The Maha Kumbh Experience

A Journey Through Poetry and Faith

Rajiv Khandelwal

The Maha Kumbh 2025 was not just an event—it unfolded as a spiritual journey, beginning with chaos and surrender at the parking lot, stretching through struggles and revelations, and culminating in moments of stillness and faith. Held every 12 years at the confluence of the Ganges, Yamuna, and mythical Saraswati, it draws millions seeking purification. This Maha Kumbh would occur after 144 Years

A Journey Through Poetry and Faith

I arrived at the Maha Kumbh to witness a historic spectacle, and found myself swept into a test of endurance, a surrender to the sacred, and a journey toward enlightenment. The Kumbh’s vastness—its unpredictable tides and deep spiritual pull—wove a scenario of chaos and peace that defied expectation.

These six reflective poems mark my pilgrimage through this paradox, mirroring life’s own arc from disorientation to clarity. They explore privilege against hardship, control against release, turbulence against calm—binding the Kumbh’s elusive essence into words. This photo essay beckons you to tread this path, feel its weight, and emerge, like all pilgrims, with a deeper surrender or a glimpse of wisdom.

Parking Lot Journey

The journey began at the parking lot, where chaos greeted us like an unyielding wall. Horns blared, heat pressed down, and the weight of our baggage dragged us into a tangle of blocked roads and rerouted paths. Every effort to move forward met resistance—barricades rose unexpectedly, and the privileged roared past, leaving us to navigate a world turned unpredictable. Exhaustion crept in, a heavy shadow over our resolve, until at last we let go, surrendering to the flow of the crowd, I hired a wooden Thela, generally used to transport goods and had my friend, my wife and her friend sit on it with the luggage, while I decided to foot the 6 kilometer journey. Ahead lay a deeper chaos, a sea of humanity waiting to swallow us whole.

Surrender

After our car claimed space

At the official parking

Heavy backpacks slung

We plodded

Towards Sector 26

Past the Arail Ghat

Half a Kilometre in

Our rich life style

Pleaded for Motorcycle taxis

Were euphoric when

A goods carrying wooden Thela

Agreed to transport us

At a stiff

Take-it-or-leave-it figure

Through the stretch

Gagged with VIP vehicles

Where even feet

Laboured to move

Six kilometres stretched endless

Barricades loomed randomly

As if placed moodily

Steered us to

                      Lower roads

                      Upper Road

Movement unpredictable

Like the throw of dice

 

Like paper boats

In chaotic stream

We drifted unknowing 

Updating friends on foot

Was non workable

As the traffic commotion

Submerged the mobile’s ring

With no option

We moved

With the confused crowd

Without thought

Without hesitation

The start of the Maha Kumbh visit

Fitted well

With the unpredictability

Of human life

We did

The rickety ride

Handled burdensome baggage

Walked miles in suffocating crowds

Gobbled processed foods

Without thought to health

Necessity demanding sacrifices

We did what circumstances demanded

Relentlessly

We dragged on

A rare run

                Echoing birth to death

Crowd Chaos

From the parking lot’s turmoil, we plunged into the Maha Kumbh—a boundless surge of humanity, chaotic and overwhelming. Voices clashed in the air—shouts of authority, cries of the lost—blending into a hum that defied understanding. We moved as part of it, small yet swept along, each step a quiet fight against the tide. Then, amidst the crush, a fleeting stillness broke through, a glimpse of something shifting, fragile. In that pause, I wondered: If even this chaos could yield, what else might fade away, unburdening us from what we cling to?

Fragile Reality 

The Chaotic

                     Random

                                  Unpredictable

Frenzied ‘Maha Kumbh’ crowd

Completely

Surrounded

Us

We were linked

Like atoms

In a molecule

A hidden rhythm held us

Chaos theory

Clearly displayed 

Our slow steps moved

Like Kurma

                   Silent

                            Steady

                                       Enduring

Beneath the churning sea

The soothing religious Chants

The blaring warnings from the police megaphones

The booming missing persons

                                                    The lost and found

                                                                                    Announcements

All together sounded 

Like a river swallowing all voices

Yet beneath the turbulence

The impossible occurred

In front of our unbelieving eyes

Suddenly

          Mystically

          Without a ripple

The crowd dried up

A passageway got created

Very few people walked by

In that flowing microscopic moment

Reality itself

Temporarily changed

Like sand dunes

And then the empty space

Reverted back

To its original crammed congestion

That moment

Inadvertently taught a lesson

For brief moments

Reality

           Perceptions

                               Can change

If so,

Then why hold grudges

Allowing them

To harden into permanent marks

Why not

Let them stick

Like the sacred tika at Sangam's edge

Eventually washed away

 

For

If reality itself can shift

Then why let resentments cling

To our impermanent self?

