River Sutra

I8217;ve not yet had a bath. But relax, I did get wet a lot in a little Ayodhya far away from the real one.

Nobody confessed openly but in wading, I mean, reporting from the Godavari, we secretly hoped for a glimpse of exotica from mid-stream and temple rooftop vantage points.

But the Sinhastha Kumbh Mela at the bathing ghats of Nashik8217;s Ramkund and a half-hour away at Kushavrat inTrimbakeshwar was one great leveller.

Eunuchs stripped to their sari petticoats bathed in the Godavari beside stoic Brahmin matriarchs. And mostly, despite the fact that the clinging pallu does anything but cover up, no heads were shyly lowered while wringing out the river from wet dupattas.

Pot-bellied detection squads in plain clothes remixed the Jai Shri Ram chant with thumping, stinging whacks to boys who ogled or merely stood transfixed as the great Indian modesty was8212;for once in 12 years8212;submerged in a cold brown river.

8220;We can recognise that look,8217;8217; winked one cop. His claim to being Ramkund8217;s best on the day-night beat was fortified by the arrest of a sadhu with a trishul who was caught while helping himself to the contents of a mandir chest.

Those ageless men in zip-up saffron robes and dreadlocks carefully drenched with Parachute coconut oil would tell a story or two on being but human if somebody just accepted their invitations to a free lunch.

Ye bacchi kaun hain who is this child?, many rushed to ask everyday, interrupting mundane interviews with Sadhu Gram8217;s officials. Glinting eyes gave the notebook and camera a once-over; a holy invitation pleaded that you please squat on a sea of pumpkins and brinjals lugged all the way from Ayodhya. And then, a demand to note down their complicated names. At least twice.

Not all holy men are easy to make friends with. Some godmen are afraid of women in denim. A climb up a wet hill to meet a sadhu happily dangling his legs from the front seat of his jeep ended abruptly with a yelp. Doors banged shut and an impressive stream of Sanskrit curses were heard all the way downhill.

At Shri Pahadi Baba Nagar at Sadhu Gram, Mahamandaleshwar Shri Rajendradasji Maharaj wisely kept his silent peace. And not many people took his lackey8217;s admonitions8212;8216;do not disturb him8217;8212;seriously.

After all, why would they take up a place so near to where we, the media, were staying? Disturbances, especially from us, were more than welcome.

But everybody from Mumbai8217;s press corps had the same idea. And doors were slammed open and shut from 4 am to midnight for the Kumbh scoop8212;if there is any such thing.

There is an unmistakable sense of peace among the teeming masses by Ram ghat and Ganga ghat. Can8217;t we leave it alone, let it stay that way?

Back in Mumbai as the mythology crammed during the assignment quickly fades from memory, my cellphone still rings at odd hours. I have a new set of highly placed sources8212;Swamijis.

The last caller discoursed at length in pure Hindi that8217;s music to my ears, all about his latest 8216;8216;stand8217;8217; on a political tussle with the Centre. He says he has stored my number on his Nokia because media is a child of God.

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River Sutra

I8217;ve not yet had a bath. But relax, I did get wet a lot in a little Ayodhya far away from the real one. Nobody confessed openly but in ...