I never expected to
be a pilgrim, it just kind of happened.
Growing up in Canada in a secular Sikh family, I've never known anything about Hinduism or pilgrimages. The Kumbh Mela is the biggest Hindu pilgrimage ever. It is the largest gathering of people in the world, so large it can be spotted from a satellite in space. The Kumbh has it's origins in Hindu mythology. In ancient times the Gods and Demons battled over a precious bottle of ambrosia which would guarantee their immortality. The Gods won the battle but not before four drops of the nectar fell on four different places in India: Uijain, Nasik, Allahabhad and Haridwar. Every three years there's a Kumbh in one of these towns. Every twelve years is the great Maha Kumbh. Kumbh literally means pot—the kind you cook in.
It all starts with a phone call. A friend wants some help on
a project he's doing about the Kumbh Mela. He'll be traveling
to India with a crew of people for the event. I ask if I can go
too. His answer is no, but I don't believe it for a second. I
know somehow from this moment on that I am on my way to the pilgrimage.
Somehow I will be there. I start working on it immediately; I
can barely think of anything else.
My only experience with large crowds has been at rock concerts and the only
pilgrimage I've made was to the house in Salzburg, Austria where The Sound
of Music was filmed. I danced around the Gazebo with a friend singing,
"I am sixteen going on seventeen, innocent as a rose." The only other pilgrimage
I can think of making is to Liverpool or London to see where the Beatles lived
and worked. What do Julie Andrews, Paul McCartney and Krishna have in common?
Me?
I've been studying yoga for a couple of years and know that this
chance to go into the yogic heartland is no accident. I know to
look at situations in my life as metaphors for what's happening
in my inner world. I know that yoga is about taking a few steps
forward, then a few steps backwards. I realize that what I want
to learn could take decades, yet I still entertain a silly notion
that I might find it all at once at the Kumbh. I think I might
be able to go from being a six-year-old playing pee-wee hockey
straight into the NHL. Anything could happen. Maybe I will have
an epiphany at the Kumbh. A blast of Divine Light. Maybe I'll
achieve cosmic consciousness. It's going to be something big—I
just know it. Yahoo!... Even as I think this, I know that I'm
setting myself up. It doesn't stop me from doing it. The word
dufus comes to mind. I'm a yogic dufus, yogiduf, Dufusananda.
My expectations begin to create a strain on me before I even
leave Vancouver. I set off for India with warnings about the Kumbh
Mela whirling in my mind. I hear news reports of sadhus attacking
western journalists. The Kumbh is known to be a dangerous place,
where people are robbed and even killed. Some are never seen again.
I hear reports of foreigners who are drugged or beaten. The Kumbh
is the stuff of legend; it's all happened at the Kumbh. There
are classic seventies films about the perils: twin boys are separated
in the crowds and grow up apart. One becomes good, the other bad.
One day they're in a fight to the death when they see each others'
identical birthmarks and realize they are long lost brothers.
Happy endings, they can change a pilgrim's life forever.
Haridwar is set on the banks of the (Ganges) at the point where
the river flows out of the foothills of the Himalayas. The hills
are bare, blue-green in the hard light of the sun and the city
bakes in the forty degree temperature. With the exception of English
language signs and electrical power lines, a first glance at Haridwar
dates it back a hundred years. It's an old place, cradling old
ideas. The Ganga flows quickly by, carrying away the prayers,
thanks, tears and longings of the pilgrims. Streams of people
pour their faith into this river.
Anna King is a professor of religious studies in England. She
has a twenty-year history in the Haridwar area. She's here for
the whole four months of the Kumbh. She describes a scene of the
Kumbh for me.
"As the dark fell, these naga sadhus and sanyasins gathered around
their fires. They became very still, immobile. You could hear
their voices coming out and it was made even more exotic by the
fact that there were three Hijras, who are hermaphrodites, wandering
around dressed in women's clothes and dancing in front of the
sadhus. Very graceful, very feminine. The night fell and you could
smell the log fire and feel the collapse of several thousand years.
You feel like you're going right back in time."
Anna has an academic perspective. "The Kumbh Mela is obviously
the greatest fair in the world in terms of numbers of people.
