The Kumba Mehla – and Other Supposedly Great Spiritual Things I’ll Never Do Again

For those of you who have been living in a vacuum the past couple of
months, the Kumba Mehla is a giant Hindu festival in India, held once
every 12 years in various cities along the banks of the Ganges. Called
“an ocean of humanity”, it is widely believed to be the largest
congregation of people on the planet, this year drawing an estimated 70
million people to the small Indian town of Allahabad in Northern India
to bathe at propitious times in the Holy, cleansing and hopelessly
polluted waters of the Ganges River.

Now the word “Kumbha” means “pot” in Hindi. Not that you would want to
smoke pot here, although seemingly that’s what attracted scores of hippy
dippers from California to attend the event widely dubbed “Woodstock
East” by its proponents.

I saw these Californians arriving at my hotel in nearby Varanasi. They
were incredible, fresh off the bus, backpacks, tie dies and fresh,
uncreased Lonely Planet guides under their arms. I heard one girl say
“Wow, India is, like, really different!” and her friend said “I know,
it’s, like, so poor, but did you hear, Madonna is supposedly here….?”

To which I say, “kewl”.

Rumor had i that one of the girls from our hotel had taken off all her
clothes on the banks of the Ganges in a moment of uninhibited bliss,
covered herself in mud and raised her arms to the heavens in joy.
Moments later, she was dragged off by the stick weilding “morality”
police for a rough interrogation and banished from the festival.
Woodstock it isn’t.

Further, luxury tents set up by various tour companies for the Patagonia
set, and rented for $250 a night, were atacked by the mobs of mystics as
a violation of the sanctity of their festival, and a court order was
issued to have them removed. Ironically, it resulted in the eviction of
several hundred BBC and CNN reporters who had come to cover the
festival, but couldn’t bear to live in the mud and grime with millions
of pilgrims. As a “budget” journalist never able to afford a “luxury
tent” with flush toilets, I noted their eviction with a certain degree
of undisguised glee.

But the reality of the Kumbha Mehla must come as a shock to almost every
Westerner, including these nice innocent Granola munching 60′s holdouts
from Santa Cruz and Venice Beach. The festival is actually attended
mostly by sadhus – Hindu mystics, fakirs and holy men who come here to
participate in huge, superstitious rushes into the river at exact
moments when the planets align to benefit them. Some of these men, the
nagas, are an ascetic sect who walk to the festival and live completely
naked, carrying spears and devil-like pitchforks as they rush headlong
into the waters.

Many of the sadhus are complete fakes, others seemed to be possessed of
some sort of magic, albiet often very dark and off putting. I suppose
there must be some genuine spirituality around too, but rumor had it
that it was hard to find.

On the whole, the event resembled some kind of wacked out “messiah”
convention from Biblical times along the banks of the River Jordan, with
all the magic and bogusness that image can evoke.

For the Western journalist, the event can be exciting and scary. Some of
the nagas and mystics invite photography, such as the man who can eat
glass or who can wrap his penis entirely around a tree branch and tie it
off. Others react very violently and without warning to the presence of
a camera, tearing it off the person and smashing it to the ground
without warning.

Now add, 300 million rural Hindu pilgrims, and 30,000 foreigners to the
mix (but not Madonna – the spectacle was not thought to be secure enough
for her to attend after the eviction of the luxury tenters…) and you
have what I call the Kumbha Melee.

It was to attend the Kumba Mehla that I drove from the quiet, erotic
bliss of Khajaraho to a train station at Jhansi to take a night
passenger train to Allahabad.

I had bought this ticket as an insurance policy months earlier, and now
I needed it. Originally the plan had been to drive into Allahabad, which
was what my assistant and the Government of India Tourist Board handlers
were now doing – on the far-easier to manage Grand Trunk Road. But two
cancelled Indian Airlines flights later – and two days wasted in waiting
- and now my schedule had telescoped enough to make traveling into this
huge gathering by train my only alternative.

I dropped a friend off on the platform for the fast, shiny new Shatabdi
Express to Delhi, and silently wished I was on it. I watched the
attendants efficiently loadshiny tiffin trays of four course meals and
bottles of mineral water onto the Delhi express and knew intuitively
that the same would not be offered on my train.

