful of Ganges water over her hand and mumbled a brief blessing.
Although they are only small-time businessmen, the ghatias are well organized. The joint secretary of their union came up to see what I was doing. When I explained, he said, ‘Oh, so you are the person who has done us down by that broadcast.’ I explained yet again that it was just a rumour. He replied, ‘Well, broadcast a message so that people do start coming – business is bad.’ I tried to convince him that that would just make matters worse.
A hundred yards or so behind the ghatias were the pandas, who are big businessmen. Each panda was identified by a huge flag. These Brahmins act as family priests, maintain their clients' genealogies, arrange for their stay at Melas and perform ceremonies for the souls of their dead. Rajesh Kumar Panda was writing up the latest developments in the family of a peasant from central India. The family trees are kept in long, thin notebooks whose yellow pages are bound in red.
‘Ram Swarup had two sons, so what were their names?’ he asked brusquely.
‘Om Prakash and Shiv Ram.’
The priest scribbled hurriedly.
‘Have they married? Do they have any children? Hurry up. Can't you see how busy I am?’
When he had updated the genealogy, he turned to me and asked my business. After getting through the inevitable rigmarole about the rumour, he demanded twenty-five rupees for explaining the role of the pandas. When I agreed, he told me that his was a family business, like the business of the ghatias. All pandas have a district of India in which they ply their trade. Rajesh Kumar's was Jabalpur in central India. He visited his clients there, selling Ganges water to those who had not visited Allahabad recently and encouraging them to be more regular in their bathes. At the back of his stall was a capacious tin trunk full of his client's registers of birth, marriages and deaths, each one wrapped carefully in a cloth. Rajesh Kumar took me outside his stall to see his flag, which depicted the monkey-god Hanuman trampling on a demon. Many of the pandas had chosen one or another member of the Hindu pantheon for their flags, but there were secular emblems flying above the stalls too – there was a steam engine, a train complete with a guard carrying a green flag, a fish, and a plough and oxen.