Six-Kilometer Journey

Each step was a battle. The six-kilometer journey from our tent to the Ghats took one and a half hours. Every inch of space was fought for; each step gained, a victory. The crowd was a medley of souls—some driven by religious fervor, chanting "Har Har Mahadev" with relentless zeal; others curious, here to witness the spectacle; some guiding relatives from abroad, others simply avoiding being the odd ones out in their social circles. Amid the herd, I glimpsed faces—eyes alight with devotion, brows furrowed in frustration, hands clutching loved ones. Each carried a story, a reason to be here.

As the crowd surged, I felt both overwhelmed and strangely uplifted—a paradox of exhaustion and awe. The chants echoed in my chest, grounding me amidst the chaos. Faith endured. We pressed forward despite the tide, learning that patience was our truest guide. Standing space was scarce, and even waiting demanded resolve, as the human sea pushed and pulled and I wondered and I wondered if patience—or faith—would carry me through.

Six Inches of Space

With sluggish steps

Surrounded

By the swirling throng

We travelled 6 km

In one and a half hours

Each inch gained

A victory in space

Bahadur Shah Zafar

Yearned for six yards of earth

But we rejoiced

When our feet found

Six inches of space

A rare blessing

On the sandy soil

Locating space

Where none existed

We pressed forward

Then stopped

To hire a Kewat

Astonishingly,

The crowd

Humming with restless life

Flowed as one

Bound like water drops

At the confluence point

Some pilgrims proceeded

Chanting prayers

                              Mantras

Some in pious silence 

All Inching towards sacred waters

Some for the holy dip nearby

Some struggling to reach Triveni point

After an hour

Thick with stillness

Weighted by waiting

We learnt

No boats were available

Tolerantly resigned

We trudged to the VIP Ghat

Another hour’s pause

And finally,

A Mallah stood lured

With Rupee power

To row us

For the holy dip

I returned

Wondering

Of what I had carried

And what I had left behind

That day,

We received raw lessons

On patience,

On pressing forward

                                    Through unyielding tides

And in the power of belief

For most times,

Even we do not know

What our mind and body

Can endure

Can achieve

The Maha Kumbh

Unveiled insights 

No self-help text could teach

Only patient footsteps reveal

Boat Ride and Holy Dip

Shoes soaked, we stepped onto a boat and trudged through several decks to reach our hired vessel. The Kewat pushed off, undeterred by the chaos of colliding boats, their hulls scraping like discordant notes. Yet he rowed with steady hands, guiding us through the tangle. Midway in the river, Siberian gulls glided above, their wings slicing through the cool morning air. We fed them salty namkeen bought from passing boats, their calls merging with the splash of oars and the river’s earthy scent.

Then, Triveni. The first dip. A sudden calm. It washed over more than the skin—the water, the atmosphere, seemed to sink deeper, into my mind, into my bones. As I surfaced, the river whispered an age-old lesson: No matter the problems, the turbulence, stay composed. Life, like this current, will carry you where you are meant to go. As I stood dripping on the boat, the gulls circling above, I wondered: Could I carry this calm beyond the river’s edge?

Unlocking

To climb the deck

Of our designated boat

Our canvas sneakers

Had to drown themselves

In the Ganges water

Then heavy with water

They trudged

Across decks

To the foot well

The Kewat

                 Parted

                 Shoved

                           The boats

Till we cleared the ghat

The ride to Triveni point

Was alive with chaos

A boat nearly struck us

We screamed with dread

But the Kewat stayed unfazed

Boats bumping all the way

A flock of Siberian seagulls

Glided gracefully

                          Across us

Dived near us

A balm to the chaos

Their low piercing keow

                                      Cow-cow-cow

Blending with the oar’s splash

Then we reached

Triveni Point

The holy dip

Was profoundly peaceful

With a never felt

                          Inner calm

We felt the river’s pull

What the Kewat taught us:

No matter the challenges

Be unperturbed

                        Undismayed

Be calm

            Composed

For life will carry you

Where you are meant to go

Tea Stall Interaction

We all carry burdens—some physical, some spiritual, some both. Sweat stung my eyes as the heavy water cans pressed into my palms, their weight a constant reminder of the journey’s toll. We stopped at a tea stall for a much-needed rest and ordered five cups of coffee. After a long delay, the shopkeeper apologized—the milk had soured, rendering the coffee undrinkable. He tried again, but the second batch spoiled too. Embarrassed, he suggested tea, suspecting the coffee powder was faulty. We obliged, the scent of brewing tea a brief solace.

When it came time to pay, I offered to cover the cost of the ten wasted coffee cups. His eyes, lined with years of labor, met mine as he spoke, his voice steady with conviction: "If I take your money now, I will owe it in my next life. A burden I must not carry." In that moment, my purse felt hollow—meaningless against a belief so profound. I realized then: Wealth is not just in currency, but in faith, in the refusal to carry burdens beyond this life.