There is a feeling that Haridwar is very archaic, that many saints
and Mahatmas and holy men have lived here. It is the gateway to
the home of the gods, the high Himalayas. There is a sense that
this part of India is the land of tapas and asceticism. It's the
land of prayer; it's the land of yoga. I think people feel, however
bustling, however noisy, however much the rickshaws jostle, and
cinema music sounds out, they feel that they can find a kind of
peace, shanti, here."
I walk along the river talking with other pilgrims wanting to
hear their experiences. I find a priest who has just finished
his morning bath in the Ganga:
"My name is Pundit Suraj Prasad Gautum Shastri. I've come from
Bhopal with my wife to bathe in the Ganga, chant the scriptures,
give to charity, purify ourselves and serve other pilgrims. Until
you go on a pilgrimage, you cannot rid yourself of your sins.
After pilgrimage you can start a new life. There is always hardship
in pilgrimage. That is part of the cycle of Dukh and Sukh, sadness
and happiness. If you've made errors in your life and you regret
your mistakes, you can wash away your sins in the Ganga. You should
take something away from a pilgrimage. Take away anand and shanti,
happiness and peace, of heart and mind. You can use it in this
life and in the next."
Carl Jung compared the pilgrim's journey with the classic hero's
journey. First comes the call, or start of the journey, where
a pilgrim separates from ordinary life. Then comes the journey
itself, the time at the pilgrimage site, the encounter with the
sacred. A sense of community develops. And finally there is the
return, with a new sense of self and place in the world. As the
priest said, you can take away enough happiness and peace of mind
to use in this life and in the next.
Peace of mind—is that what I'm here to find? I'm not sure
peace of mind will be all that practical for my life in Vancouver.
I don't want to be one of those pious people who goes around smiling
knowingly, looking down her nose at everyone else for being so
lost. I don't want to be a pious pilgrim. I'm not really sure
what a pilgrim is. What calls a pilgrim's soul to make this journey?
Is a pilgrim's soul different from a stay-at-home soul? I think
about a Yeats poem that goes;
How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with a love false or true.
One man loved the pilgrim's soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face.
What's in a pilgrim's soul?
Peace of mind in Haridwar can be a little tenuous. Peace, Haridwar, the two
words don't always go together. Ten million people make a lot of noise. It sounds
like there is a party going on, which is ironic, considering the name Haridwar
translates to 'Door of God.'
Bathing in the river is similar to the Christian practice of
baptism in water. In India, immersion in the Ganga means washing
away sins, starting a new life. The Ganga is credited with giving
hundreds of people a new beginning. The Ganga starts as a small
stream high up in the Himalayas in north-eastern India, near the
Tibetan border. By the time it nears Haridwar it's a swift river
with a strong current. It has washed away many zealous pilgrims
who wandered too far into the holy water.
I'm toying with the idea of bathing in the river, but for now
I'm just soaking my feet. I'm sitting with Anna King on some stairs
leading down to the river. She cuts quite a figure with her red
hair, blue sari and passable Hindi. She's studying the sadhus
of the Kumbh Mela. I'm curious about why pilgrims come here.
"The main quest, I think, in Haridwar is the Ganga," she says,
"The Ganga is herself a living temple. Even the sight of it...you
come on a bus and you know they're just waiting for that first
sight of the Ganga. But they come for many other reasons. Villagers
come from Rhajastan to ask for the gift of a son, they come to
cure skin diseases, they come for shanti—for peace in old
age—and they also come for reasons of personal voyage, personal
yatra. They come for reasons of sorrows. To immerse the ashes
of the dead in Pochupari or Sutti God. And of course there are
very great saints here, and people come to see them. I do feel
that pilgrims perpetuate an enormously old tradition. I know a
lot of modern' Indians who would scoff at it and find it bizarre,
archaic, even just odd. There is something very noble in the simplicity
of the tradition."
I'm surprised to see so many Sikhs at a Hindu pilgrimage. My
people, Northern Indians. Most Sikhs were Hindus a mere five hundred
years ago before Guru Nanak founded Sikhism. Most have stopped
coming to Hindu pilgrimages in favour of their own newer traditions.
I remember hearing about my grandmother's family coming to Haridwar.
