The Great Convergence - A Maha Kumbh Memoir IV

4. The Guiding Flame

   
   

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As the night deepens, Sarojini stands before us, exuding an air of quiet authority, her eyes gleaming with determination. With a swift motion, she unfolds a neatly planned itinerary for the next day. There is no room for discussion—only admiration for the meticulous care she has taken in crafting our journey. She takes full command, like a seasoned general leading her troops through an expedition, and we, her obedient soldiers, simply nod.

“All you need to do is be up and ready. I’ll be at your camp by 6:30 sharp,” she instructs before disappearing into the sea of pilgrims.

Realizing how late it has gotten, we hurry back through the bustling lanes, our breath curling in the frosty air. Hunger gnaws at us, and just as we begin to worry about finding food at such an hour, luck smiles upon us—a small stall stands at the corner, its fire casting a golden glow on the weary but cheerful cook. The sight of chapattis puffing over the flame and the aroma of fresh curry makes our stomachs growl in anticipation.

As we sit on low wooden benches, the first bite of the steaming curry spreads warmth through our frozen bodies. It is pure ambrosia on a cold Kumbh night. We eat gratefully, nodding our thanks to the kind stall owner before heading back to our tent, rubbing our palms together to chase away the creeping chill.

Inside, the sight of clean sheets waiting for us feels like a silent embrace. Wrapping ourselves under thick layers of blankets, we surrender to sleep, determined not to keep Sarojini waiting in the morning.

Dawn comes like a jolt. The alarm on my phone shatters the silence, its shrill cry yanking me out of my slumber. I sit up, dazed, my heart pounding. It takes a moment to remember where I am. The tent, the blankets, the cold—everything rushes back. Hot water in the washroom is a blessing, and as we brush our teeth and take quick baths, the icy air outside makes us shudder.

Stepping out of the tent, we are met with an impenetrable wall of white fog- Thick, dense, and all-consuming. It has swallowed everything whole, reducing the grand expanse of the Kumbh Village to a quiet, ghostly dreamscape. Bundled up in gloves, scarves, heavy coats, and sturdy shoes, we trudge forward, the sand crunching softly beneath our feet. A few meters ahead, a tiny hut beckons with the promise of warmth. The fire crackles inside, and a group of people huddles close, waiting for their turn. We join them, hands outstretched toward the small clay cups filled with steaming, fragrant tea. As the first sip touches my lips, I sigh in relief. The warmth spreads through my body, chasing away the morning frost.

Time slips by, and there is still no sign of Sarojini. The Mela, shrouded in fog, remains eerily still. Just as a flicker of worry creeps into my mind, my phone vibrates in my pocket. Sarojini.

“I’m stuck,” she says, her voice unwavering. “The car won’t move an inch in this crowd. But don’t worry—I’m coming.”

And true to her word, minutes later, she emerges through the mist, striding towards us with effortless grace. My eyes widen in disbelief. No coat. No gloves. Just a simple salwar-kurta.

“Aren’t you freezing?” I ask, utterly baffled.

She laughs, waving a dismissive hand. “I’m used to this weather.”

There is no time to waste. The morning has already slipped past us, and we have temples to see, prayers to offer, and an entire city to experience. Without another word, we climb into the car, the adventure finally beginning.

The moment we arrive at the Bade Hanuman Temple, also known as Laite Hue Hanuman Mandir, we are met with an overwhelming sight—an ocean of devotees stretching as far as the eye can see. It is a Tuesday, an auspicious day for Hanuman worship, and the temple grounds are a buzzing hive of faith and devotion.

The queue snakes through the temple premises, stretching for what seems like kilometers, disappearing into the dense crowd. People stand patiently, hands folded, their lips murmuring silent prayers. The air is thick with the scent of incense and the rhythmic chants of "Jai Bajrang Bali!" that echo across the temple complex. Policemen, their whistles sharp against the hum of prayers, try to clear a path for cars to exit.

Just then, a murmur ripples through the crowd—The revered Shankaracharya is leaving the temple after his darshan. The first car rolls past us, its aura almost palpable. Seeing him feels like an unexpected blessing, a stroke of divine luck. We exchange amused glances—had we arrived earlier, we would have missed this moment. Perhaps, in being late, we are actually right on time.

Despite the chaos, I feel no impatience. The sheer magnitude of faith around me is humbling, and I surrender to the moment, allowing the tide of devotees to carry me forward. Sarojini, ever the planner, has already arranged for a special entry. With a knowing smile, she beckons us to follow her.

Through a path unknown to the masses, we make our way in. Sarojini leads us to a quiet corner near the temple entrance, her eyes scanning the crowd as if waiting for someone. “Just wait here,” she says, her voice calm but certain. The hum of prayers, the clang of temple bells, and the rhythmic chanting of "Jai Bajrang Bali!" fill the air, creating a spiritual symphony around us.

After a few moments, a priest, draped in saffron, approaches with a knowing nod. Without a word, he motions for us to follow. We step forward, weaving through the dense throng of devotees, moving steadily toward the heart of the temple.

With each step, the majestic form of Sri Hanuman emerges before us, his presence growing larger and clearer. As the crowd parts, the full enormity of the reclining deity comes into view. My breath hitches. He is massive—colossal in every sense. The sheer size of the deity makes us instinctively bow our heads in reverence. The very earth cradles Him, as though even the ground bows in reverence to the mighty warrior deity.

His features are striking—his large eyes seem to gaze beyond, as if watching over the devotees in silent blessing. The deep red hue of his form, the slight curve of his reclining posture—it all feels surreal. It is believed that the River Ganga, in her devotion, reaches out to touch Hanuman’s feet during the monsoon, every year, a divine offering of her waters to the eternal protector. The thought sends a shiver down my spine. What a sight that must be!

The priest, sensing our awe, stands silently beside us, allowing us to take in the darshan without hurry. I close my eyes briefly, whispering my prayers, feeling a deep connection to the unwavering strength and devotion that Sri Hanuman embodies. The air vibrates with an energy that is both electrifying and deeply peaceful. I bow my head, offering my prayers, feeling a surge of gratitude for having made it here.

When we finally step out of the sanctum, Sarojini is already at work. She has everything prepared—meticulously, thoughtfully. In a small open space, she has neatly arranged earthen diyas, along with ghee and wicks. She hands each of us a diya, her careful planning leaving me in quiet admiration. As the flames flicker to life, casting a warm glow against the cool temple walls, we softly begin chanting the Hanuman Chalisa, the words flowing naturally, rising and falling in harmony with our beating hearts. There is a deep satisfaction, a completeness in that moment, as if every part of our journey has aligned to bring us here.

With our souls light and our prayers lingering in the air, we make our way back to the car. The driver, already instructed, has the engine running, ready to take us to our next destination. The journey is far from over, and with Hanuman’s blessings, we are ready to embrace whatever comes next.

...to be continued