Refusal

Pampered hands,

Rarely lifting more

Than red rose bouquets

Groaned

On carrying two cans

Of sacred water

Heavy for kilometers

As the journey stretched

The plastic handles

Knifed into soft flesh

The Palm

Bargaining for relief

Would insist on switching the Jerry cans

With dissolving moments 

With privilege

Clashing with hardship

Spine and knees

Muttered dissent

Under the pressure

Of a bursting snack-shoved backpack

Burdened with soggy shoes and clothes

We stopped at a stall

Five coffees ordered 

To bribe our aching bones

Fifteen minutes passed 

Bad milk

Coffee tossed 

The shopkeeper apologized

Promised fresh 

The wait stretched 

Another batch soured too

“Two hundred rupees lost”

He mourned

But waved off my money

“My karma,” he said.

“If I 

Take your money now,

I will owe it in next life

A burden I must not carry”

My lavish life

Felt trivial beside his faith 

My brimming Purse

                                  Stood humbled

The giving

                 Refused 

Brahma Muhurta

The alarm rang at Brahma Muhurta, the tent glowing under yellow lights, casting a warm cocoon against the pre-dawn chill. We stepped out, the cool dawn air brushing my skin, and saw the opposite shore shimmering silver. The flags of distant nations swayed gently in the breeze, their rhythm a quiet hymn to the silence. After days of chaos, my breath slowed, and for the first time, I felt the weight lift. There was a sort of stillness. Silence. Oneness.

In that moment, I understood: Maha Kumbh was not just about the journey or the struggle. It was about this—absolute communion with something larger than the self, a silence that spoke louder than words.

That Dawn

Alarm stirred us 

We tucked away sleep 

Rose reluctantly 

At Brahma Muhurta 

Yellow string lights 

Skirted our tent 

Piercing black night 

The opposite shore’s silver dazzle 

Rippled the dark waters

Wandering 

By the Ganges’ edge

Absorbing the atmosphere

We sat in the lotus position

Eyes closed

Where flags of nations swayed in dawn’s breath

Sparked

By the faint sounds of mantras

Wafting in

Wind’s nip and silence 

Wove an inner calm 

Peace descended

Engulfing me

                      Like dense fog

Never felt such emotional communion 

As 

   In that Maha Kumbh dawn

Reflections

The Maha Kumbh of 2025 was more than a sacred spectacle—it mirrored life itself. We arrived as strangers, were swept into unpredictable currents, wrestled with exhaustion and obstacles, surrendered to forces beyond us.

Yet, amid the chaos, unshakeable faith guided our group through struggles, quiet acts of grace, and a sacred dip, leading us to a stillness untouched by turmoil—not through conquest, but through surrender and acceptance.

These poems bear witness to that truth. May all pilgrims, drawn by Kumbh’s call or life’s trials, find their dawn of communion, trusting as I did:

"For life will carry you / Where you are meant to go."

---

Setu, March 2025

RURAL HERITAGE OF HUMANITY: BAULS

---Madhuri Bhattacharya

Aami kothay paabo tare

Amar moner manush je re

Haareye shei manushe kaar udeshe

Desh bideshe

Ami desh bideshe barai ghure

(Lalon Shah)

 (Where shall I meet him/The Man of my heart/He is lost to me and I seek him wandering and to land)

 The song had echoed in my heart ever since I heard it in my growing years alongwith Gurudev s other compositions. It was in 2009 I heard the most beautiful rendition of the famous ‘Lal paharir desheja’ year at the Jaipur Literary Festival, as a representative of a musical cult that has imbibed musical trends from all over Asia. In front of me, clad in saffron robes, turban on head and dotara in hand (a two stringed instrument often used by Bauls) stood Nimai Chand Goswami. The song seemed to evoke a deep sense of nostalgia as well as unrest amongst the listeners, especially in the recurring refrain ‘Lal paharir desheja, rangamatir desheja/ Hethake toke maniachhena re, ikkebare maniacchena re’ (Go to your country of the red soil/ where you are, it doesn’t suit you). Although the song is attributed to the Bauls, it has been traced back to the poet Arun Chakraborty. I made my trip to Shantiniketan again the same year a small town in the Birbhum district of West Bengal, India, the seat of Rabindranath Tagore’s Visva-Bharati University as well as home to a large number of Bauls. It was at Bolpur station where I first encountered the voice I would grow to love over the years .A tall man with a slight paunch, Nimai Chand sang song after song that day on the train, accompanied by his dotara, leaving many of us mesmerised. In spite of his fame, Nimai Chand continued to sing on trains. He often said that this was in keeping with the Baul tradition of wandering, while also giving publicity to his songs. In the end, he quietly got off the train and walked away, leaving us to contemplate the man and his songs.