In India, a “passenger train” is what you do not want. Notoriously
dirty, crowded and slow, passenger trains stop not only at every station
(sometimes for hours), but whenever someone pulls an emergency cord
conveniently located above each seat. Predominantly taken by rural
Indians, passenger trains are occupied by listless looking people
squeezed into every square inch of space, with expressions that speak
only of a Hindu style acceptance of boredom, discomfort and
contortionism.

The single redeeming factor of Indian passenger trains is that they have
“open” windows, which expresses and first class “air con” coaches do
not. On the rare occasions when the train actually reaches a speed worth
mentioning, these open windows provide enough air flow to keep the
passengers reasonably cooled during the hot monsoon months. In North
India’s surprisingly cold winters, the cars feature glass windows which
slide down to retain a bare minimum of warmth inside.

Food is served by vendors who gather from nowhere anytime the train
stops. The only safe food and drink is widely known to be the tea and
coffee provided in tiny earthenware disposable clay cups which can be
discarded along the tracks and home roasted peanuts in recycled plastic
bags. Anything else you may purchase trackside can be considered risky
at best and may well have you facing the only prospect worse than being
squeezed into the upright position in an Indian game of Twister, railway
style; you may be squatting over the disgusting one hole toilet at
either end of the train, just over the tracks.

But I had noted that my travel agent back in Delhi had booked me into a
“First Class” compartment on the “passenger train” from Jhansi to
Allahabad – something I considered a contradiction in terms.

My handlers from the local tourist board in Jhansi were two shady
looking characters who had no real interest in my well being and far
more interest in returning to their info stand to continue a card game I
had interrupted. Seeing with considerable shock that I had not boarded
the gleaming sleek express to Delhi and instead were waiting for the
delayed passenger train to Allahabad, their interest in me dimmed
considerably, and they took me to the first class railway waiting room,
and informed an illiterate looking woman there to “look after me”. She
took little or no interest in me, except to demand a tip from me when I
eventually left the area.

On my own, I surveyed the track where my train was about to arrive. It
was not a pretty site – the platform literally crowded to overflowing
with thousands of pilgrims – robed, threadbare, and sitting on piles of
what looked like their worldly possessions. To make matters worse, the
crowd was growing larger by the moment, and it was still three hours
before departure. The crowd was layered and thick up to the platform.
The pull of the Kumba Mehla was strong, even hundreds of miles away.

In the rat infested waiting room, the speakers produced an occassional
“ding dong ding”  followed by totally unintelligible announcements about
the trains arriving and departing. How anyone could hear it was beyond
me, but people seemed to obey mystical cues to rise and leave the room
with their bags whenever their train was called.

I resolved to try to make a friend who could tell me when to be alert
for departure. I chose a nice looking couple in the corner of the
waiting room, he an Indian Paul Dooley and she an elderly Indian Jackie
Onassis. I felt they might speak English based on the Nike tennis shoes
he was wearing – and my instinct proved correct.

Now, I have a rule about approaching people and being approached in
India. As a rule, 90% of the time you are approached by Indians, you
should be suspect. To many in India, or for that matter, in Asia, you
are nothing more than a symbol – an icon of impossible to achieve wealth
and sophistication – and for those who break their traditional Indian
reserve to approach you, the motivation is often to have access to that
wealth and prestige.

The only other reason an Indian will overcome his built-in shyness to
approach a stranger is out of sheer curiosity, and this happens often in
the rural, non touristed areas.

However, if you approach an Indian, chances are 90% that he/she can be
trusted. Indians are, as a rule, extremely helpful, and will go out of
their way to give directions, even if they don’t have the vaguest idea
where you are going.

As it turned out, my choice was a good one. Alok and his wife Shira were
the essence of kind and friendly, were booked on the same train as I
was, and promised to listen for any announcements and updates from the
station master and keep me informed of developments.

I returned to my seat, and got a derisive, scornful look from my
“keeper” (my moving about made her have to Œdo her job’ which consisted
of watching me for a tip and she clearly resented it and hated me), and
as I sat down, I noted that 2 rats had become bold enough to ascend to
the top of my bags for a better look at the first white devil ever to
inhabit their waiting room domain. I scattered them with my hand and
looked around at this disgusting, urine smelling station with newfound
loathing.

It seemed hours before my friends jumped up and told me to follow them
to the platform. I t felt good to be on the move, and as I passed my
warden, she put out her hand for a tip. I gave her one of her own
scornful and disgusted looks and felt perfectly grand about it. She got
nothing from me.

