Gangagasar Mela: An ocean of humanity (Part I)

“Sab teerth baar baar, Gangasagar ek baar”: Hindu saying

(All pilgrimages again and again, Gangasagar only once)

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It had been barely 15 minutes that we had landed up in Kakdwip and I had already lost my travel companion. I had been running towards the end of one of the many queues to the jetty; he was right behind me. But when I turned around after about 2 minutes, he was gone. Poof!

Thinking that maybe he had slackened his pace and would catch up eventually, I continued on my way, and finally found the end of what had seemed a never-ending line. But another five minutes passed, then ten, more people streamed in to join the queue... My co-traveller was nowhere to be seen.

There was no signal on my cellphone. I remembered the warning one of my friends had sounded: “Be careful. People get lost at Gangasagar Mela.” “That usually happens at the Kumbh Mela,” I had laughed. “Even Gangasagar gets a lot of people,” she had pointed out. And now, we had managed to do exactly that! Even better, we were not even anywhere close to the fairgrounds yet.

With my backpack and my camera, and in my tee and cargos, I stuck out like a sore thumb among the crowds that stood in the queue, their modest bags and bundles on their head or tucked under their arms, packed like sardines in the five-foot space between the horizontal bamboo railings that had been erected to maintain the lines. Lathi (stick)-wielding policemen barked orders and shrewdly looked for opportunities to use their weapons on the herds of humanity.

Like the Kumbh Mela, the Gangasagar Mela also gets its bulk of pilgrims from the north Indian states of Bihar and UP. Since Gangasagar lies in West Bengal, and because of its proximity to neighbouring country Nepal, many faces can be seen from these two places too. But from the way the women drape their sarees, from the sarees’ vivid colours, and from the way the men tie their pugrees (turbans), the multitudes from north India are easily identifiable.

The queue inched its way towards—I hoped—the jetty. There was no way I could be sure. Several queues seemed to be snaking their way in every direction. I asked someone if I was in the queue to the jetty. “Yes,” he barked with a fierce-looking frown. The irritability was understandable. The queues were bad enough; plus, it was terribly warm for mid-January. We were all sweating under a bright sun.

Gangasagar is famous for its cold. “Gangasagarer hawa” (the Gangasagar breeze) is something I have heard since childhood. But this year, entire India was going through a mild winter. I had had a huge fight with my parents over packing my thermal inners—they had insisted that I do; I had stubbornly refused. I congratulated myself now for the decision.

After about half an hour, I finally got a call from my companion. The connection was bad, but I could just about make out that he had skirted the line and was apparently way ahead of me, somewhere. He named a ‘landmark’ in front of which he was, which could be just about anywhere.

“Where are you?” he asked me. “I have no clue,” I said. “In which queue are you?” he asked again. Again, I had no clue. There was nothing at all that could tell me that. All I knew was that I was headed for the jetty. Because that was what mattered.

I told him to take the ferry to Kochuberia if we did not find each other. We’d either meet there, or straightaway meet at the Bharat Sevashram Sangh in Sagar Island. Thankfully, both of us were used to travelling alone, and would hopefully have no trouble finding our way to Sagar Island, where the fair is held. With that, we hung up.

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Though I’m not very religious, several pilgrimages have always been on my bucket list, mainly for the stories I have read or heard about them, or because of the sights and landscapes associated with them. Of these, there were two famous religious ‘fairs’ of the Hindus—the Kumbh Mela and the Gangasagar Mela. I luckily got the chance to visit the first when I was sent on an official assignment to the Maha Kumbh Mela in Allahabad in 2013. This year, I finally decided on a trip to the latter.

Since childhood, I have seen the multitudes thronging Kolkata during the annual Gangasagar pilgrimage. As this city is the gateway to Sagar Island, the pilgrims, including sadhus and commoners, camp at Babughat, one of our well-known jetties.

For those few days, they are everywhere. Hordes of pilgrims—poor, illiterate masses from India’s back of beyond—flood into the Metro, pushing aside anyone who crosses their path, and likewise while getting off. After all, the leader cannot be let out of sight; the train cannot be missed; the station cannot be missed. The polished city-bred daily commuters scoff at them and openly express their displeasure.

I would see the swarms of men and women pass below my window, trudging the last leg of their pilgrimage to the Kalighat temple on weary feet. As a child I would wonder where they came from and where they went. What was their journey like? What was Gangasagar like? “One day,” I would think, “I will travel with them and see it all for myself.”