If one has been to Bengal and have travelled by local train, one can’t have miss the Bauls. Ektara (a one stringed instrument) in hand, ghunguroo (musical anklet) on one foot, a flowing alkhala(saffron robe), and a song on the lips; these things generally identify a Baul. From time to time, one hears Baul names like Gaur Khepa, Lalon Fakir or Purna Das Baul associated with international figures like Allen Ginsberg or Bob Dylan. This may create the impression that these singers and their music from the Bengal heartland have been well accepted, understood and loved by a broader audience. Yet this is not exactly the case. Their easy-going music – as portrayed in documentaries like Le chant des fous by Georges Luneau (1979), or films like Moner Manush by Goutam Ghose (2010) – does not indicate the hardships of Baul life.

The Bauls trace their origin to the ideas of Chaitanya Mahaprabhu, a 16th century Hindu saint from eastern India. Most of them belong to the six families of the gurus and their descendants. The gurus themselves were descendants of the six 16th century Baul Goswamis. The word ‘Goswami’ refers to a man who has conquered the material world, and is thus enabled to lead others to do the same. ‘Go’ stands for the senses, and ‘swami’ denotes the master. The Baul spirit may be understood as a great melting pot of different cultures and sects, yet if there is one strain that pervades the Bauls, it is the joy of being one with nature. Spread over Bangladesh and India, a large number of Bauls migrated to Kolkata after the 1971 war. But, the superficial aspects of the city were not something they could involve themselves in, leading many to retreat to rural Bengal. This rural setting is reflected in most of their songs, linking the Baul to nature, representing their own bodies as temples and often the ultimate avenues to all spiritual knowledge.

To those used to city life, this form of intense engagement with nature and total disregard for social norms, which is an inherent part of Baul music, seems so different from their own urban lives that it makes the figure of the Baul assume mythical proportions. This often brings about an uneasiness regarding them: in spite of enjoying their music, most prefer to maintain a distance from them. As a result, the Bauls remain largely misunderstood, in many ways indistinguishable from an imagination of wandering mendicants who roam the countryside. “Wild and free, they raised their clamour in the mansions of the rich, and roared in gaiety in the courtyards of the poor. They traveled by foot to fairs and festivals. They sang in buses and trains. Their melodies were poignant, their texts enigmatic. Garbed in long, flowing, multicoloured robes… often living in pairs, they played their frenetic rhythms on stage, handmade instruments" reflects Mimlu Sen, another baul singer. She also speaks of the resistance that she had to face from her urban middle-class family who disapproved of her close association with the Bauls. Sen elaborates on her own cautious approach to Bauls and their spiritual philosophy while describing her hesitancy in being formally initiated into the Baul fold. It was Hari Goshain, Sen’s guru, who helped her overcome her wariness by reassuring her of the modernity within Baul philosophy by saying:Jaa dekhibo naa nija nayane/taa bishvaasa koribo naa gurura bacane. (If I cannot see it with my own eyes/ I will not believe it, even on the guru’s word.)

The seclusion of the Bauls has not just been limited to urban settings; those in the villages have also found it difficult to understand their beliefs – particularly their love of nature and expression of physical desire. As a result families who gave Bauls shelter in the villages were often considered outcastes. In Moner Manush – showcasing the life of Lalon Fakir, a famous Bengali Baul saint who was a songwriter and social reformer who influenced poets and thinkers of his time, including Rabindranath Tagore – we see a scene in which Lalon is declared an outcaste on his return from a long voyage during which he interacted with Muslims. His mother throws him out of the house, the villagers refuse to interact with him, and his wife is not allowed to accompany him when he leaves the village.

The Bauls are nonconformists and have been so through their almost 500 year history. Their very name originates from the Sanskrit vatula (mad) or vyakula (restless in nature). They were labelled mad perhaps as a result of their outright rejection of all traditional social norms. This included an overall rejection of both caste and religion prevalent in Bengali society.Moner Manush includes scenes in which Lalon is confronted by both Muslims and Hindus, who ask what his religion is. He bursts into a song that showcases and contradicts the notion of human division in the name of caste and creed: Jaat gelo, jaat gelo bole/ eki aajob karkhana/ Soytto kaje keu noy raaji/ sabi dekhi..ta na na na/ ashbar kale ki jaat chile/ eshe tumi ki jaat nile/ ki jaat hoba jabar kale/ se..kotha bhebe bolo na/ Jaat gelo jaat gelo bole…(People say my caste is gone, what a strange factory is this, no one is ready for the truth… I see everything… when you were born into this world, what caste did you belong to, when you came what caste did you take to, what caste will you be when you leave this world, think about that and tell me- people say my caste is gone…)