On the platform, my optimism quickly faded to deep consternation. The
station was now so crowded with pilgrims that it seemed impossible to
even get near the train. They were sitting everywhere, smoking bidi
cigarettes through their cupped hands, and waiting. They were surrounded
by day packs and other luggage which provided them a small barricade
against the milling crowds. Some had the courage to be asleep and to
dare the crowd to trample them to death. But when the train pulled in,
their demeanor changed instantly from passively waiting to complete
aggression. All hell broke loose.

As the cars passed, the train still in motion, it’s vomit stained
windows presenting view after view of crushed passengers, I made a
distinct and unpleasant realization. This train was not originating in
Jhansi, and to make matters worse, it was already totally full.

I had little time to contemplate this. My friends from Bombay were
already on the move. “Come, come” Alok said, and began to disappear into
a sea of people who were moving now in every different direction. “We
must be quick”.

I had little choice. The crowd was pushing and moving in two streams in
different directions, depending on where rumor would allow one more
square inch of humanity in the car. To my amazement, there was a first
class carriage, in the middle of the train. As the train stopped,
humanity tried to swarm onto it.

What was not immediately obvious is that some people wanted to get off
the train from the car, and they were thrown back by the crowd and
battered against the back of the car. Fortunately, a small and wiry
conducter with a stick whacked the first few trespassers and drove them
back with some loud and angry Hindu verbiage. The people moved back and
a few harried individuals departed the train in a flash.

Alok and I took this moment to fortify our position. Alok raised his
hand in the air in the sea of turbans to show me that somehow he had
made it to the front of the crowd. I pushed ahead with my shoulder bag
and camera equipment, and taking advantage of the momentary response
when a rural Indian sees a white man and freezes, I was able to scoot
through the tumult and get right up next to Alok.

“The moment you can, go in”, he said, and then he climbed up the car and
was in. The crowd surged. This was to be my only chance. Another tiny
man who could never have afforded a first class ticket was climbing
ahead of me, I pushed him to the side and took hold of the side rails of
the door to the carriage. But my two bags were still wedged in the
heaving, shouting, pushing crowd behind me! With what I can only
consider superhuman effort, I pulled the bags out from the masses and
got a foothold on the first step.

A man behind me grabbed me and tried to pull me back, as he tried
jockeying past me for position. Now here is where playing YMCA football
in grade school came back to serve me well. All indians are as small
bodied as field goalers, and I quickly and surgically removed him from
my back with a well placed elbow. He fell back into the masses with the
resignation of a victim of the Titanic.

I pulled myself up onto the car, but found it hard to do. Arms had
attached themselves around my legs and were trying to pull me back. I
did the only thing I knew how, I kicked whoever was grabbing me around
my legs with all the force I could muster. I looked back only to see it
was a very elderly lady, and immediately felt awful, but I was in and
kept moving forward.

Alok met his wife, who had somehow managed to get on at the other end of
the railway car, and they noted, to their delight, that they had been
randomly assigned a cabin for 2. I, however, was further down, in a
cabin for 4.

I had two tickets, one for myself and one for my assistant Elaine Furst,
who was not with me. So I took some happiness in knowing I would only
share my compartment with 2 other people. But upon entering the booth, I
found 9 people traveling on my ticket and 9 on Elaine Furst’s, plus two
more men. 20 people on 4 bunk beds. No one looked pleased to see me.

The imposters were a family, apparently from grandma down to tiny child,
all crushed into the space which was supposed to be my bed. I hoped for
a moment I was in the wrong place, but a quick check confimed that I was
where I was supposed to be and the family was not.

Seeing that I was the only foreigner on the train, the conductor quickly
asked the 18 people occupying my bed space for their tickets. They could
not produce them. A long conversation ensued in Hindi, during which time
I started to feel more and more guilty. It became clear that he
conductor would evict these people, who were now fixing me with lost and
hopeless looks to add salt to my sorrow. Who was I, after all, to deny
these people their holy bath? I was not going to do it, that was for
sure, and I was just taking up space on a train they clearly needed.

The conductor began to insist that they leave, and sheepishly, they
gathered their things and began to depart.

I found myself defending them against my will.

I asked one of the two men remaining if a small bribe wouldn’t help
their situation.

“This is India. Bribe always help, boss”, said one of the remaining men,
a stocky and well built man in his mid 50′s.  “But these people, they
are not willing to pay”.

