Travelling Around Britain and the World

Saturday 23 February 2013

Allahabad (2), Some Foot-slogging: Uttar Pradesh Part 4

The Kumbh Mela (Again), a Villge Walk and Driving to Lucknow

21-Feb-2013

The Kumbh Mela Revisited

Driving There


India
Uttar Pradesh
Mohammed was as good as his word, shortly after breakfast a car and driver arrived to take us for another run at the Kumbh Mela.

We bumped back over the field, but this time turned right towards the main road; without Seema to talk us through the roadblocks we had to take the official route. It took ten or fifteen minutes to reach the edge of Allahabad where city-bound traffic heads up over a flyover and Kumbh traffic filters left on a single lane threaded through the piers of the flyover towards the riverside suburb of Sangam.

Our Uttar Pradesh journey took us from Varanasi to Allahabad, Lucknow and Agra

A lot of traffic wanted to get down that single lane, and the usual Indian drivers’ response is to generate more lanes. A single lane can easily accommodate two cars and a third can be made by co-opting the dusty verge. As we arrived a fourth lane was being created, causing several stallholders to hurriedly re-locate their pitches.

Four lanes of traffic worked well enough until they came to squeeze between the concrete piers. The gaps allowed one, perhaps two smaller cars to pass at a time. The traffic locked solid. Every driver knows that to solve this problem they must edge forward while leaning on the horn.

Inch by hard-won, cacophonous inch we shoved and jostled our way through. On the other side sanity returned and we set off for Sangam only to find our way barred by a policeman. Without Seema to smooth the way we had to do as directed and ended up in a car park within sight of the flyover.

Before we left the car the driver wanted to give us his mobile phone number, but although our phone was happy to show a welcome message from India Telecom, it refused to make or take any calls or texts so there was no point. I am not sure what we would have talked about anyway as we had no words of any language in common. Instead we synchronised watches and, by turning hands and pointing, agreed a time to return.

The Walking Part

With no real plan, we decided to follow the general drift of the crowd. We did this for an hour.

Garlands for sale on the walk to the Kumbh Mela, Allahabad

We became absorbed in the colourful, good natured crowd, strolling along in sunshine that was warm but gentle enough for it to be ideal walking weather. Our companions were all sorts and conditions of people of all ages, united in their pilgrimage. Some were laden down and obviously planning to stay for some time. We saw food, cooking equipment and mats to sit on all bundled up in a sheet and carried on peoples’ heads.

Passing a temple and a fort on the way to the Kumbh Mela, Allahabad

We passed through tented areas lined with stalls, some on trolleys, some laid out on the ground, and small business sections with makeshift banks and police stations, a temple and a fort dating back to the raj.

At the Kumbh Mela, Allahabad

Eventually we reached the river. Looking at our watches we realised we could stay for ten minutes before starting the long trek back.

Bathing in the Ganges at the Kumbh Mela, Allahabad

We wandered round, soaking up as much of the atmosphere as was possible in the time, then set off towards the car.

Starting the long walk back, Kumbh Mela, Allahabad

Driving Back

The driver was waiting. Back at the flyover the congestion was as bad leaving as it had been arriving and we soon found ourselves solidly jammed between concrete piers. To our right was a handcart piled high with fruit, its pilot resting against the pier breathing heavily. To our left a bevy of sari clad matrons sat in a trailer behind a large green tractor. Nobody was moving, the air was loud with the sound of horns and thick with the fumes of diesel, particularly around the unfortunate man with the cart.

Then our driver did something remarkable, and I am still not sure how he did it. He reversed out of the traffic jam. It was obviously impossible, but somehow his determined application of the horn prised open a small space and he just backed out. We returned to the car park and set off again on a slightly different trajectory. Amazingly we slipped through with relative ease and came out on the main road only thirty metres down from the earlier impenetrable jam. We could still see the green tractor and the bright colours of the women’s saris; they had not moved an inch.

The remainder of our return trip was reasonably swift and we arrived in time for lunch. We had been out for just over four hours and spent ten minutes at the kumbh. It should have felt like a wasted morning, but strangely it did not. Our experience was similar to those of many ordinary kumbh-goers and it somehow felt right and appropriate.