Baul musical culture includes aspects of both Hinduism and Islam, and as a result, the language is often mixed, deriving from sects as diverse as Hindu Tantrism, Sahajiya, Vaishnava and Sufism. Unlike orthodox Hindus or Muslims, Baul songs and teachings often seek to portray spirituality, discovery of passion, understanding of the human body, control of breath, sexo-yogic practices (Prem Sadhana, loosely translated as ‘worship of love’), other esoteric practices (loosely based on the Vaishnava Sahajiyas, a form of tantric Vaishnavism centred in Bengal) and mystical devotion, all of which are ingrained in their philosophy. The Baul practice of Prem Sadhana, the yogic discipline of breath control and retention of seminal fluids, is loosely based on Tantric practices (a style of meditation and ritual that arose in India around the 5th century), and those of the Vaishnava Sahajiyas. These practices have received a lot of international attention, and attempts have been made to decipher songs that speak of the esoteric knowledge of conception and contraception, as revealed through an enigmatic language often decoded by the guru for their disciples: Se je agnir mukhepara rakhesadhakyara rakhekebaltaraphumordvaare(Those who are sadhakas place the mercury in the mouth of fire, only at the entry of the fissure.)These lines stress correct sexual performance and understanding these practices is important for anyone trying to understand Baul music, since the Bauls believe that these teachings lead to holistic social achievements and harmony. They believe that all macrocosmic realities find their reflection within the human body. This is aligned with the central theme that all questions about the creator and human life are best answered in the process of human procreation. These teachings seem to find reflection in the literature that is part of Tantric treatises, medieval Bengali Sufism, Buddhist Sahajiya songs, and Vaishnava Sahajiya verses, among others.

The language of the Baul is modern and secular, even though it remains rooted in the imagery and natural world of rural Bengal. As a result, a certain sense of humility and simplicity appears to be a part of their culture, and needs to be acknowledged if one is to have even a preliminary understanding of the spirit of a Baul. For this, one has also to recognise the lessons drawn from nature. It is thus in rural lands, amid paddy fields, banyan groves and forests that the Bauls have historically roamed, practicing Madukari, moving from door to door with songs.As a part of this ritual, a Baul sings in return for alms. When the Baul reaches a door and sings, it is said his songs reach the inner ear of the person, helping the inner Kalpavriksha (the tree of bounty in Hindu mythology) bloom. Flowers sprout in the inner mind, and sweetness moves along the stamen to the pistils of these blossoms, which in then further replicated in the human body. A connection to the soul is thus established, purifying both the singer and the listener.

Watching a Baul perform Madukari and perform on stage are entirely different experiences. At another Baul concert in Kolkata around 2016, where I watched lakkha Das Baul perform Surrounded by guitar, drums and a synthesiser, the voice of the Baul was lost somewhere. A few more Bauls performed, ghunguroo on their feet, dancing in a whirl, their songs blasting from a loudspeaker while the audience fidgeted, walked around and fiddled with their phones. What remained of the music was a sad caricature of who the Baul is and what his music seeks to say.Today it would be unfair to say that the world has not acknowledged the Bauls, a niche international as well as home-grown audience understand and loves their music, while also recognising the importance of their philosophy in the context of a disturbed present. Filmmaker Goutam Ghose noted this in an interview, when he said:Just like after 9/11 people re-discovered Rumi, along with a resurgent need for peace, similarly Bauls as a group have through their songs been spreading the terrific message about peace, love and brotherhood, all through these years, without realizing how great a part their songs had played in that direction.Perhaps just as the 13th century Persian poet Rumi’s poetry brought forth the message of peace to a larger world audience, a greater awareness of the Bauls and their music could lead to a better understanding of not only this genre but also their basic teaching of love and brotherhood.

Rabindranath Tagore, who was himself influenced by the Bauls, played an early role in introducing them to an international audience. His songs often reiterated the deeply humanistic and anti-sectarian voice of the Bauls, and found in them a creative stimulus to his own outputs. His poem “I am one of them”, while being a comment on the futility of caste, is also an introspection on his own state of affairs: “I, a poet, am one of them –/ I too am outcast, without initiation,/my offerings did not reach/ That jail imprisoning the Gods(the temple)The same observations about the need to liberate oneself of caste and creed were also made by the poet during the Hibbert Lecture in Oxford in 1930, when he compared himself to a Baul: That is why, brother, I became a madcap Baul./ No master I obey, nor injunctions, canons or custom./ Now no men-made distinctions have any hold on me,/ And I revel only in the gladness of my own welling love./ In love there’s no separation, but commingling always./ So I rejoice in song and dance with each and all.

However, one must question this recognition, the urban setting, the electric sounds, the so-called glamorisation. How much has it really helped the preservation of simple Baul music and its cultural ethos? Questions must be asked about whether exposure has led to a depletion of what Bauls stand for. My evening in Kolkata was enriched when the Bauls where pulled down from the stage and urged to sing free in the more natural environment of a friend’s house, where their immense magic unfurled. It made me realise that their songs are best sung free and beyond the confines of a stage.Yet Bauls have not been able to resist the lure of good money and recognition. Realising that their music and its philosophy is appealing to Western audiences, many Bauls have wanted to travel, perhaps in search of a better life and acceptance. But in spite of travelling beyond their rustic territories and singing for a much larger and international audience, has Baul music and the profundity of their philosophy been understood? And if the answers to such questions are affirmative, why then are their heroes not lauded in life as they are in death, why has their music still largely remained in confines?

