Maha Kumbha - II

© by 𝕾𝖆𝖙𝖎𝖘𝖍 𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖓𝖉𝖗𝖆

I am told this long-lost diary meets the WhatsCrapp standards of authenticity and that the following account from 1881 was considered carefully when planning for the 2025 event, which has been efficient, sufficient... indeed, magnificent in countless forwards of proficient and profusive prose.

From the Diary of Captain Archibald Leakingbotham, of the Boondoggleshire Bayonets 

February 12th, 1881, The Mahakumbh Mela, Prayagraj  

by Mʂ Cԋαƚƚყ G Pαƚƚყ

By the once shiny boots of Duke of Illington, I have seen the absolute limits of intestinal fortitude, not in battle, nor in the blistering heat of the Indian sun. Lord Bumblethorpe’s missives to his mistress, Lady Prudence Honorneese of the valiant and frankly supernatural struggle of Her Majesty's administration during the "Mahawaste Management at the Mahakumbh" can only be believed if experienced in person. 

One might assume that when hundreds of millions of sinful two-legged and four-legged souls descend upon a riverbank, washing away their sins in endless rituals, fasting, praying, chanting, dipping, drinking & dining, with the ever pervasive smoke of transcendental chillum, certain logistical concerns, such as where all of this mass-produced holy exhaust ultimately goes. 

The Raj, in its infinite wisdom, had dispatched a small detachment of sanitation engineers to devise a rational system for the disposal of… well, everything. Latrines with the latest innovations were deployed. Drainage ditches were dug. A bold young lieutenant even dared to mention "mfTFS" (most forwarded, Totally Full of $hit) technology from ancient sages.

These deployed efforts, I regret to inform you, lasted precisely three hours before being wholly overwhelmed by the great and unstoppable forces of faith, food and ensuing digestive inevitability following the scientific principles of the conservation of mass or "what goes in must come out".  

By dawn, the facilities had been repurposed and ultimately abandoned in favor of the age-old method of relieving oneself wherever and whenever the spirit moved one. Drainage ditches were swiftly converted into impromptu dubki ghats, much to the horror of the Royal Engineers. The only thing remotely resembling a designated waste disposal area was the nearest unfortunate British outpost, where heaps of banana peels, discarded flower garlands, coconuts and the occasional inexplicable pair of chaddi's accumulated at an alarming rate.  

But man-made waste was merely the opening act. Enter the divinely ordained, four-legged contributors to this grand festival of filth.

First, the cows. The holiest of the holy, numerous, and utterly indifferent to pedestrian concerns, led by Sri Sri Bholababa, the Water Buffalo who had earlier caused a traffic jam With a serene lack of urgency, they deposited their spiritual blessings at regular intervals, creating an obstacle course that only the most seasoned pilgrims could navigate without mishap.  

Then came the donkeys led by Dhencho the Jackass, a mode of transport used by many commoners. The horses, the preferred rides for many a rajah & rani, noble, and swaggering ascetic who had somehow acquired a cavalry. Their contributions were generous, frequent, and strategically placed to ensure no British boot would remain unsoiled for long.

But the true victors of this scatological contest? The elephants.

Towering, majestic, and with a digestive system operating on a scale matched only by their size, these beasts unleashed cataclysms that made every other form of waste seem like mere punctuation marks in the great novel of excrement. One unfortunate artillery sergeant, who had been unwisely stationed near the elephant camp, later described the experience as "the closest thing to being shelled since the battle of Khyber Pass."

And yet, miraculously, by the time evening fell, the sheer volume of refuse seemed to vanish. While one could still see (and smell) the evidence, in one's mind, the filth had been absorbed into the great, swirling maelstrom of Mahakumbh itself. Was it divine intervention? A secret legion of sweepers and ten thousand bullock carts? Or had the Holy River simply accepted its fate as both purifier and depository of all things holy, unholy, and unspeakable?

