The grand Kumbh Mela festival will be held in the city of Prayagraj (formerly Allahabad), in the Indian state of Uttar Pradesh, from January 13 to February 26, 2025. More than four hundred million pilgrims are expected to attend the 45-day festival. A month before the start of the grand religious event, Indian Prime Minister Narendra Modi visited Prayagraj where he launched 167 development projects worth Rs 55 billion for the holy city. “India is fast achieving its goal of becoming a developed country,” said Narendra Modi. “The grand Kumbh Mela in Prayagraj in 2025 will play an important role in this regard. It will be a mahayagya (great ritual) of national unity and will take our country’s cultural and spiritual identity to a new level.” The prime minister also recalled the historical importance of the event and added that “for centuries, Hindu seers and sages have used this platform to discuss issues of national interest and offer valuable guidance to the entire country.”
Saturday Evening
Lying on the low bench of a Tinsukia Mail carriage, I waited for the tug with which the train would momentarily start moving. It was ten o’clock. The paan seller was walking faster and faster along the windows, a flat wooden box hanging from his neck. Inside he kept the betel leaves that Indians chew avidly. I looked at my fellow passengers and suddenly I had the sensation of having boarded the death train. The small, thin feet of a man were sticking out into the corridor as if from his funeral pyre. Children and grandchildren were greeting him by touching his legs, then raising their clasped hands to their foreheads in a sign of respect. In the next compartment was an old woman with a child’s voice, her withered breasts wrapped in a yellow sari. In the Rig Veda it is written that one who abandons his body at the sacred confluence of the Ganges and the Yamuna attains moksha, liberation from the cycle of rebirth. The Sangam of Prayagraj is the point where the muddy waters of the Ganges join the blue waters of the Yamuna. It is also called Triveni, the confluence of three rivers. The underground current of a third river, the mythical Saraswati, is said to join the other two that flow on the surface here. The Sangam is the holiest place in India. Many passengers on the Tinsukia Mail train were on their way to the Kumbh Mela at Prayagraj. Here, after meeting the ascetics, they would bathe in the Sangam and thus attain liberation from the cycle of eight million, four hundred thousand rebirths.
The Kumbh Mela is the largest religious gathering in the world, a sort of ecumenical council of the Hindu religion. Its origins are told of in the Puranas, the ancient Sanskrit texts. On the advice of the god Brahma, the gods and Asuras, the anti-gods, began to stir the waters of the Celestial Ocean. They were looking for the vase (kumbha) containing the amrita. When the doctor, Dhanvantari, appeared from the waters with the precious container in his hand, everyone wanted to drink the nectar first. It was then that Jayanta, son of Indra, transformed himself into a rock and stole the elixir of immortality under the eyes of the anti-gods. It took Jayanta twelve days to carry the vase to heaven: along the way he stopped in four places that have since then become sacred sites: Prayagraj, Haridwar, Nashik and Ujjain. It is in these four cities that the Kumbh Mela is celebrated every twelve years.
Once the Tinsukia Mail was underway, it filled with the sounds of muffled voices and dull thumps like all the passenger trains in the world. All that could be seen from the window was the darkness of the night. The white hair of the old man on bench number 35 swayed slightly with the rumbling of the train on the rails. Two policemen passed in the corridor, wearing khaki coats and berets, with rifles slung over their shoulders. At four-thirty in the morning, just after the city of Kanpur, I saw a large, colorful bas-relief from the window, lit up by neon lights. It showed the monkey god Hanuman flying from the Himalayas to Sri Lanka. In his hand he was holding the medicinal herbs that would be used to cure the god Rama. The passengers in the carriage began to wake up. They were coughing and spitting. The pale light of the Prayagraj dawn seeped in through the four horizontal bars of the window. With a jolt, the train stopped. Some residents of the holy city of Prayagraj, squatting on a siding, arms folded and with a pot of water beside them, were defecating from the six-inch height of the track.
Sunday Morning
By seven o’clock, Prayagraj station was already inundated with pilgrims. In the station hall, women were drying their thin saris in the air. Many were sleeping with their heads resting on jute bags. A cow was lolling around among the people, the sacred animal searching the corners of the building, looking for the remains of a few betel leaves spat on the floor along with a stream of red saliva. Outside, the streets were blocked by long bamboo poles. Under a military tent, thousands of believers were being vaccinated against cholera. Years ago, Prayagraj’s architecture, full of balconies, turrets and grilles, probably had a fresh and graceful appearance. Now, its buildings have become dilapidated, corroded by time and the monsoon rains.