I watched them shuffle out of the cabin. And I felt bad for them, for a
moment at least. The children were sullen, but the grandmother was near
to crying. I felt that maybe this ploy to get on board the train was the
last chance for her, and they could never be reseated anywhere else. My
pity was momentary, however, as I reflected that I did, in fact, pay for
this seat and did have a right to be there. (India destroys your ability
to feel long term pity – pitiful situations come at you too close
together for long periods of contemplation).

“He should know” said the other man, pointing to “the boss”, “He is my
uncle. Police chief of Gwalior.”

“Oh” I said, with a mixture of relief and apprehension, “nice to meet
you”. In India, knowing the police can be a blessing or a curse, as
India’s police are notorious for their corruption.

The police chief was not too conversational, and seemingly unfriendly. I
gave him the benefit of the doubt and passed it off as unfamiliarity
with English and police training.

The conductor scrutinized my two tickets, and ascertaining that there
was no Elaine Furst present, he disappeared.

“He is going to sell that other seat of yours”, said the more
conversational of my compatriots. “Watch how fast he sells it”

It was beyond me to object. After the guilt of evicting 18 people from
my cabin, I could hardly hold one more seat for someone who did not
exist. That would have been…welll, too American of me.

“He will probably get $200 for it”, I conjectured.

“At least”, said the cousin of the police chief.

So for a few moments, we waited. I imagined the raucious crowd outside
and who would emerge as the highest bidder.

“It’s illegal what he’s doing” said the police inspector, “If he brings
someone we don’t like, we can make troubles for him”.

I smiled. We all smiled. In that moment, we bonded, and not a moment too
soon. The conductor brought an Indian man to the door who we all
instantly disliked. He was slick, wearing a polo sweater, with a
decidedly leering air. The police chief rose and addressed the conductor
in a low tone. The only words I heard were “police” said several times.
The conductor disappeared again with the tennis star in tow. I felt we
were now interviewing for a privileged position in our first class air
con compartment. Going to the Kumba Mehla, and playing God in the
process, I rfeflected ruefully.

The next candidate was un-rejectable. An old frail woman, who hobbled
in, paid the conductor an enormous sum, filled in enough paperwork to
fill another Pullman, then smartly produced a neatly stack dabbah-wallah
tiffin filled with a 5 course dinner.

A word about tiffin – it is the Indian equivalent of Tupperware. Neatly
fitting stainless steel bowls, which stack into each other and fasten
with a handle for portability. A savvy traveler can easily produce a 5
or 6 course meal out of the stack, steaming hot, as our silent wonder
woman did, a meal which included chocolate cake for dessert!

Offering the food to all of us, and finding mute refusal from the
indians and wide eyed amazement and a decline from me as well, I came to
conclude that this woman was nothing less than a Saint. How this tiny
woman fought her way through unruly crowds, got past the guards on the
first class car, found our compartment, negotiated a first class ticket
and produced a first class dinner is one of those miracles of India
which I will never understand for the rest of my life.

I was to learn that not only did this train not serve food, the promised
pillows and blankets would not be offered either. “They have all been
stolen” said the guard without a hint of regret.

Everyone settled into their routine. The men, who introduced themselves
as Anil and Zushi, played cards and the woman ate with great precision
and dignity. I climbed up into my upper bunk, made a pillow out of a
couple of sweatshirts, and fell asleep.

Sometime later, I was jolted awake. It was night. The cabin was utterly
dark and the train was stopped. Outside, the sound of loud and angry
crowds immediately made me feel nervous. There was an incessant pounding
on the train, seeming to move over the top of us like a ghost, and I had
an immediate vision that I was not in a railway car, but in a submarine
which had just struck something on the surface.

Anil and the police chief had pulled steel shutters over the windows,
and the cabin was completely dark. Suddenly the pounding crossed above
us again, and I realized that people were running across the top of the
train. It was very cold, both inside and outside, and I doubted they
could survive riding on top for long. Outside, what sounded like
thousands of people in an angry crowd were shouting and yelling.

Then people began to pound on the doors of the carriage. The pounding
was incessant and angry. Finding no answer, they began to go the length
of our car, pounding the steel shutters.

I sat up. Anil, in the upper bunk, across from me, spoke.

“They want to get into our car, but the conductor has locked it”

“Why?”, i asked. “Why our car?”