Nimai Chand Goswami died on 13 June 2014, and was cremated in Bolpur. He was well-known for his beautiful songs and his expertise on the dotara. His death went largely unreported. Asking why this is so is perhaps not easy, as it demands introspection. One wonders whether obscurity in death would matter for Nimai, who once sang:Ke ba badshah ke ba fakir…shobai toh insane re…char dine er ei asha jawa…jhogra bibad korishnike… allah r dorbare jeno shokale shoman…bhalo monder bichar koren khuda meherban(Who is the king and who is pauper/ everyone is human/ life seems like a few days of coming and going/forget about fights and arguments/everyone is same in the court of Allah/only he judges who is right and who is wrong]

Given the fact that there are many such Baul singers who face oblivion because they do not sound ‘modern’ or are not more attuned to urban tastes, will the traditional Baul be forced to change? The question is important because Baul music is not merely music, but a confluence of their lifestyle, philosophy and culture.Purna Das Baul, one of the few Bauls to have made it truly big internationally was one of the first to have insisted upon payment for songs, breaking from the Madhukari tradition(which his own father insisted upon while alive). Unlike Purna Das Baul, other Baul stalwarts like Gour Khyapa and Nimai Chand largely lived lives of poverty. Gour Khepa was a celebrated figure in life and death, and counted the likes of Bob Dylan among his friends. He may have been labelled a rock star had he been anywhere else but Bengal. The balancing act required for a Baul to retain his Baul identity while producing music that is popular is perhaps a tough one, but necessary, if this musical cult of wandering minstrels is to be preserved.

The fact that Baul music is a method of sacred communication rather than just a source of entertainment should be understood and preserved. Hari Goshain and Nimai Chand, who largely remained uncelebrated in spite of large followings in the Bengal heartland, are classic examples of the clash between preserving the old and giving way to the new. So, while Hari Goshain’s teachings are modern in their allegorical interpretation of the Gita and other works, the likes of him are few. Such Bauls shall perhaps remain obscure because they refuse to bend, or blend, into the modern understanding of what Baul music should be.The demise of a free spirited Baul or the loss of his songs would be mourned forever, especially for those who know how to listen and perceive that which the free soul has sung. On such an occasion, one is reminded of lines spoken by one of Bengal’s most-loved poets, Shakti Chattopadhyay (who was close to Nabani Das Baul) in his elegy to the singer:Kobi mour, rekhe gaele chino hote smaarok, mawrmawr…/Neerawbe kaemon achhi bhalobeshe aamrityu shawngjoto!(O Poet, you left behind the memorial in marble to be uprooted… How I love thee in silence]

 Kenduli, a small village in interior Bengal is the seat of the Joydeb Mela (a fair) every year. The fair is a celebration of the poet Joydeb, his poetry and the love of Radha and Krishna. Bauls, Sanyasis and lovers of song and verse collect in this village every year, to find a bit of themselves and be a part of the great spectacle that is this fair. While the lure of the singer and his song is tempting, the silent spectator, a tree in this case, witness to numerous songs, was the bigger attraction for me.To see Tamalatala, in Kenduli, where the Bauls gather every year is an experience in itself. Deep rooted within us is the inherent capacity of most men and women to be drawn to that which we later know as, the call of the soul.It is close to summer and the famous Bengal Kal Boishaki is on its way. Thunderous and sudden, they come without warning. And even as I sat under the beautiful envelope of trees, I felt the sudden bliss of the rains. The distant rumble of thunder and lightning lit up the river.

Once out of the shade of the Tamala tree, I walked towards the waters of Ajoy. They seemed muddy and heavy now. I walked along a little further and as if from nowhere came the distant song of a Baul, a Khamak and Dotara (Stringed instruments used in folk music) playing along. I turned around to see the Tamala for one last time and it seemed to me that the waters paused for a bit, the tremor in the leaves too, only the song continued. Lines from Oliver Wendell crossed my mind, ‘And if I should live to be/The last leaf upon the tree/In the spring,/Let them smile, as I do now,/At the old forsaken bough/Where I cling.’

 I left, somehow carrying a bit of that eternity in me.

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Setu, April 2024

Khadi Through the Pigeon-hole

Missy Meemansa

Since the day mankind developed the sense of modesty, he found alternative ways to cover himself. The purpose to protect oneself had developed into modesty and further into adornment. Till date we have found evidence of natural sources being used as a garment. From cave-men wrapping themselves in the skins and fur of animals to keeping their parts as a token, a human began to explore new sense and emotions. Days went by and the mode of modesty evolved into a form of adornment. Centuries later, when civilisations were formed, the mere act of covering oneself was associated with the different strata of the society and one’s clothing was the most convenient trait to consider one’s status in the society. For instance, spinning and weaving was one of the craftsmanship practiced during the Indus valley civilisation. The earliest findings from the excavations show the possibility of spinning wheel to have been used and the Mesopotamian influence adds on to this possibility as being the inventor of earliest form of wheels. Not necessarily as advanced as the charkha but the existence of some form or other of spindles or spinning wheels is apparent.