Prayaga means “the place of purification”. After creating the universe, the god Brahma made a great sacrifice here to purify the atmosphere. The first historical reference to the Kumbh Mela dates back to the year 644 AD. On that date, the Chinese traveler Xuanzang, visiting the court of the Indian king Harsha-Vardana, attended the festival at Prayagraj, accompanied by five hundred thousand other people. But SB Roy, director of the Institute of Chronology in New Delhi, claims to have historical documents that date the Kumbh Mela at Prayagraj back to 302 BC.
I joined the faithful who were heading towards the Sangam, with sacks of household goods on their heads. For many of them, very poor, moksha simply meant the hope of liberation from poverty, disease, and hunger. At the street corners police with megaphones shouted, “Move on, move on!” Thousands of pilgrims filed past them in silence. All that could be heard was the rustling that accompanied their movements, mingling with the sound of the women’s anklets. Many walked barefoot. A trident of Shiva, with a red bow and a necklace of one hundred and eight pearls, stood out on the oscillating mass of sacks and baskets that people carried on their heads. A group of men with shaved heads passed by, with only a lock of hair hanging from the back of their necks. A little girl with a small bracelet of coral beads was sitting astride her mother’s shoulder. With her large, smoky black eyes she looked in amazement at the sea of heads surrounding her. A carriage loaded with women passed by. With thin voices they sang a song in honor of Mother Ganga, the river Ganges:
Calm my restless soul, O Ganga,
With your deep peace,
And my weary limbs,
With your blessed waters.
Sunday Afternoon
Hundreds of sadhus were camped on the right bank of the Ganges. The words yogi, sanyasi, sant, muni, swami, and baba are all synonyms of the word “sadhu”. The sadhus, having abandoned worldly life, samsara, practice asceticism to achieve the liberation of moksha in the shortest possible time.The initiation of a sadhu is a long and complex ceremony, during which the sadhu is also asked to lead his own funeral. When the ascetic actually dies, his body, instead of being cremated, will be thrown into the waters of a river. The one hundred and eight votive baths performed during a Kumbh Mela constitute the last act of his initiation. During the Kumbh Mela, sadhus act as spiritual guides to the faithful. They also assume the role of counselors and legislators for the entire society.It was in the 9th century that the saint and reformer of Hinduism Adi Shankaracharya gave the Kumbh Mela the importance it still holds today.Adi Shankaracharya exhorted ascetics to meet on the occasion of this great festival, and to this daythe Kumbh Mela in Prayagraj is attended by sadhus from all over India. There are urdhwavahus with bodies emaciated by long fasts. Their arms are atrophied, rendered useless by voluntary disuse. They meditate for hours in the icy waters of the Ganges, with their eyes turned to the sun.There are the naga sadhus,who live naked throughout the year; the parivarajakas,who continually play cymbals; the maunis,who have taken a vow of silence. There are shirshasanis, who always remain standing and sleep leaning on a pole; and the avadhutas, who reject any discipline.
A horizontally striped flag of black, yellow, grey, white and red marked the entrance to a Vaishnava camp. Their tutelary god is Vishnu, the protector of creation.
The naked bodies of hundreds of sadhus were bathed in the warm light of the setting sun. Sitting cross-legged, his feet covering his genitals, a sadhu blew into his hand and directed his breath toward two burning embers. A short distance away, another sadhu was in a yogic position with his palms facing the sky. He had long, woody hair and a U drawn on his forehead, with the curved part at the height of his eyebrows. Beside him, on the sand, were two heavy iron tongs and a water vessel made from a dried, hollowed-out pumpkin. These items were all he owned on this earth. Beyond a sloping path that led to the bank of the Ganges was the Shaiva camp. A trident stuck into the ground was the unmistakable sign of the worshipers of the god Shiva. A few sadhus, naked and with their bodies covered in ash, had dug a grave in the sand. Their foreheads marked with three horizontal lines, they were meditating, enveloped in the blinding smoke of a burning ember. A naga with red-painted hands and nails passed by, trudging along on two sections of tree trunk that served as shoes.