Idling Away the Rest of the Day

We paid off the driver, had lunch and enjoyed a rare afternoon of inactivity, sitting outside our 'Swiss cottage' and reading until the sun forced us to read inside.

A relaxing read outside our 'Swiss Cottage'

At dusk we walked down to the Ganges.

The sun sets over the Ganges, Near Allahabad

I became involved in a deep and serious discussion with these two, though I cannot remember what it was about.

Serious discussions beside the Ganges

22-Feb-2013

A Village Walk

The next morning we walked to the village that lined the road to the highway.

Maybe we arrived on dung cake day - or perhaps every day is dung cake day. Buffalo dung is the main fuel for cooking and it has to be collected, patted into appropriately sized cakes and set out in the sun to dry. Outside every house a woman was engaged in this activity. The girl in the picture had been working alongside her mother until we arrived, but she stopped to pose for a picture. When we passed again at the end of our walk she was sitting on the wall eating a bowl of rice with her fingers. I like to think she washed her hands in between.

Taking a break from the dung cakes, Village near Allahabad

The camp, filled largely with middle class Indians but with a good sprinkling of foreigners, had been nearby for over a month, but we caused so much interest it was clear that few, if any, of our fellow campers had bothered to investigate the lives of their temporary neighbours.

A young man invited is into the village temple and exercised his limited English showing us round. It was very basic, but if it lacked the grandeur of the great temples we had visited, no one could question the devotion and piety of those we saw there.

In the village temple

Leaving the temple, we continued up the street. Any child nothard at work on dung cakes insisted that we take their photograph.

A girl who really needed to be photographed, Village near Allahabad

A man dragged us into the courtyard of his home, sat us down and called his wife and many children to come and greet his unusual visitors. Language difficulties meant the conversation was stilted, but we smiled, said what a fine collection of sons and daughters he had and generally tried to exude goodwill.

Lynne with our host, his wife and two of his children

Outside we met a lad who assured us his brother was Sachin Tendulkar. He did not fool me, and I thought of telling him I was Ian Botham, but he was probably too young to have heard of Ian Botham.

Is this Sachin Tendulkar? No

We took more photographs…..

Plenty of material for dung cakes, Village near Allahabad

….. and were invited in for a another sit down by a man with fewer children, but with a bent and aged grandmother who emerged from the deepest recesses of the house to have a good look at us. She did not seem very impressed.

A child we had photographed on our way up grabbed us again on our return and insisted we photograph her friend and little sister (or brother?) too.

We have seen this girl before!

We were a novelty and everybody who could spare a moment from their dung cakes came to have a look. It was all very friendly, many hands were shaken and much goodwill expressed all round and we returned to the camp with the warm glow of knowing the world is filled with nice people who want nothing more than to get along with each other.

The village street

A Longer Ganges Walk

In the afternoon we took another walk, strolling for a mile our two beside the Ganges. We met a man taking his camel for an airing..

Walking a camel beside the Ganges, Near Allahabad

...and a group of women carrying sacks of rice on their heads. I do not know where they were going but they arrived from the distance before us and disappeared into the distance behind. It was a long carry for heavy bags.

Carrying rice beside the Ganges, Near Allahabad

Litter is the curse of India. The detritus of the Kumbh, decaying garlands and the presssed leaf cups used to hold candles offered to the sacred river, will soon decay; plastic bags are another matter. And then there is the other pollution, industrial and human; pollution that cannot be seen but can sometimes be smelt.

Beside the Ganges, Near Allahabad

The secular authorities know there is a problem, the religious authorities recognise it too, but little is done. Swami Chidanand Saraswati wrote of the Holy Ganges in the Times of India 'it is time to pay back and protect and preserve her precious and pristine waters.' The waters may be precious but it is many decades since they were pristine. Action needs to be taken urgently.

We met this pair on their bicycle who demanded I take their picture, and a rather pleasing picture it is too. It is a shame they could only see it on the scratched and battered screen on my aged camera.

Beside the Ganges, near Allahabad

Dinner was another unimaginative vegetarian buffet, memorable only for causing Lynne to make the short journey to the toilet several times during the night. I slept well - except when something jumped on me. It then went under Lynne's bed and scrabbled out the door of the tent. I shuddered and hoped it was not a rat. There had been a little rain and the beast left a muddy footprint in the doorway of the tent. It was definitely no rat, you might think it was a dog, I prefer to believe it was a leopard.