“First class boss. All the other cars are completely filled. There is no
chance for them. They see a first class car, and they know there is
room.”

As he said it something hit the train and shattered. Bottles. Then
another, then sharp reports of rocks hitting en mass. Inside, in our tin
can, the sound was magnified many times over. It was like being inside a
metal speaker, with me and the men the woofers and our old lady friend
the tweeter. Suddenly I felt in danger, and vulnerable. The pounding
continued.

“Is this dangerous? Are we safe?” I asked.

“In India, the most dangerous thing is mob psychology, boss. Indians do
not take initiative, they are very good as individuals, very bad as a
crowd. These are simple, country people. Ok, one on one. In big group,
very dangerous. ”

I gulped. Anil continued. “I think they only want to get in. If they can
get in, I do not think they will make trouble”

“We might be crushed”, I speculated, remembering my experience boarding.

“Yes” said Anil, laughing. “We might. Anyway, we won’t have much sleep
tonight. That is for sure.”

The crowd outside had grown more incessant. They began pounding on every
square inch of the train. And all together, they began to rock the car.
Inside, we rolled like a cocktail shaker.

“Why doesn’t the engineer just leave the station and get away from
this?” I asked.

“He cannot. He is blasting the whistle for help. Can you hear it?”

I listened. Indeed the horn was honking 3 times in succession over and
over.

“Beep. Beep. Beep. It is the signal for help. Either someone has pulled
the emergency cord, or perhaps the crowd has taken over the engine…”

“WHAT? You’re kidding!” I said. “Could they drive the train?”

“No. But they can attack it and make enough trouble. Listen, I will tell
you what they are saying”

The reporter in me fumbled through the dark for some paper and a pen.
Meanwhile the banging seemed to come from all sides and the train rocked
like a major earthquake.

“Outside they are saying that it is not fair that we rich people have
all the space when they need it. They are saying to open the doors or
there will be trouble.”

At this very moment, the tiny, wiry train conductor came into our cabin
and said something in Hindi, and disappeared. Outside he yelled at the
crowd in a voice far larger than his frame. This only seemed to incite
people, and the activity became more animated.

“Oh this is bad boss. The crowd is threatening to cut the air hoses of
the train unless the first class is opened.”

Meanwhile the banging had increased. More people ran across the top of
the train, right over my head, and began smashing the top with something
heavy. It was deafening, and very very frightening.

Meanwhile, the police chief remained silent on his bed. I could not see
the old woman directly in the bed beneath me. I somehow felt that seeing
her scared would not help my own condition.

I attacked the situation with humor. I looked down at Zuschi and said,
facetiously, “So, do you have a gun?”

He looked squarely at me with an icy expression. “No need gun. India no
need guns”.

For at least 30 minutes, the animated activity took place outside the
train. People continued to bang angrily at the steel shuttered doors,
and directly on our closed metal window. The banging was virtually
incessant, the people were angry.

After awhile we heard the crowd noise stiffen, and the sound change from
the pounding of fists on the side of the train to the gunshot report of
rocks hitting the side of the carriage repeatedly. This went on for some
time, then sound of rioting began. Soon we were being pelted with
anything people could find. Clearly, given the shattering of small glass
objects, it was mostly bottles and rocks. I felt like I was inside a
steamer trunk left on a dock during a hailstorm.

Then the sound of police whistles, and the attack abated for the moment.
The conductor came into our cabin and he and the policemen exchanged
nervous words. For some reason, the conductor seemed to wince in pain.

After what might have been 2 minutes or 20, I can’t tell, the noise of
the group ourside surged again. People ran by the side of the train
outside, speaking in blistering, rapid staccato Hindi.

“Oh dear me”, said Anil, calling the play by play, “They are ripping up
posts around the station, and they are going to batter the train.”

“Jesus”, I said, just as a huge impact hit the side of the train.

All three of us said “Wow” in unison. Moments later, another huge
impact. Clearly the mob had a plan and would not give up.

The third hit, somewhere down our car, caved in the metal shutters and
smashed the glass of the window. We could hear it flying and excited
voices. I hoped it was not my Bombay friends in the two bed compartment.
There was no way to know.

“They are succeeding in breaking the windows now” from Anil.

Another hit, directly on the window of our compartment. “Shit,” I
thought, did I lock the window earlier when I opened it?” Fortunately
Zuschi was already checking. The window, in fact, did not go down 100%
and was slightly raised in the up position where someone could,
theoretically, raise it. But our steel barrier was holding, for the time
being.