Sunday Evening
By seven o’clock the flow of people pouring from every access road into Kumbha Nagar, the ephemeral city of the Kumbh Mela, had thickened. The uninterrupted parade of people through the center of the street moved more quickly. On the sides, the flow was slowed by friction with the people who had set up the small shops placed in rudimentary wooden shacks. The latest in kitchen utensils shone in a brightly lit booth: strainers made of synthetic material and in fluorescent colors, graters made of wood and tin, hand-cranked beaters, and hard-boiled egg slicers with steel wires stretched over a colored plastic frame. There was the pavilion for Boroline, a “scented antiseptic ointment.” In the three pavilions that followed, Capstan cigarettes, Nippo batteries and Geep flashlights were on sale.
A few pipal trees with multiple, silvery trunks lined the short uphill stretch that preceded the sandy plain of the Kumbh Nagar. Thousands of pilgrims were camped under these ancient trees. Wrapped in rags and blankets, they slept huddled together to protect themselves from the cold of the night. They looked like intricate tree roots emerging from the surface. At the summit of the short climb there were small temples dedicated to Shiva. Then, suddenly, the fantastic scene of the city of the Kumbh Mela appeared. Diluted in the humid darkness, thousands of intermittent lights produced a swirling effect. There was a large entrance gate with two shivalingams, the penis of the god Shiva, enclosed in papier-mâché niches. Two colored elephant heads served as capitals. The reddish image of the entrance arch was mirrored in the marshes of the left bank of the Ganges. In the distance, the fluorescent lights of the Shastri Bridge formed two unreal-seeming rows of parallel stars. Illuminated as bright as day, the ashrams of the great sects of Hinduism were overflowing with believers. From their tents, along with the scent of incense, came sermons recited in front of powerful loudspeakers, mixed with the music of harmonicas, cymbals and tabla. It was an orgy of sounds, lights, colors.
A triple bamboo gate was decorated with a mango, lotus and swastika motif. The inscription “swagatam” welcomed the devotees.
In one tent, the god Shiva and his wife Parvati were seated on two thrones lacquered with white paint and decorated with gold, with Shiva and Parvati dressed in bright clothing. They wore two shining crowns on their heads. Holding their torsos erect and their bodies still, with a slight rotation of the eyes they observed the hundreds of brown heads of the faithful sitting at their feet. When the tent was filled, the play began.
Scene One. A voiceover says, “A rumor has spread among the pilgrims of the Kumbh Mela that whoever bathes in the Ganges at the appointed time tomorrow will be freed from all sins. He will thus obtain moksha, liberation.” Parvati, frowning, rebukes Shiva, “You are truly the god of compassion. There is no doubt about it. By granting moksha so cheaply, aren’t you the one encouraging sin?” She goes on, “How many millions of unrepentant sinners will take advantage of your compassion? Who is still stupid enough to lead a virtuous life on earth?” “Let’s go and see how things really are,” Shiva replies with a blissful smile.
Scene Two. Shiva and Parvati are now wearing the clothes of common mortals. They are in Prayagraj, near the Sangam. Shiva pretends to be dead, and Parvati cries and despairs, calling out to the passers-by: “My husband is dead. But the god Shiva promised me that my husband will come back to life if he is touched by someone without sin.” “But be careful,” Parvati adds, “if someone touches the body of my husband and is not without sin, he will die instantly.” The people shake their heads and leave. A bald, limping man arrives. Or perhaps he is staggering from drinking too much alcohol. He asks Parvati what has happened. Having received the same answer, he says: “Don’t worry, woman, I am here. I am going to bathe in the Ganges. I will free myself from my sins and come back to you, and I will resurrect your husband.” Arriving at the Sangam, the man turns to Mother Ganga and says: “Mother, have great care: now you must keep your promises.” Returning to Parvati, he says, “Stop crying, woman.” Then he touches the man lying on the ground and, miraculously, finds himself before the god Shiva himself. “Son, you are truly sinless,” Shiva tells him with his usual smile. “You have achieved moksha, liberation. Among so many millions of pilgrims, only you have succeeded.” Under the tent, the eyes of the faithful shone with ecstasy.
I met a journalist friend, who told me that the Senate of the saints of all India had announced its decision, and had unanimously accepted the proposal to ban the killing of the sacred cow throughout the country. This confirmed a law dating back to the Gupta Empire (3rd century AD) which established that killing a cow was mahapataka, a sacrilege.