Wool, linen and cotton was made from locally sourced and produced raw material, and the hand-made fabric was easily accessible to the people living in the society. Therefore, it was an inevitability for the mass to abundantly wear the textile that was easily accessible to them. Whereas, the higher class which had the access to traded good from different civilisations such as Persia, Mesopotamia and China  was able to dress in silks and to be adorned with precious gemstones acquired from said trades. This proved to be the easiest way to recognise someone was through their clothing. Thus the association of one’s societal status from his clothing began. 

Derived from the word khaddar (a course hand-woven fabric), Khadi has a glorious history woven through its warp and wefts. Throughout the antiquity of what could be considered as the Indian culture, khadi has attained its presence by the virtue of various evidences from the past; even in the contemporary context, the textile holds a prominent association with the indigenous aspect of the country.  When in the year 1906 Swadeshi movement came into play and the entire nation united to boycott every foreign product, Mahatma Gandhi reformed the Charkha (spinning-wheel) as the symbol of self-sustenance. Khadi became the representation of the Swadeshi good and propelled the idea of the movement in a much more louder voice, which became crucial in the fight for India’s freedom. Thus, the event became responsible for the term and the fabric to gain recognition globally. From being a textile Khadi went to become the unanimous voice of a nation to reject the oppressive foreign policies.

Since the time being Khadi became the symbol of nationalism and patriotism. According to Russian semiotician Pëtr Bogatyrëv who was conducting an analysis on folk costumes of Monrovia , “Clothes hold a symbolic significance : a garment is a sign, and wearing it fulfils specific functions that can coexist, or overlap, in the same item. When the dominant function is particularly strong, it neutralizes the others: for instance, the aesthetic overrides the practical function when the body is subjected to deformations or lacerations.”

-Patrizia Calefato, The Clothed Body. Berg, Oxford International Publishers Ltd. 2004 

 The similar phenomenon is evident with the evolution of Khadi. However, it is the matter of short span of time a symbol can be evolved into a stereotype, therefore, subsequently anyone who wore Khadi were to be perceive as a patriot, as someone who is bound to do good for the nation. However somewhere down the line the notion related to the fabric got left behind but the stereotype continued. 

In the contemporary context the typecasts have transformed but not actually reformed. If we take a look at the past till now there have barely been a politician who doesn’t wear the typical trademark of an Indian political fashion, a Khadi kurta. Still as of today, students of Jawaharlal Nehru University have been known for wearing Khadi kurtas and carrying khadi bags, a clear conviction of their political believes. Another can be the portrayal of a journalist carrying a sling bag made of khadi in movies and stories and the unforgettable, a postman’s bag. These stereotypes no matter how negligible or nostalgic, actively illustrates the contribution in the stigmatization of Khadi being a poor man’s fabric or being significant only for a political statement.

Admittedly on a positive note, the image of this textile has been gradually but effectively reshaping. Pertaining to the pragmatic and optimistic after effects of the Swadeshi movement the, Non-cooperation movement of the year 1925 lead to the foundation of All India Spinners Association. Which became a pivotal facet of the textile’s future. In the year 1957, after India became a free country All India Khadi and Village Industries Board came into existence; which will later become the KVIC – Khadi, Village and Industries Commission, which is the face of this indigenous textile. In order to promote Khadi and paint in a new light KVIC organised the first ever Fashion show to showcase Khadi garments in the year 1989 in Bombay (current day Mumbai), where an array of khadi garments were displayed on the runway in a way never seen before. Since then various fashion designers and fashion houses have been actively invested in promoting the fabric, which have helped them set their career in motion and provided them with an identity which will always hold an individuality in the coming future to set an example in the fashion industry.

Initially fashion designer Ritu Beri, a graduate from the National Institute of Fashion Technology worked closely with the KVIC and launched a Khadi collection and made Khadi the face of her fashion. Later in the year 2016, she once again introduced a khadi collection named Vichar Vastra for KVIC. Nevertheless, Beri isn’t the only designer devoted to khadi, many fashion labels and houses big and small have been participating in put khadi on a higher pedestal. According to the fashion theories of various researchers and experts, a popular fashion is borne from the psychological need of the society, whereas, the high-fashion is cultivated from the Philosophical need. Khadi has yet to attain a middle ground to establish it magnitude in Fashion world.

As the British sociologist, Morris Ginsberg says, “society as a collection of individuals united by certain relations or mode of behaviour which mark them off from others who do not enter into these relations or who differ from them in behaviour”,  the concoction of divergent psychological credence is the only thing to bring khadi to the up-front as the representation of Indian Fashion.