This is unusual for a present day Sikh family, but a hundred years
ago it would have been common practice. It makes me wonder if
there is any record of my family here. For more than four hundred
years priests have recorded each visit to Haridwar by each family
in each village, from most of India. I set out to find a family
priest.
Haridwar is amazing! I ask a stranger where to find the priest
for my grandparents village in Punjab. He directs me to Sita Ram
Gita Ram, who apparently specializes in the Grewal family records.
Within a few minutes I find the house. It is jammed with people
visiting for the same reason. It seems important for people to
record their names and reasons for visiting Haridwar. I'm not
sure why. I soon find the right priest. He has made a career of
recording the names and visits of pilgrims and of reading the
information back to people years later. He opens a steel armoire
filled with long sheets of paper, folded and tied in place. He
asks me questions in Hindi. I don't know many of the answers but
respond in my rudimentary Punjabi, much to the delight of the
audience gathered around raptly listening to find out who I am.
They comment on my odd speech pattern. They're a chatty group
and I find myself so annoyed with them meddling in my search that
I ask them to be quiet. Hmm...I'm getting a little snarly. I'm
surprised by how tense I feel.
Finally the priest finds something. There is a record of Arjan
Singh, son of Mustan Singh from village Punj Sao Thi Chuk, visiting
Haridwar in 1921 with the ashes of his infant son. There is no
record, of my family before or after that date, without more detailed
information to help with the search. I'm elated to find this unforeseen
connection with Haridwar. I'm also filled with sadness at the
thought of my grandfather, whom I never met, traveling all the
way from what's now Pakistan with the ashes of his son. I've already
begun to feel quite at home in Haridwar, but this discovery deepens
my sense of belonging. I feel a part of this place and part of
a long line. Now I know why people come to the priest to record
their names. I write my name in the book to continue the line.
Back outside in the narrow lanes of Haridwar, I watch people
more closely, as if looking for some of these ancestors who visited
years before. I see a few Sikh pilgrims and I'm touched by their
faces. I begin to put their faces to my family's story. There
is my great-grandfather, a retired policeman from Hong Kong, who
went to a Mela after foot surgery and died the same night. There's
my great-uncle who had his pocket slit and all his money stolen
at a pilgrimage. And there's my other great-uncle who ran off
with his brother's wife and lived a long and happy life. And there's
my great-great grandmother who went blind. O.K., so these aren't
the happiest of family stories but they're mine. I see my history
in the faces of these pilgrims. I recognize them.
There's tension building up to the main bathing day of the pilgrimage.
I can feel the anticipation, I can see it in the faces of people
walking into Haridwar. They're intent, focused, they know why
they are here. Do I know why I'm here? No, but I'm starting to
feel more relaxed, more immersed. I can't quite explain it.
Fatigue is setting in. The heat, crowds, noise are exhausting.
Many of the pilgrims are elderly. I'm surprised at the degree
of compassion I feel for them. I'm becoming protective of them,
wanting each to find what he or she is looking for and return
safely home. A blur of crowds has become face after face after
face. The faces are beaten by the sun but their eyes are full
of life.
The forty-degree temperature is brutal. The quest for the higher
self brings with it the search for the practical things in life.
I'm staying in the mid-town hotel, eating at Chotiwalas where
the food is cheap and tasty while most of the other pilgrims bring
their own food and camp. At first I was afraid of not finding
enough washrooms during the long days spent exploring. But, it
turns out that's not a problem. I have to keep drinking water
every ten minutes or pass out, there's no choice. The water seems
to evaporate as fast as I can drink. There is little need to seek
out the washrooms. Good thing, because I didn't see any.
In the evening thousands of people head towards the river to
the stairs to God Har Ki Pauri' for the daily ceremony of lights
or Aarti. The Aarti symbolizes purification through Divine Light.
The sky is pink in the last moments of sunset. Concrete stairs
lead right down to the river. They're semi-circular, running the
length of two city blocks. Large tiered pans are set alight as
everyone sings the Ganga Ma Aarti. The flames shoot up ten feet
in the air, bells ring; this is a jubilant gathering. I go into
a time tunnel and see myself at the Kumbh Mela, a thousand years
ago. It's an eerie feeling which creates a space somewhere inside
me. My eyes begin to tear. Is this emotion or the mosquito-repelling
powder permeating the air and stinging my eyes?