And so, I had refused to book the comfortable cruise the West Bengal tourism department offers; I wanted to do it like the pilgrims. And so, we left Kolkata on the day before Makar Sankranti, the last day of the Hindu month of Poush, when the holy dip is to be taken at the confluence of the Ganga and the Bay of Bengal—Gangasagar.

We took one of the many buses that leave from Kolkata’s Esplanade for Kakdwip. They are all marked ‘Gangasagar’. It was a pleasant three-hour ride. A ferry has to be taken from Kakdwip to Kochuberia, and from there, a car or a bus has to be taken to Sagar Island. The total journey should take four hours at the most—three on the bus, 20 minutes on the ferry, and another 30 minutes by car.

And so, there I was, standing cheek by jowl with those very pilgrims whose journey I had wanted to check out. It was nearly an hour in that frustrating queue that hardly moved; the jetty was nowhere in sight.

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Suddenly, I saw my co-traveller. It was just as abrupt as his disappearance. I looked up, and there he was, scrutinizing the queue intently, most probably to find me. I called out to him.

He had told me to be at a particular jetty, which had sounded like Jetty no. 8 to me. But when I asked a cop whether I was in the queue to Jetty no. 8, he had said there was no Jetty no. 8. This was Lot no. 8, which had five jetties in all. I was in the queue to Jetty no. 2. I wasn’t too bothered about the jetty as long as I reached Kochuberia.

Thankfully, it now emerged that we had both taken the same queue. He skipped the crowds to a certain point, but beyond that, the cops would not let him go. So he joined the queue with me.

The queue to the jetty must have been about 1–1.5 km at the most. There were at least 50 barricades on the way. The cops would open one for 20 seconds at the most and close it again. So the crowd moved in hiccups. If anyone slackened his or her pace by a second, some of the cops chased them with sticks as if it were a cattle herd.

After two hours, we could finally see the river, and the vessels. We heard all kind of probable and improbable claims from the crowd. Someone said the government had brought vessels that could accommodate 8,000 people at a time. Another said a vessel that usually ferries cars had been brought. It would carry 30,000 people at a time.

Right before the jetty, our path was blocked again. The paramilitary jawan manning it was comparatively kindhearted. “Sit down, all of you,” he said, implying that it would take time. Thankfully, we had stopped right in front of an eatery. I told my companion that instead of waiting, we should have our lunch. From the look of things we would not reach Sagar Island before evening.

As we ate—a typical Bengali meal of rice, dal, curry, potato fries, and fish, for an unbelievable Rs 60 per plate—the queue started moving. My companion went out and asked the jawan if he would let us pass after we had eaten. The jawan agreed.

So, after lunch, we skipped the barricade and joined our queue again. In another 15–20 minutes, we were finally in the launch. In a constant stream, people kept pouring in. Even when the launch looked full, exactly the same number that was inside stood outside, waiting to board. And many of them did board.

Even until a couple of years ago, there would be at least one launch-capsize case during Gangasagar every year. And it would invariably be because of overloading—the reason my family had been vehemently against my trip. Anyway, after 3.5 hours of our reaching Kakdwip, we finally left for Kochuberia.

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“Can you tell us something about the place we are going to visit? Why is it holy?” the elderly man squatting in front asked me. Everyone had sat down wherever they could fit in. I was one of the few who were standing along the windows—my companion and I being at two extreme ends of the launch.

Some space had been made for the city-bred lady and her rucksack, though some pleading had been necessary. Some insisted that I sat down on the rucksack itself, but I had declined politely. As I photographed the gulls that flew past, the question came from the rustic-looking man, who had had to be coaxed for 10 minutes so that he moved a little to make space for me to put my feet comfortably.

I told him whatever I knew. According to Hindu mythology, Kapil Muni had his ashram at a spot next to the sea (sagar) where the fair is now held. His rage had turned to ashes the 60,000 sons of King Sagar. The king’s descendant Bhagirath later brought the Ganga down from the Himalayas so that her holy touch would absolve the 60,000 prices of their sins and they would attain moksh (salvation).

So, every year, pilgrims congregate at Sagar Island, some 100km south of Kolkata on this day when the 60,000 princes were apparently liberated. They bathe at the confluence, and offer puja (prayers) at the Kapil Muni ashram, hoping for an end to the tortures of the cycle of birth, death and rebirth.