In 2018, the fashion show ‘Khadi – Transcending Boundaries’ brought together reputable fashion designers with global recognition together to amplify the buzz around khadi.  Rohit Bal, Anju Modi and Payal Jain established a stronger suit for Khadi to be recognised in the international markets.  Shruti Sancheti, a fashion designer who built her label on the idea of choosing statement over style has worked with fabric to create her Luxur-Pret label ‘Pinnacle’ which is a marvel in itself. The household and the global name of Indian fashion industry, Sabyasachi Mukherjee launched his latest Khadi couture collection namely the ‘Neo Bohemian’. The collection being the perfect balance of the soothing khadi allure with the signature Sabyasachi vibrance. 

Additionally, numerous fashion and lifestyle brands that are associated with hand-woven fabric have been doing great in Indian markets, and even gaining recognition outside the country. Fabindia and Khadi India currently have the strongest grasp of the textile market locally as well as internationally.

If we were to totally forget the remove the stereotypes surrounding this indigenous fabric for even a instance, the textile has great potentials to stands out given its versatility. Arguably the most suitable fabric for the Indian climate, khadi has been slowly creeping up to the likes of younger mind-sets. The notion of a “woke” citizen has already been rooted in the psyche of the fast-pacing generation. From information being shared at a lightning speed it has become easier to influence a mass, and the buzz around the sustainable fashion has brought the limelight over Khadi. The fabric may have been type-casted in a minuscule box, but the ever-growing concern for our planet has manifested the immediate need of the fabric. 

Culture is bound to change on basis of knowledge, perception, traditions and cultural trades and youth and the upcoming generation is well aware and even more so concerned for the planet. Evidently, this has led to the changes in the fashion culture among the millennials and the Gen-Z. Popular and Fast-fashion which was the most influential and profitable fashion sector has gained the much awaited discredit. The fashion industry has been one of the major industry responsible for the declining ecosystem, consequently resulting into pushing away its consumers. For the current situation of our planet, humankind is solely at fault and the confirmation for taking this responsibility is well reflected in the buying habits. A huge chunk of population has moved towards sustainability and slow-fashion. 

 

Considering the popularity of khadi, India has a great tool to actually establish itself onto fashion radar globally. India has had enough of the flashy and over-vibrant portrayal of its fashion industry. In this time and age Khadi can be answer to sustainability. The step towards sustainability and slow fashion is very prominently evident in the national brands. Brands which may not have been yet recognised internationally but are promising enough to do the same. Label 11:11 from Delhi has gained interest as an ethical brand bridging the gap between the artisans and the customers. The founder Shani Himanshu and Mia Morikawa has devoted the label to be eco-friendly by  opting for vegetable dyes over chemical dyes which also helps them to better sustain itself. Mumbai based label ‘Runaway Bicycle’, by Preeti Verma has incorporated khadi in their own artistic interpretation and is curated for comfort. Another ground-breaking work is from the label, Khadiwala Designer from Jharkhand. Founder Ashish Satyavrat Sahu the brand is ardent to promote the raw indigeneity. The label has a very distinguished style. From contemporizing the traditional weaving to casting models from Jharkhand, this brand has been promoting originality through and through. 

French semiologist and philosopher, Roland Barthes says, “ Every fashion is a refusal to inherit, a subversion against the oppression of preceding fashion; fashion experiences itself as a right, the natural light of present over past”. Perfectly so, this sums up the fashion cycle. An inevitability of recurrence of a fashion trend is always possible, but the present sense of a society is the only absolute variable in this equation. The dynamic nature of culture has influenced the minimalist and artistic zeitgeist of the present times. The earthly community has been seeking an escape from the uncertainty that has suddenly imprisoned it and fashion being the tool to express themselves, has been the perfect canvas. 

To sum up everything that has been stated, khadi has been generalised for too long and the potential of treating a hand-woven fabric as same as any luxury, hi-fashion commodity from the western culture, is being wasted over mere stereotypes. Khadi is the answer to the future in which the fashion industry is headed towards. The fabric which holds the humble yet generous accounts of being a powerhouse of opportunity to the weavers, local fashion designer and the economical profit for the nation. The idea of making Khadi a global phenomenon might seem like a bluff, but it certainly is not. In my opinion khadi can be the pinnacle of slow-fashion and sustainability across the planet, if utilised wisely. From the weaving, dyeing, and the manufacturing process of the textile, the whole ordeal is much or less entirely sustainable and with the vision of some of the most promising designers, budding from the very core of the zeitgeist of the present times, those who know the pulse of the current population, Khadi stands a chance to befit the vogue and to evolve with the future into something, which will be the foundation of the upcoming fashion culture. To become more than just a still-developing nation’s handicraft. 

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Setu, November 2020