Newly initiated sadhus, or Hindu holy men, take a ritual dip in the Ganges… (Sanjay Kanojia / AFP/Getty…)
ALLAHABAD, India — It's dusk, and the sun's rays succumb to the twinkle of amber streetlights at the sacred confluence of the Ganges and Yamuna rivers. The day's last bathers, intent on washing away sins and purifying their souls, take a dip in the cold, dirty water and then relax on blankets and launch boats covered in marigolds.
This is as close to peace and quiet as it gets at India's Maha Kumbh Mela, a once-in-a-lifetime (well, this lifetime) Woodstock-gone-viral event billed as the world's largest religious festival. How big? It's expected to draw 100 million people over 55 days ending March 10.
Part spiritual journey, part commercial circus, the Hindu tradition is a full-frontal assault on senses too often dulled by the debilitating sameness of chain outlets, corporate-sports swooshes and designer coffee.
As stragglers head inland, they're greeted by the smoke, dust and noise of this 4,700-acre pop-up megacity — and its 35,000 portable potties. Lost-relative messages spew from loudspeakers, clashing with movie soundtracks, Hindu chants and religious lectures blasting from hundreds of compounds adorned with fluorescent peacocks, flashing goddesses and twirling signs that read, "I love India."
"It's all a bit crazy," said Baba Nirbhaya Puri, looking on from his (understated) ashram. "We're here for inner peace, not this stuff."
The masses arrive from dusty villages and bustling cities aboard tractors, jets and rickshaws to this place deep in India's soul where myths breathe and gods with elephant heads and monkey bodies embody the country's rich, textured religious culture.
"Wash your sins in the Ganges, not your clothes," a sign entreats as women wring out saris and men shiver in wet skivvies, oblivious to the health risks of dipping in one of the world's most polluted rivers. With 750 million gallons of sewage dumped each day into the 1,500-mile river, any link between cleanliness and godliness is an overwhelming act of faith.
There's no shortage of that. "Mother Ganges purifies itself," said Ram Naresh, 70, a farmer. "One drop cleanses the body and the soul."
About 30 million devotees are expected to attend the festival Sunday, considered the most auspicious bathing day.
Held in some form every three years, with the largest crowds at the 12- and 144-year marks, when it's believed that good karma is strongest, the festival was first written about by a Chinese traveler in AD 634, although its roots are older. Mark Twain, among the first Americans to attend, described it in 1895 as a marvel to "our kind of people, the cold whites."
Foreigners faced with the sea of pilgrims, pickpockets, beggars, yogis and self-declared god men of this year's 144-year festival, can relate. "It's a bit overwhelming," said Andrea Kjirkby, a British tourist, comparing the carnival atmosphere to an English seaside resort. "But there's also great generosity. India is extreme. You don't get ordinary days."
As morning dawns over flat sandy grounds that stretch as far as the eye can see, thousands of pilgrims emerge from tattered tents, thatched huts and elaborate cupola-adorned ashrams seeking wisdom from legions of sadhus. These holy men — hermits from Himalayan retreats, thoughtful philosophers, eccentric extroverts — are fawned over by star-struck followers celebrating their work in this life and those expected to follow.
"I swam five times in the Ganges and cleansed my sins," said Aakor Singh Maharaj, 40, a sadhu sporting a pink shirt, expensive cellphone and movie star sunglasses. "Actually I never had that many."
In a country with a reputation for poor infrastructure and checkered garbage collection, the management of this spiritual smorgasbord is impressive. The festival site, administered by the government here in the north-central state of Uttar Pradesh, boasts temporary water pipes, power lines, police stations and 90 miles of makeshift road.
"I can't find my guru's place," said Subhash Barot, a physician from Indore. "It's overwhelming."
At the control center, administrator Mani Prasad Mishra is ringed by supplicants seeking better locations, more electricity, new neighbors. Sadhus are allocated specific sites and pay no rent; the limited number of shops allowed into the area pay for the privilege. "It's nothing but complaints," he said with a sigh. "This is definitely the most challenging job of my career."
As the sun ascends, Sri Amar Bharti Baba attracts curiosity-seekers and supplicants eager to see his right arm, held aloft for three decades in a supreme act of denial and willpower. The sadhu's fingers have fused, their curled, blackened nails resembling talons. His left hand reaches for the hashish he chain-smokes to open his spiritual channels.
"There's only five or six doing this in the world," said Horst Brutsche, 57, a German devotee of 18 years known as Datta Bharti. "It's definitely not for me."