Another blow, and another shattering of glass seemingly in the
compartment next to us. We all sat in the darkness, pitch black.

I thought for a second what would happen to the woman below if her
window shattered, so I leaned over to have a look at her. To my
amazement, she appeared to be sound asleep!  I considered what could be
done about her and then our window shattered unmercifully.

Almost immediately hands appeared under our window barrier. Black,
withered, dirty, desperate hands. Reaching through and trying to get in.
And the increased noise of an angry and despertate crowd.

Anil and Zuschi flew into action just like the policemen they were. Both
began to shut the window in unison, which involved a clever latching
system which was confusing and inconvenient. But together they managed
to start to move the steel barrier down on top of the reaching,
clamoring hands. Those hands that would not retract, were unmercifully
kicked by our cabin crew.

Once the steel curtain was latched back into place, the crowd outside
got noisier and more angry (if such a thing was possible). Sitting in
the darkness for what seemed an eternity, I grew thoroughly angry at the
mob and the lack of security to prevent what was happening. This being
India, I suspected, the response would be thoroughly knee-jerk and very
late.

“Now they are saying they will burn the train”, said Anil. “They are
going to get torches”.

A few moments later, the eerie shadow cast through the metal louvers of
our cell indicated that people were running around the train with
torches, flaming torches. The thought of being roasted inside a barbeque
pit known as an Indian first class rail carriage flashed though my mind.
How absurd that they could not see me and I could not see them. How
amazingly irrational human behavior in a crowd. And for what? To get to
some river to wash off ones sins at some astrologically propitious
moment, and thereby assure lifetimes more of stupidity, violence and
misery???

Again, police whistles blew and, seemingly just in the nick of time, the
crowd was dispersed with their fires. I heard the sound of the
ubiquitous police batons being banged on the pavement of the station
platform.

Then, with equal miraculous force, the train stuttered and started! We
began to roll away. As this happened, there was a brief crescendo of
anger from outside, and quite a few more rocks scattered off the car.
But we were delirious! We were moving!!! It had been at least 3 hours
parked in the station.

Anil looked at me with a straight face.

“Only sixteen more stations to go before the Kumba Mehla”.

I was later to learn that the town we were trapped in was called
Manikpur, which I think was well named, since it was, in fact, Manic and
Poor.

Later in the evening something happened which rivals all that had come
before. The conductor, who up until this point had been holding his own
with great courage against the crowds outside, and had basically made
sure that we were all safe throughout the night, suddenly appeared in
our carriage. His face had gone from concerned to something resembling
pain.

With great agony, he pointed to his back tooth. It was apparent he had a
very bad toothache.

“His tooth is very bad infected”, said Anil, “and he has heard that the
police chief here has very strong powers of healing, so he has come here
to see if there is cure…”

I looked at Zuschi. He was staring at me with a kind of hypnotic glare
which at once made me feel that perhaps he was more than just a big,
silent enforcer type.

“Now he will heal this man”, said Anil confidently.

“You will?”, I asked Zuschi, but as usual he maintained his silence and
just went to work.

He took the conductors hand and held it for a moment. Then, after
looking at his watch, he sat the man down next to him and simply placed
his fist, with index and middle finger extended, against the side of the
man’s face.

For several minutes we all sat in silence. Zuschi only looked down at
the floor, concentrating all his powers through his fingers, and looking
away. The conductor was expressionless and appeared to be in a trance.
The train provided a steady, dramatic rhythm.

Then, just as suddenly as he had begun, Zushi pulled his hand away. In a
snap. The conductor looked startled, then relieved, then amazed. He
bobbed his head, smiled widely, and they exchanged a few words of Hindi,
and he left.

“He is healed”, Anil muttered, “No pain”

“Wow”, I said, but of course was thoroughly doubting this Œmiracle’. I
looked at Zuschi and he was looking at me deeply.

My Western mind was intent on doubting all of this, but the next day I
saw the conductor again, and he re-affirmed that the pain had not
returned.

“What gives you this power?” I asked Zuschi.

“1986″ was all he said.

“1986?”

“Yes”, Anil said, “In 1986 he had a big experience in his life, and
since then, he has always had the power. Everyone in villages comes to
him. He is very important man. Did you just think he was a policeman??”