I questioned an ash-smeared sadhu who seemed to be an expert on this matter, and he assured me that the refuse was not waste at all, but merely part of the grand cycle of existence, an impermanent illusion, much like my own concerns about hygiene. I informed him that the "impermanent illusion" had just attached itself to my boot.  

At sunset, as the holy river shimmered with the glow of countless floating diya's and an alarming number of UFOs (unidentifiable floating objects), I accepted the truth:  

"Yeast is Yeast, and Waste is Waste," according to my friend Rudy "Skippy" Kipling, who may write more about it later. At the Mahakumbh in 1881, neither Yeast nor Waste is actually removed. It is... transcended.

 Maha Kumbha - I

© by 𝕾𝖆𝖙𝖎𝖘𝖍 𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖓𝖉𝖗𝖆

With due apologies if this offends anyone (mostly by Ms Chatty G Patty)

The Maha Jam of 1881: A Traffic Report from the Last Maha Kumbh in Prayagraj  

Dateline: February 1881, Prayagraj  

by OrKnob Gobarasammy

GOOD EVENING, weary travelers, frustrated merchants, and those currently cursing their luck for being stuck in bullock cart gridlock without their customary lota for "morning worship." Welcome to your 144-year-old traffic update, live from the Maha Jam of 1881, a historic mess gathering of oxen, holy men, and confused British officers, all converging into one grand, immovable monolith at the Maha Kumbh!  

Cause of Chaos: The Bholababa Effect  

Eyewitnesses confirm that every ox, camel, horse, dogs, and elephants within a hundred-mile radius has thrown in the towel and refused to move. The jam began when His Holiness, Bholababa the Water Buffalo, sat his glorious behind down in the middle of the road to take a nap and absolutely refused to acknowledge reality. His noble act of defiance was soon endorsed by an ash-smeared army of sadhus, some IIT babas chilling with the most potent chillum, and the mandatory phoren billionairesses chasing their "Eat. Pray. Love" triathlon, causing a ripple effect that has now stranded:  

- 500,000 pilgrims (none regretting their life choices)  

- 10,000 carts (mostly loaded with coconuts and unsolicited life advice)  

- One very irritated British officer (currently questioning why he ever left his native Boondoggleshire)  

Hotspots of Holy Havoc

- Pontoon Bridge near Paan Dukan No. 3. Currently as useful as a chocolate teapot. Traffic has been blocked since sunrise after a particularly inspired sadhu decided to deliver a three-hour sermon on patience mid-crossing. Devotees are now getting hands-on experience in the art of waiting.  

- Ghee Bazaar Lane. Still no movement after two oxen locked horns in what historians are calling “The Great Right-of-Way Dispute of 1880.” Attempts to "grease the wheels" (literally) with copious amounts of VVIP ghee have failed. The oxen remain unimpressed.  

- Holy Dips Queue. Indefinitely stalled after a particularly ambitious group decided to wash away every single lifetime’s worth of sins in one go. The result? Ritualistic overcrowding Mystical self-sanitation being led by abundant good bacteriophage eating the bad bacteria malcontents, divine intervention requests, and several arguments over whether queue-cutting is technically a sin but quite acceptable in many circumstances.  

Capitalism Saves the Day (Sort Of)  

As expected, local vendors have turned Maha Jamocalypse into opportunity, hawking overpriced tamarind water, emergency ladoos, and ‘VVP (Virtual Video Priority) blessings with a sprinkle of purest ditchwater from local nullah for those who wish to experience the holy dip without actually reaching the water before the next Maha Jam of 2025.

Meanwhile, a lost battalion of British soldiers has been spotted attempting to direct traffic using polite hand signals, a move that has been categorically ignored by both humans and livestock. Their current status? Resigned to their fate and considering converting to Hinduism  

Official Advice (Spoiler: It Won't Help) 

Authorities (meaning a collective of temple politician priests, their ever-present media entourage and social media content creator army) advice to sit tight and embrace the chaos. They suggest alternative routes, but let’s be honest—you’re not going anywhere until Bholababa, the magnificent buffalo decides he’s done meditating and taking his potty break.