The man and several others listened to me with interest. It was intriguing to realise that they make the pilgrimage year after year, but don’t even know what it signifies.

Finally, the man said gravely, “Look how people are. They are going there with such a noble purpose, and yet they are fighting and pushing and shoving…” The others nodded in agreement.

The pushing and shoving was, however, back at the Kochuberia jetty. But this group waited till the end before getting off.

We flowed out with the crowd, not knowing where we were headed. Four men stretchered out a woman whom my companion had seen falling unconscious in Kakdwip. I wondered why she had not been given medical aid in Kakdwip itself.

The road led to the bus stand. The sight was scary: four–five buses, which four–five hundred people were trying to board. I had heard that taxis also ply to Sagar Island. The taxi stand was right there, too, but chances of getting one looked bleak. Apparently tickets had to be booked at the counter, which was deserted.

My companion kept talking to every taxi driver he could find. Finally, one agreed to take us in on the seat next to him. The taxi had apparently been booked by a group, who vehemently opposed our getting the seat. They were comfortably seated behind; we were not disturbing them in any way; our destination was the same; and yet they had a problem.

“The driver should charge us less. We booked the vehicle. Now he has taken two more passengers,” they kept saying loudly enough for us to hear them. The driver turned a deaf ear to them; so did we.

It was amusing to note that they were on a mission to attain salvation!

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The driver looked like he was still in his teens. But his driving skills could not be doubted. The road was smooth and looked newly paved. Within 20 minutes or so, we were finally at Sagar Island.

The sun was already casting long shadows; we had left Kolkata some 7.5–8 hours ago. My back and shoulders were hurting; my companion was even worse off. He repeatedly fell behind as we trudged on, looking for Bharat Sevashram Sangh.

For a paltry sum of Rs 150 per head, we had booked (there was no other option) a ‘room’ in their ‘hogla’ camp. Hogla is a leaf that grows in abundance in these areas. It’s used for thatching, but is highly inflammable (giving my family yet another reason to worry for my safety).

More than helping people, the policemen on duty seemed only to be adding to the trouble. We asked for directions to the Sangh. A cop told us we could not go straight and directed us into the fairgrounds.

After a detour of 2 kilometres, and after being stopped at countless blockades, we were back on the same road. We realised then that we could have taken the road all the way to the Sangh. Everywhere, dusty, hungry and exhausted people were walking about like they were in a trance, thanks to the mindless blockades.

We saw people camping by the roadside. There were rows and rows of tents fashioned out of all kinds of materials. Plastic sheets, towels, sarees and other garments held up by bamboo poles.

Finally, after what seemed like ages, we found the Sangh.

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Inside, several people were begging for accommodation. The employees impassively said there was none. I showed one of them the ticket. It was in my companion’s name.

“This cannot be you,” he stared at me. “It says for two persons. I’m the other one,” I told him patiently. “Where is the gentleman?” he asked rudely. Maybe he thought I had murdered the ticket-holder and stolen the ticket. By the look of things, it wasn’t totally impossible though.

Fed up, I asked my companion to handle things. Finally, satisfied that they were not putting up a murderer, the employee sent us to the ‘hogla’ camp.

Now, there were at least three other rows. So, in all, there must have been at least 1,200 huts on the Sangh campus. People were also camping ‘indoors’—in the rooms, on the verandahs, on the stairs… It’s better to leave the total number to imagination.

The huts even had ‘doors’ (a hogla sheet) and latches (a piece of wood to be inserted in the loose matting of the hogla walls). The ‘floor’—the grassy earth basically—was covered with straw.

The attendant showed us the bathrooms, which were, thankfully, permanent structures that offered the basic facilities. And there were plenty of bathrooms on the campus.

Finally, after some eight hours, we could drop our backpacks. I could then fully appreciate the meaning of the Hindu saying that I started this post with. Once is just about enough. And, we had yet to return from this mess.

Youth Hostel, Bharat Sevashram Sangh and several other ashrams. Book your accommodation in advance if you want to visit it during the fair. BSS is the best bet, but be prepared to stay in 'hogla' camps like the one in picture left. Take your sleeping bag along. Youth Hostel is usually booked for government officials. I also saw a government ‘nishulk yatri nivas’ (free tourist lodge), but I’m not sure of the facilities and where it can be booked.