The night drifted on. There were more stations (“there are procedures to
be followed…this is a scheduled stop…”), and more crowds and more
banging and smashing, but nothing as bad as Manicpur. I actually managed
to drift off into troubled sleep in which I imagined myself in a land
based remake of Das Boot. I was injured by the periscope retracting
directly on my head, and when I awoke, an Indian guru was doing Three
Stooges therapy on my bald pate. It wasn’t a restful night.

All day the train stopped and our arrival time grew more and more
distant. Thousands of people at each station tried to crowd onto the
cars. Many rode in the dangerous area between cars, on the couplers and
joints of the carriages. Others were dying of suffocation.

I continued to chat pleasantly with the police chief and his friend.
Every now and then I would say something to which the old lady in the
seat across would suddenly guffaw. But it seemed she spoke no English.
As we continued on, and night became day, vigilance over the railway car
slackened, and at each railway station, we fought battles to keep our
compartment free of people. At one point I simply had to get to the
restroom, crawling over bodies in the hallway, and when I returned, my
seat and every other in the compartment had been taken by a group of
fat, ugly Indian men.

That was about it. I lost my temper. With particular anger I told them
to “get the fuck out of this car” in about 15 different ways. Once they
had left, one of them accompanied by my fist grabbing his jacket, I
returned to my seat in a murderous mood. The old woman guffawed.

At one point we sat in a remote country station for 2 1/2 hours -
already 8 hours late. Another slow, jammed train pulled into the station
beside ours. As our train began to leave, everyone jumped off this other
train, ran onto ours and pulled the emergency brake cables. Our traion
stopped for another 1 1/2 hours. With our train now stuck, everyone ran
over to the other, slow train, and it left. I tried to board it, but it
was hopelessly jammed. When I returned to my own, crippled train, I
found Anil and Zuschi gone – without a word.

I would never see them again. The old woman guffawed.

The train arrived in Allahabad at 8 pm, 14 hours late. The station
platforms were so crowded with pilgrims bearing their loads that it was
virtually impossible to even walk on the platforms. Off to the side,
police stood and blew whistles, but offered no instruction, organization
or help. The crowds surged and moved in ways that could not be
controlled.

As if in trance, country bumpkins rushed to and fro, as if there was no
one else around, pushing you from behind, elbowing you from the side and
grabbing your clothing. My bags with the camera gear were getting
crushed and many times I grabbed people and gave them stern lectures
about pushing and shoving.

I wandered through the station looking for any sign of my assistant and
the Indian government crew. But it was like looking for pebbles on a
beach. The entire time I was pushed and shoved, hassled, bumbed and
tugged. Outside, people were climbing over dfences by the thousands and
the sea ebbed and flowed like an ocean into the night.

I had had enough. I realized that the one thing you do not want to do in
India is the Kumba Mehla, trendy or not. Don’t get between Australians
and their vegemite, South Americans and their soccer and Indians and
their rivers. Further, I have realized that one does not find
enlightenment bathing with 70 million other people.

I’m reminded of a man I met in New Zealand once who lived on an island
manning a lighthouse. No one else lived there and his only companionship
was a twice weekly mail and milk boat which came from the distant
mainland. I asked him if he ever got lonely.

“Lonely people don’t live in lonely places”, he said.

“Lonely people live with hundreds, maybe thousands, or millions of other
lonely people”.

I have never felt lonelier than I felt in those crowds of Indians. The
whole spectacle was, well, to be honest, truly awful in every way. In
fact, I would say the Kumba Mehla is the single worst thing in India.

At least those were my thoughts at the time. I made a sudden, rash
decision. I wanted as far away from that river as possible.

Enlightenment is found in forests and glades, under Bodhi trees and in
quiet spaces. When our planet becomes like the anthill of the Kumba, our
fate is sealed. There will be no more magic on earth when we are all
fighting for the last solitary square inch of space on our rivers.

I made a decision. I found the first bicycle rickshaw I could, and told
him to get me the hell away from there. He seemed incredulous. I wanted
to go away from the Kumba?

Yes, I said, as far as possible, the next city, the next station…just
get me away.

And he started pedalling. As we past the long lines of people moving
towards their destiny, I noted the identical, zombie-like expressions on
their faces. All religions seem to do this to their followers, and
suddenly I felt immense relief to me moving in the opposite direction.
It was somehow liberating.

- RR