Thousands of people are still pouring into the city. They're
so orderly, focused. They have a job to do, a role to play, a
continuum to tread. We're all waiting. At first I was overwhelmed
by the size of the crowds, the chaos. Now I'm gradually beginning
to lose my sense of being separate from them. I feel as if I'm
part of the same continuum. Every day another layer comes off
my skin until I feel immersed in this collective. Within the chaos
there is order, peace, contemplation. It's been a slow process
to learn this. I'm just starting to get the hang of things in
Haridwar. It feels safer here than when I first arrived five days
ago. It's about letting go...relaxing.
It is the morning of the most auspicious day of the Kumbh Mela,
and many people have lain awake all night and have already bathed
in the Ganges. Timing is everything, even for pilgrims. Apparently
the most favorable time to bathe is at five in the morning to
better wash away sins. I think about jumping into the river with
the other pilgrims but never get up the nerve. Later in the day
I walk down to the river and immerse my hands and feet in the
cold water.
A highlight of the day is the procession of sadhus down to the
river. I sit on top of a cement bus shelter along the parade route,
watching as hundreds of thousands of people mill down below. This
is the opportunity of a lifetime to see so many sadhus, sanyasins
and holy women. They've come from all over India for this day.
The crowds are thrilled. The most exciting part is watching the
Nagas, or naked Sadhus. They cover their bodies and hair with
ash to keep them cool in summer and warm in winter. They're from
a fierce warrior order, dating back to the fifteenth century.
A group out of time. Yet, they seem vulnerable with garlands of
marigolds around their necks and loins. Some of them hold hands
as they walk along in pairs. They're a rare glimpse into an old
world.
The big day draws to a close. There is a change to the air and
already there are streams of pilgrims leaving town, returning
to their families, work and survival. This short time of peace
and striving to be better is over. They must now pack up their
shanti, peace of mind, trying to maintain as much as possible
to use in their lives. They're striking the set of this great
drama. Packing up the pilgrimage.
My last evening at the Kumbh, I visit a small temple to the
God Shiva. He's the destroyer of obstacles and the Lord of the
dance and very popular. Westerners may recognize statues of Shiva
standing in dance pose Nataraj within a ring of fire. Aarti is
beginning. The sadhus form two lines before the altar and chant
sanskrit mantras invoking Shiva. Each of them holds a candle.
Even though it is pitch dark outside the whole temple is filled
with light. I go back in time three thousand years to the birth
of these mantras. The music carries me away to a still place where
time stops.
I've completed the first two parts of the pilgrim's journey
and now comes the return home. But there's a tug at the pilgrim's
soul. For an instant there's a temptation to stay forever and
maybe even become a sanyasin, a person who takes vows of renunciation.
Anna King reflects: "I've been joking about becoming a woman
sanyasin. But I think it is only half a joke. At the moment I'm
on a sabbatical and I'm funded by my college. I feel so privileged
to be here. I have thought that maybe towards retirement it would
be very pleasant indeed to come to the Himalayas and live as a
sanyasin. I worry that I will go back and live my university life
unchanged. I'll go back and be as preoccupied with timetables
and meetings and watching the clock as ever. I hope that some
of it lingers on and makes me create a sense of space and time
around myself.
"One of the greatest differences between my life in England and
my life here is the fact that I actually have time to speak to
people, to sit about. Even to discuss matters of spirituality,
even to laugh. It's been a time of very intense happiness for
me. I hope that the experience doesn't get swallowed up too quickly
in the routine of academic life. I've always thought that you
ought to be able to practice sadhana, you ought to be able to
have a spiritual practice that can take place outside of any bank
or store. I will try to hold on to my experience here."
Part of me feels the same way as Anna. I don't want the Kumbh
to end. I'd like to stay and live forever in a perma-Kumbh. The
other part of me is ready to go home with the many gifts of the
pilgrimage. They've been small, quiet hints of gifts. I don't
think I've achieved cosmic consciousness. I would know if I had.
Wouldn't I?