Obviously a leopard. Surely.

23-Feb-2013

Driving from Allahabad to Lucknow

In the morning another driver turned up to take us the 200 kilometres to Lucknow. Indian roads do not make for fast travelling and it took all day, but that mattered little - there is always something to see, and we are usually moving slowly enough to see it.

On the road to Allahabad

We stopped at 11.30 at an open fronted tea shop packed with customers. Traditional Indian tea is made with condensed milk and is strong and sweet. Provided you do not think of it as being tea, it makes a surprisingly refreshing drink on a warm day. As in most street tea stalls the tea came in earthenware cups, the ultimate recyclable material; throw it on the floor when it is no more use and it returns to the dust from which it was made.

 
A very Indian cup of tea, Teahouse between Allahabad and Lucknow

Later we came across a working party cutting down a tree. The traffic had been stopped by men with red flags but this being India the cars and motorcycles behind him had spread over both sides of the road and were starting to colonise the verges as well.

The massed ranks ready to charge. On the road from Allahabad to Lucknow

After much sawing and pausing and pondering and sawing again, the tree crashed to the ground as the sawyers dashed for safety.

The tree crashes and the sawyers run, On the road from Allahabad to Lucknow

I had watched from the middle of the road so I was in prime position to observe the cavalry charge as three lanes of traffic each way headed for each other down a two lane road.

To the accompaniment of blaring horns the tide swept around me and battle commenced. Our car pulled up, I stepped inside and we joined in.

We reached Lucknow in the late afternoon as drizzle started to fall. The city of 6 million people is the capital of Uttar Pradesh; it is also the birthplace of Cliff Richard, though other important events took place there which will feature in the next two posts.

We checked into our hotel in Hazratganj, the city’s main shopping area and had time for a stroll before darkness fell. Our first impressions were not very positive, which may have had something to do with the weather. Many of the rather dowdy shops had security guards outside, some with aged firearms, others with lathis. There were beggars, too, several of them quite persistent, though the lathi wielding guards were quick to chase them away.

Hazratganj, Lucknow

We dined at the nearest restaurant to the hotel. It was a ‘family vegetarian’ restaurant which meant another day without meat and beer. It was, we realised too late, a perverse choice. It also did little for Lynne’s stomach problem.

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Location: Allahabad, Uttar Pradesh, India

Wednesday 20 February 2013

Allahabad and the Kumbh Mela: Uttar Pradesh Part 3

After a long campaign, Allahabad was officially renamed Prayagraj in October 2018. The new name is controversial, and not all new names catch on. As the city was called Allahabad at the time of our visit, it remains Allahabad in this post.

A Field of Tents, a Fortuitous Meeting, the Kumbh Mela and the Nehru Family Homes

Varanasi to Allahabad


India
Uttar Pradesh
The Kumbh Mela, the great Hindu pilgrimage, is held at 4 different sites, each visited once every 12 years. This year’s event, at Allahabad, was a special Maha Kumbh – a onc in 144-years happening. The Kumbh, which lasts a month, is often described as the greatest gathering of humanity on the planet and on auspicious days as many as 80 million people come to the Ganges to bathe. Our visit was in a lull between peak bathing days - we would be joining only a few million pilgrims.

Our Uttar Pradesh journey took us from Varanasi to Allahabad, Lucknow and Agra

Varanasi to Allahabad is 120km, but Indian roads do not make for fast travelling and the journey took some three hours. We made a leisurely start – at least by the standards of the last few days…

Varanasi

…and fought our way through the bicycles and tuk-tuks of the morning rush hour.

The bicycles and tuk-tuks of the morning rush hour, Varanasi

Uttar Pradesh has 200 million people crammed together at a density of 820 per km² (c.f. England 407, California 93) so whether we were in a town....

On the road from Varanasi to Allahabad

....a village....

Village stall between Varanasi and Allahabad

....or in the country, the roadside was lined with shops and dwellings.

Rural activity between Varanasi and Allahabad

Arriving at the Ashram, Near Allahabad

Nearing Allahabad we left the main highway and after some wandering on country lanes and several requests for directions, our driver left the tarmac and bumped across a field. On the far side was an empty car park and beyond that, a hundred or so tents.