Remember: this is not a traffic jam, it’s a karmic stress test.

Shuffling Off to Buffalo

(with due apologies to the 1932 classic from the musical 42nd Street, by The Boswell Sisters)

© 𝕾𝖆𝖙𝖎𝖘𝖍 𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖓𝖉𝖗𝖆 

continued from the previous post: The Mahārajā Rides Into the Sunset

The flight reached London eventually. Heathrow was a mess and there was mass confusion. We found out that the tough-guy Prez of the Anointed States had just fired 30,000 air-traffic controllers while we were in the air and all flights, specially inbound international flights to the Ewe Essay were grounded. The Mahārajā's tight-lipped minions at Heathrow handed out vouchers for £10 to the unwashed and the ungrateful huddled masses of our previous flight. The "No further information available" phrase continued a la the earlier domestic flight. The mighty Mahārajā's staff seemed exceptionally well trained on the omerta code. The voucher was barely enough for a can of Coke and a turkey sandwich at Heathrow prices. This was also the very first time I ate the tasteless, cold, reprocessed, shapeless turkey bits slapped between two slices of soggy white bread, which reminded me of the dire summation of the western palate by a nosy know-it-all neighborhood Auntie ji who had dropped by casually with her very eligible niece earlier in the week.

After the unscheduled layover spanning most of that hellish day in the Heathrow holding tank international lounge with fellow travelers riding a roller-coaster of emotions, our journey eventually resumed. We landed in the late afternoon to the utter chaos at JFK which was still reeling from the ATC situation. The onward adventures from JFK is a topic for another day. 

Well, here’s the thrilling conclusion of my odyssey on the Mahārājā’s magical chariot—from Heathrow to the promised land of milk, honey, and, as I quickly discovered, questionable transit arrangements. 

Act I: The Heathrow Hustle

The sandwich vendor at Heathrow, a weary desi aunty with the enthusiasm of a DMV employee, was doing her best to feed the hordes. A similar recollection was shared by my friend (PD) recently and I quote, "There were bodies sprawled on the floor, minus the hold-all's and lotā. Howrah was a close second." An accurate and charming imagery.

Many agonizingly long hours later, our noble flying chariot had been cleaned—well, let’s just say it had been aggressively perfumed with industrial disinfectants to mask whatever horrors had previously taken place. The restrooms? No longer a crime scene. Progress. Boarding, of course, was its own Olympic event. Passports? Visas? Mere suggestions! The real battle was securing overhead bin space for the jhola brigade, those savvy travelers armed with zippered, faux-leather bags that looked like they’d seen a few wars.  

The Mahārājā’s minions herded us onto the plane with a mix of aaja, aaja! encouragement and bhai, idhar nahi! exasperation. Cajoling chalo, chalo, ji, badho, auntie ji. The anxiety in the air rivaled a stock market crash, fueled by whispers of the PATCO firings by that ex-B-movie actor-turned-POTUS. Ah, America—the land of dreams and fired air traffic controllers.  We got herded into the belly of the beast by Mahārajā's minions with equal amounts of pushing, shouting and redirecting folks that didn't seem to understand nor want to follow directions.

Act II: The Seatmate Saga

I squeezed into my aisle seat next to two portly desi uncles, brothers, as I soon learned. One was Sri Grumpus ji, whose main goal in life was to swap seats with me and gave up after a few attempts, and the other, Sri Talker ji who treated the flight as his personal TED Talk.  