Later, I walked along a path parallel to the bank of the Ganges. Everyone was heading towards a large temple dedicated to Hanuman located on the right side of the road. The loudspeakers incessantly repeated the invocation “Sita Ram”. Men and women crowded at the entrance. They left behind a mountain of rubber sandals and shoes that were worn out from too much walking. Within the temple people prostrated themselves before the image of the monkey god painted with red lead. Under a thatched roof, used plastic containers and glass bottles were for sale, used by the devotees to carry water from the Sangam to their distant villages.
I woke the next day with a start. It was ten past four on the Mauni Amavasya, the last day of the new moon in the Indian month of Magha: the most auspicious day of the entire Kumbh Mela. A background noise filled the night. I strained my ears to decipher all its components. The blast of police whistles. The loudspeakers, frantically announcing the endless list of missing people. The music of bhajans, religious songs, alternated with songs from Bollywood films: “Oh Ganga, tera pani amrit.”
At the Press Camp, an improvised room under the tents, Mr. Chaturvedi was already sitting behind his desk. “Fifteen million two hundred thousand pilgrims have arrived,” he announced. “An absolute record.” Above the tents, a solitary bird flew away in fear, its cry piercing the darkness. Shortly after six o’clock, the cold dawn of Prayagraj quickly dissolved into the soft light of day. At Kumbh Nagar, processions from the akharas, Hindu monasteries, began to march in a prearranged order. They moved slowly and then assumed a martial, almost running pace. Wearing red vests over blue shirts, a band filed past, and the raucous sound of trumpets soared over the rhythmic beat of drums. A sadhu stood erect, struggling to hold a red triangular flag hoisted on a tall bamboo pole. Preceded by the roll of drums, another sadhu marched wearing a tiny white loincloth with a large sword tied to his brown hips. Behind him, dozens of naked sadhus filed past in compact ranks and three gigantic elephants brought up the rear.
Monday Morning
Along the paths that cut through the crowd, made by heavy bamboo scaffolding, dozens of processions were making their way to the place where the Ganges and the Yamuna join. A group of naga sadhus were returning from bathing In the opposite direction, proceeding forward in unbalanced leaps. Without the distinctive marks on their foreheads and the ash on their bodies, they looked even more like cavemen. From all sides, millions of pilgrims poured into the sacred Sangam. A barrage of boats and ropes prevented the crowd from entering the murky, muddy water. In the hellish chaos, policemen, knee-deep in water, shouted and threatened the half-naked faithful, swinging their sticks in the air, bringing to mind the horrific scenes of the 1954 Kumbh Mela, when thousands of people were trampled to death in the crush. That day, Prime Minister Jawaharlal Nehru was present at the festival in Prayagraj.
A cold wind blew from the shore. Thousands of beggars and lepers were sitting on the ground, holding a small rag open in front of their crossed legs. The faithful threw a little food on it along with a few rupee cents. There was an old man lying on his side, his feet and hands eaten away by leprosy. Crouched nearby, a small woman rested her face on her knees. She looked vacant – dazed.
At seven fifty, the sun appeared in the black and rain-swollen sky. The spectacle of the sudden light illuminating the millions of faithful was magnificent.
Monday Night
The road to the Sangam sloped slightly downhill. On the right were the massive walls, with circular bastions, of the Prayagraj fort. The air that blew in from the rivers was three or four degrees colder. A sandy path began. I walked leaning forward, so as not to sink on my heels. There were millions of footprints in the sand. The geometric design of plastic soles; a woman’s small bare foot; a man’s stubby foot with toes sticking out in all directions. I met an old man, who like me, was walking in the direction of the Sangam. “Millions of men and women have come all the way here, to the Kumbh Mela, because they believe in their god. Have you come here for that too?” I asked him. The old man didn’t answer. I had spoken to him in English, and perhaps he hadn’t understood. We walked on in silence, and it began to rain. It was impossible to find shelter in that open, endless place. As the rain grew heavier, the footprints on the beach disappeared. The old man’s eyes seemed to be scanning the night. “I have come to see the rivers,” he said suddenly in perfect English. And he added: “The flow of water muffles the noises that a man carries within himself. Watching the water of a river purifies the individual. It cleanses him of the dust of memories. It restores purity to his mind.”
A few white-painted poles emerged obliquely from the black water of the Sangam. From the top of a stilt house, two policemen watched us, in silence.
L’articolo The Grand Kumbh Mela Festival in India proviene da ytali..
4uMagazine