He helped carry our bags up to check-in and then left. Apart from the receptionist we seemed to be entirely alone in a field of tents.

We were shown to our home for the next three days. The ‘Swiss Cottage’ was introduced into India by the British army in the 19th century and named by someone who, presumably, had never visited Switzerland. Our two room tent had two comfortable beds, electricity, which worked some of the time, running water, which worked most of the time, and a flush toilet.

Lynne outside our 'Swiss Cottage' the following morning. Kumbh Mela, Allahabad

We walked round the deserted site. ‘For the next three days,’ our itinerary had said, ‘you will follow the programme at the ashram.’ There was no programme. There was a sign offering ashram tours but when we asked at reception we were treated to a quizzical look followed by a waved arm which said ‘This is the ashram.’ To us 'ashram' suggested a religious community, while this was just a campsite. There was a small shrine, but there was no one there either. Behind it a path passed through a tear in the canvas wall and we followed it down to the Holy Ganges. The river was only 100m away, but wherever the Kumbh Mela was, it was not here.

The shrine at a rare moment when it was not completely deserted, Kumbh Mela, Allahabad

Encountering Seema

The canteen, the receptionist had told us, would open at 1.15 but when we arrived there was no food, just a tent full of empty tables and a lad standing by what was presumably the entrance to the kitchen. There were two other people there, a woman and a younger man. The woman had a brief conversation with the kitchen boy, then turned to us and said, ‘He says they’ll be serving food at 1.30.’ Her switch from Hindi to English was so natural that she was clearly equally at home in either language.

We went away for 15 minutes and spent it wondering what we were going to do for the next three days.

We returned to find a vegetarian buffet had been laid out. The food was adequate if a touch dull – and would vary little in the time we spent there. Apart from the staff there were only the two people we met previously, so we asked if we could join them. We needed to talk to somebody, preferably someone who could answer questions like ‘where is the Kumbh Mela?’

Our new friend introduced herself as Seema and her companion as her son Biku. She was, she said, a journalist on the Indian Express, an English language national newspaper we had encountered before (and it as a much more informative and reliable journal that its lamentable British namesake). Biku was a press photographer – his seriously impressive camera lay on the table as we talked. I asked Seema if she was there to work but she said she had come as an interested non-believer, maybe she would write something, maybe not. [She did write something - A Sceptic on the Bank.]

To the Kumbh Mela with Seema

We asked how to get to the Kumbh and she was amazed that our Delhi tour company had booked us a tent but no transport. She and Biku were going that afternoon and there was space in the car if we wanted to join them. We accepted gratefully.

Seema and Biku, Our benefactors at the Kumbh Mela

After lunch their driver bumped the four of us back over the field and turned left towards the river. We had not gone far when we encountered a roadblock. This was not the way the authorities wanted pilgrims to approach the Kumbh and neither Biku nor Seema had their press cards which might have justified special treatment. ‘Never mind,’ said Seema, getting out of the car. She approached the policeman, had a brief chat and two minutes later he pulled back the hurdle blocking the road and waved us through.

We soon reached the river but our right turn was again blocked. A formidable looking sergeant barred our way, a man with a huge moustache and even bigger lathi. The driver stopped and Seema again got out. A few minutes later the sergeant’s craggy face was wreathed in smiles and he saluted as he waved us through.

There was no real entrance to the Kumbh. The dirt road was surrounded first by tents,….

Approaching the Kumbh Mela, Allahabad

then by tents and stalls…..

Roadside stall, Kumbh Mela, Allahabad

…… and then there were more and more people - and even an elephant.

And even an elephant, Kumbh Mela, Allahabad

Eventually further progress by car became impossible so we parked and walked across the long floating footbridge to a sandbank in the river. This point is particularly sacred as it the confluence of three holy rivers, the Ganges, the Yamuna and the Saraswati, (this last is a spiritual rather than physical river but, for the devout at least, no less real for that).

Across the floating bridge, Kumbh Mela, Allahabad

Bathing in the Ganges

Picking an uncrowded spot Seema ventured carefully into the water.