Sri Talker ji, hogging both armrests like a king claiming his throne, wasted no time in sharing his entire life story. He had lived in the Ewe Essay for say-boon-tin ears, working in some library in Kansa’s Seetee. My sleep-deprived brain immediately pictured Krishna’s tyrant uncle, Kansa. Instead, I confidently flexed my geography skills:  "Ah yes, capital of Kansas state!"  Cue immediate scornful correction. No, it wasn’t even in Kansa's Estate. It was in some mystical land called Mijjourrrah, which, judging by his tone, I had clearly never heard of and did not deserve to know about.  

Then came dinner. Sri Talker ji, a strict vegetarian, grilled the flight attendant for a solid ten minutes about the spiritual purity of his meal. Meanwhile, I had been handed a tray of what I think was chicken, though its resemblance to shoe leather was suspicious. The moment he saw my carnivorous betrayal, he recoiled dramatically, as if I’d personally slaughtered a cow on his armrest. Conversation over. Finally!

Act III: JFK & A Streetcar Named Desire

Eight excruciating hours later (or was it eight years? Time is a lie in economy class), we were unceremoniously shooed off the plane. Immigration was a blur of grim-faced officers who looked like they, too, had been trapped in economy. Baggage claim was a free-for-all, but miracle of miracles, I retrieved my battered, hand-me-down suitcase.  

I think at multiple points during this trip (indeed, for numerous events throughout my life), I kept getting reminded of the famous dialog uttered in Tennessee Williams' play A Streetcar Named Desire by Ms. Blanche DuBois "I have always depended on the kindness of strangers."

Enter Paul. A fresh-faced, redheaded lad from the YMCA, who, bless his soul, had been roped into helping confused international students. Mind you, this was the pre-internet era. Communication was done via Aerogrammes, those blue self-sealing letters that cost a small fortune and took weeks to deliver a simple “Beta, have you eaten?” I don't know how this miracle had happened - I had written to the YMCA but do not recall having received a response.

Paul, upon seeing my connecting flight, dropped the bombshell: “You need to go to LaGuardia.”  

Me: “Oh, so just another terminal?” 

Paul: [guffaws in New Yawkese] "About 25 miles away" 

Apparently, my travel agent, one Mr. D. Shah, had sold me a “helicopter shuttle” ticket for ₹750, promising a hop, skip, and jump transfer. Reality? No one in the immediate vicinity seemed to have ever heard of this mythical chopper. Mr. Shah of Arya Travels, if you’re still alive, I would like a refund at today’s exchange rates.  

Paul, being a practical man, got me an MTA bus ticket for $1.50. What followed was a slow, sweaty, hour-long pilgrimage through Jamaica and Jackson Heights, on a bus that doubled as a sauna. NYC, in all its summer glory, welcomed me with honking cabs, impatient pedestrians, and an olfactory cocktail of trash, body odor, and bad decisions. Felt just like home. Only that this MTA bus was not named Desire. 

Act IV: The Final Stretch

At LaGuardia, the USAir counter was refreshingly sane. A cheerful young lady rerouted me onto a later flight and, upon seeing my exhausted nodding, assumed I didn’t understand English. What followed was a full pantomime performance, hand gestures, S L O W and LOUD syllables, dramatic pauses. At this point, I lost it and started laughing. She looked both confused and offended. I apologized to the indignant young lady the best I could that I meant no disrespect, I was just so tired.

I don't remember going through any Security screening on the way to the gate. But eventually, late on that cool evening I did arrive at the Greater Buffalo Niagara International Airport clutching my briefcase and my battered suitcase, like a war survivor. A couple of Indian grad students, alerted of our arrival, crammed me and two other exhausted souls into a 1972 pea-green Gran Torino, its backseat protected by a somewhat clean bedsheet and its trunk secured shut by nylon rope. Classy.  

By 9:30 PM, I was unceremoniously dumped at a student slum with an available mattress and zero dignity left. But hey, I had made it.  

Navigating the next few days is a tale for another posting!

© 𝕾𝖆𝖙𝖎𝖘𝖍 𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖓𝖉𝖗𝖆