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When Gods emerge
Lord Jagannath’s rath yatra is a mesmerising draw for devotees and visitors alike, year after year
Every year the Lord of the Universe, and his brother and sister, emerge from their sanctuary and are drawn, in a cavalcade of enormous chariots, down a broad, pilgrim-packed, road. One year we joined a million other people and waited to greet them. Sweat ran in rivulets down our faces as fat clouds added to the hot-house humidity of the day. Fire engines inched their way through, spraying glittering arcs of cool water over the throng. More and more people kept flowing in and merging with the mass of devotees at broad Grand Road filling it, packing in tighter and tighter till all we could see from our grandstand in the terrace of the palace was a seething river of heads streaked with snaking currents of saffron, red, white, blue and khaki as more drumming, chanting, sects and cults flowed into the flood of devotees. This day was Puri’s yearly encounter with god. The day-before had been different. We had woken early in our room overlooking the stormy Bay of Bengal. Surf curled and crashed on the beach and a light drizzle fell. A few people strode determinedly on the impacted golden sand and some braved the angry sea. The strollers were young, some a little cynical. “We can visit the Lord every day in his temple, why should be get involved in all those pushing, shoving, people?” a man in his twenties reasoned. His companion, in a knee-high red dress plastered to her body by the wind, added “The Lord comes out for those who cannot have a darshan inside. But we can have a darshan all through the year.” The paddlers and the surf-soakers had a different take. “Myself and my family members have come from Jalandhar. Tomorrow, after this sea bath, we shall witness the yatra and have a darshan. We trudged back to the Tourist Bungalow, had breakfast and headed for the Grand Road where everyone was busy getting ready for tomorrow’s epiphany. There was a light-hearted festive atmosphere on the surface but, underneath, there was tension as the police and the security forces surveyed the scene for anything unusual, any hint of trouble.
We had been scanned by security cameras, vetted by wandering plain-clothes personnel and then allowed to pick our way, through the milling groups of devotees, to the colourfully-draped rathas towering more than 10 metres into the sky: yellow and red for Lord Jagannath, black and red for Subhadra, green and red for Balabhadra. “It’s more than a puja,” a carpenter had said, as he put finishing touches to a chariot. “It is a celebration for Lord Jagganath. Even the hours race by in happiness!” We had walked and clicked contentedly late into the evening. This morning the frisson had been electric. The huge rathas had been shifted to the far end of Grand Road where zestful crowds clanged cymbals, thudded drums, danced and sang. A street-side langar got ready to serve steaming poori-bhaji to eager pilgrims. After breakfast, the police cleared a path for hurrying heralds lofting standards and banners, stopped at the gate of the palace. The Gajapati Maharaja, dressed in white robes with a plumed and jewelled turban, and the sash and cummerbund of office, appeared, accompanied by the head priest. He stepped into a silver palanquin as his Ganga-dynasty ancestors had done ever since they had built the great temple a thousand years ago. The flags and standards tracked his passage through the jubilant crowd. Then, using a golden broom, he carefully swept the forecourt of the huge rathas.
Then, suddenly, there was a reverberating roar from a million throats. Hundreds of men bent their backs, picked up the thick ropes of the chariots, strained. Another roar filled the air along with the echoing call of conches, a ringing of bells, a clashing of gongs, a thudding of drums. Slowly, almost reluctantly, a chariot began to move at the far end of the road. We looked at our watches. The carpenter had been right: time had flipped. We had been buoyed up for eight hours and the yatra had only just begun. A mummer dressed like Shiva struck poses with a brass trident then merged with the crowd as the police cleared a broad path for the first rath. Slowly, ponderously, the black and red chariot of Subhadra rolled into view. The chariot moved on, the crowd flowed in behind it. Cameras clicked and flared around us. Devotees prostrated themselves as the revered chariot of Jagannath, Lord of the Universe, rolled into view. Two young pandas sat astride the white, wooden, horses. Worshippers on our terrace joined their hands and bowed deeply in obeisance till this, the last and most powerful ratha, had passed. The three chariots began to shrink with distance as they drew closer to Gundicha temple where the Lords would rest for some days before making the return journey to their sanctuary. The great cacophony of celebration subsided as the crowds dispersed in the soft light of sunset, laughing and clapping, charged by their close encounter with their gods. Clearly we, and a million festive others, had been touched with the magic of Puri’s unforgettable Rath Yatra.
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The hours clicked by, un-noticed. Lunch was served: delectably Oriya. A palpable hush descended and we heard crows cawing in the still air.