Seema ventures carefully into the Ganges

Not to be outdone, I ventured in too. Wikipedia, indulging the American obsession to rank anything that can be ranked, considers the Ganges the world’s fifth most polluted river with both sewage and industry making substantial contributions. The clean-up, the ‘Ganga Action Plan’ has, according to Wikipedia, ‘been a major failure thus far, due to corruption, lack of technical expertise, lack of good environmental planning, and lack of support from religious authorities.’

Up to my knees in the Holy Ganges, Kumbh Mela, Allahabad

As can be seen from the picture I was only blessed up to my knees, but I was happy to emerge from the water and find neither of my legs had dissolved. Having considered the picture carefully I am confident there is no similarity between me and Mr Gumby.

'I want a tax on anyone standing in water'

Lynne was more circumspect in her 'bathing', blessing only the soles of her feet. Around us were many who immersed themselves completely – I suspect most will survive.

A minimal blessing, Lynne at the Kumbh Mela, Allahabad

Other Ways to Obtain a Blessing

A little further along we encountered these two ladies cooking puris to offer to Mother Ganga. While admiring their devotion, I fail to understand what a river wants with fried bread products - but maybe that was the wrong sort of thinking to bring to the Kumbh.

Frying puris for Mother Ganga, Kumbh Mela, Allahabad

[Seema writes* 'Fifty-year-old Nirmala, who makes small puris on a fire by the bank ...is singularly disinterested in anyone else’s reasons for being here. She focusses on her own special ritual.']

This girl was nearby, but I have no idea what was going on here, but the blue colour is usual associated with Vishnu.

Blue girl, Kumbh Mela, Allahabad

The nearer we came to the confluence the more crowded it became.

Nearer the confluence, Kumbh Mela, Allahabad

Spotting a seller of blessings, Seema decided this was just what she needed

The man used a GPS device to tell the deity exactly where the supplicant was. I would have thought that any deity with the power to improve your life would know where you were without being told. Wrong sort of thinking again?

Other People at the Kumbh

As can be heard on the video the blessing was carried out against the background of a relentless public address system. Most calls were for the inevitably separated families and lost children. [Seema writes* 'Countless announcements blare from the public address system. A young girl’s heartbreaking wail rents the air as she asks the control tower to find her parents. A pilgrim from Andhra Pradesh tries to speak to his “missing” Telugu-speaking wife over the PA system.'] We like to think of India as a society that respects its elders, but there is a persistent story that families bring the aged and infirm to the Kumbh and dump them in the belief that they will be looked after by someone - or die in a sacred place. Whether this is a regular occurrence or has happened only once or is merely an urban myth I do not know, but it chimes perfectly with that sector of society – as prevalent in India as in England – that is convinced that everything is always getting worse.

Several times we were approached by groups of people wanting to say hello, and have their photograph taken with us. Seema and Biku found this surprising, but we have often encountered it in places where foreign faces are few. Generally conversation is limited, ‘Hello’ being their only word of English, while our Hindi is limited to 'biryani', 'sag aloo' and the like, which have their uses, but do not make for much of a conversation. Occasionally more communication is possible, as with the two lads below, students from Allahabad University and mathematics students to boot, so we had something in common (probably the wrong sort of thinking).

Me with two students from Allahabad University

As afternoon threatened to tip into evening, which happens early in these latitudes, it became time to leave the Kumbh. It had been a breathtaking swirl of sounds, colours and smells (the less said about some of them the the better). Even as we turned to walk over the floating bridge I had to glance behind me to check it had all been real. It had been a privilege to be the smallest possible part of it.

Leaving the Kumbh, Allahabad

The Nehru family Homes, Allahabad

‘Have you been into Allahabad?’ Seema asked before suggesting we should visit the Nehru house.

The Kumbh was on the southeastern edge of Allahabad, a city of some 1.5 million. It is known as the ‘City of Prime Ministers’ as 7 of India’s 13 prime ministers were either born there, studied at Allahabad University or represented the city in Parliament. 3 of those 7 were from the remarkable Nehru dynasty

Motilal Nehru (1861-1931), a lawyer and leading light in the independence movement was the family patriarch. His son, Jawaharlal Nehru (1889-1964) was the first prime minister of independent India. His daughter Indira Ghandi (no relation of the Mahatma Ghandi) was prime minister from 1966 to 1977 and again from 1980 until her assassination in 1984. She was succeeded by her son Rajiv Ghandi who was prime minister until he too was assassinated in 1989. His widow Sonia Ghandi, though Italian by birth, wields considerable power as president of the Congress Party. Other, younger, members of the family wait in the wings.

Anand Bhavan, the Birthplace of Indira Ghandi

After fighting our way through dense traffic we arrived at the Nehru house, or rather houses, just before closing time. Indira Ghandi was born in Anand Bhavan and we started there, walking round the balcony and staring into the rooms on display. It was a grand house, but nowhere near as grand as Swaraj Bhavan next door.

Anand Bhavan, Allahabad

Swaraj Bhavanraj, the Former Home of Jawaharlal Nehru, First Prime Ministre of an Independent India

Before we reached Swaraj Bhavant one of the attendants found the courage to tell Seema that we needed tickets. When she bought four 10 rupee (12p) tickets I took out my wallet, pointing out that 10 Rupees was the price for Indian nationals and that Lynne and I needed 100 Rupee foreigners' tickets. Seema waved my wallet away. ‘Your British,' she said, 'you didn’t leave us very long ago, and anyway we’ve forgiven you,’ and that settled that.

The guardian was locking up as we arrived and for a moment I thought we might be unlucky, but after a word or two from Seema he decided to accompany us round the house, giving us a guided tour and shutting off the lights behind us we moved from room to room.

Swaraj Bhavan, Allahabad

Motilal Nehru bought the house in 1900. On his frequent visits to Europe he bought furniture and china with the intention of turning the mansion into ‘an elaborate replica of an English country estate … bifurcated between East and West’ (Wikipedia). He was outstandingly successful.

There are many pictures of the Nehru family, dressed formally and informally in European and Indian style. These were people who could move so effortlessly from one culture to another and operate at such a high level in each that I felt sorry for the British officials who had to deal with them; even the viceroys were out of their depth.

The house was donated to the Congress Party in 1930 and Anand Bhavan was built next door as a more practically sized, though still substantial, family house.

Holy Trinity, Allahabad

On the way back to camp we dropped in at Holy Trinity Church, a Colonial-Gothic pile built in 1839 and modelled on St Martin-in-the-Fields, London. If it was not for the blue (though rapidly darkening) sky this picture could be of St Martin’s.

Holy Trinity, Allahabad

As darkness fell we crossed the bridge over the Kumbh Mela site and returned to our campsite.

The Kumbh Mela site at night

Despite encouraging texts from India Telecom, Lynne’s phone could not be persuaded to connect with anybody, so we borrowed reception’s laptop and emailed our man Mohammed in Delhi and told him we needed transport.

There were more people in the canteen that evening, mostly Indian pilgrims, but with a smattering of curious westerners. We dined with Biku and Seema and enjoyed an interesting and wide ranging discussion. Seema had worked for the BBC World Service in London and was formidably well informed on British current affairs and we knew far more about Indian issues by the time the meal was over.

[Update: what Seema did not tell us. The day’s events had persuaded us that she was perhaps more important and influential than she had let on. She had described herself as an ‘associate editor’ of the Indian Express, a vague term that can cover anybody from tea boy to managing director. At home, ten minutes Googling established that she is actually a very well-known journalist in India. Her husband’s Wikipedia entry describes her as ‘former Delhi editor of BBC Hindi Service and presently Resident Editor of the Indian Express’. And her husband (whom we did not meet) represents West Bengal in the Rayja Sabha (India’s Upper House) where he leads the Communist Party of India (Marxist)]

As we made our way back to our tent the man from reception approached to say that someone called Mohammed had phoned and a car would be waiting for us in the morning.

It had been a remarkable day, at one time looking like a disaster, but turning into a triumph, thanks to Seema and Biku. We owe a big ‘thank you’ to Seema, particularly, for her kindness, for the refreshing modesty with which she displayed her erudition, and for her spectacular ability to bend people to her will and leave them thinking she had done them a favour.

*A Sceptic on the Bank by Seema Chishti, The Indian Express 02/03/13


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Location: Prayagraj, Uttar Pradesh, India
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