For 30 days Deoghar, otherwise a non-descript town in Jharkhand reverberates with the relentless multitude. Thronged by the devotees, agnostics, atheists, skeptics, pickpockets and debauch, the worship culminates in a frenzied moment in the Sanctum Sanctorum.

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As Ravan, the ten-headed demon king of Lanka (present Sri Lanka) started urinating a gleeful expression filled his faces. His eon long penance at the foothills of the ‘mythical’ Mt. Kailash, the abode of Lord Shiva in the Himalayas, had borne result. Not only had the fiery God appeared before him, but also, as a boon, agreed to move with him and live in his kingdom.

“And with Shiva on my side,” Ravan thought while surveying the landscape, which his discharge had turned into a pond, “I would be unconquerable.”

Wading my way through the labyrinth of pilgrims, after a monotonous 20-hour train journey from Delhi, it seemed, as if an orange carpet of human bodies had lain themselves at the Jasidih Railway Station, the nearest railhead for Deoghar, the scene of megalomaniac Ravan’s legendary pee.

A crushing jeep ride for another 4 km and I was at the centre of town, marked by a Clock Tower, its two arms stuck in time, as it watched the marauding orange-shirters descend like locusts upon the town blanketing everything that came upon their way. Occasionally, shrill chants of Bol Bum (Hail the Lord’s Army) would rend the air.

A music. A cacophony. A public display of faith.

A spectacle was unfolding. Joyous. Raucous. Pious. Abominable.

Raucous loudspeakers blared raunchy devotional Bhojpuri (popular dialect from Bihar) songs, one of which has Lord Shiva beseeching his wife, Goddess Parvati, to prepare his daily quota of hemp (Cannabis sativa). Shops lined up on both sides of the road. A row of temporary stalls selling trinkets and souvenirs had come up right in the middle. Business is brisk. And mighty profitable.

Deoghar (Jharkhand) – The erstwhile Bhadralok

The town has geared itself to what is considered ‘world’s longest fair,’ eclipsing everything, which includes, amongst others it’s past that points towards illustrious associations in which Bengali Bhadralok or gentility played a key role.

One amongst them was Aurobindo Ghosh, who lived in one of the sprawling (now crumbling) mansions and practiced the art of throwing bombs at nearby Digaria Hill in an attempt to overthrow the British rule. Another, Ishwar Chandra Vidyasagar, a pre-independence social reformer working for women’s emancipation established his ashram thirty-forty kilometers away, at an eponymous place called Vidyasagar. On the outskirts of the town is a non-descript village called Goradih, where few of the sepoys were hanged by the British when they rose against them.

Trundling along with the melee, as an insignificant speck, the path gets narrower until about one km ahead; it turns into one of the numerous narrow alleys branching out towards the temple. Even otherwise, the lane, running adjacent to a drain, is claustrophobic, and for a period of one month, when Kanvariyas, as these orange-robed Shiva devotees are called, take over the town, it turns suffocating.

Deoghar (Jharkhand) – A long barefoot walk

For them it has been a long journey. A gleeful end to an arduous 108 km barefoot trek from Sultanganj, where the Kanvariyas collect the sacred water from the Holy Ganges, and carrying it on a wooden sling (Kanvar) over their shoulder to pour it on the Lingam—Shiva’s phallic form—in an act of gratitude and submission, and to extract boons, at Deoghar.

Lord Shiva, though also known for his fierce temper, is counted as amongst the most easygoing Gods of the Hindu pantheon, someone who is easily placated and, according to the beliefs, is in especially benevolent during the Hindu month of Shravan (mid-July to mid-August), and, therefore, the right time to get Him to free His devotees of their woes.

At the temple, comprising of twenty-two other shrines, it is difficult to remain an atheist. Maintaining order is an ordeal. Even the charge of frayed bamboo sticks by the police does little to deter the frenzied mob. “No duty could be as tough,” explains Awadhesh Kr. Singh, Inspector of Police. “We change personnel every 30 minutes.” As the numbers easily go over lakh on a given day it takes a thorough crowd control plan and a heavy dose of good luck to avoid mishaps. In one of the worst cases of stampede, 11 persons had died and 50 others injured. That was in the year 2015.

With only one low height door—both for entrance and exit—it takes a giant leap of faith to enter the dimly lit tiny Sanctum Sanctorum. Arms frantically reaching out, jostling with other equally resolute palms to touch the Lord, at a slight burrow, crushing bodies, shoving hands and banging heads, it is not the place for skeptics.

“It must be difficult for the Lord, not to be overwhelmed by his devotees’ expectations!” Bruce Almighty, the Hollywood flick on the woes of being God. Yes, that’s what fleetingly crosses my mind.

“He must have vehemently cursed the treacherous gods, fearing Ravan’s wrath, first, for stealing and then, deserting him amongst mortals, who for the most part fail to follow the path He has enunciated then scramble up to Him, when stricken by miseries.”

Deoghar (Jharkhand) – Ravan is worsted

It reminds me of an incredulous tale, related to me by one of the town’s residents, how the friction of the worshipping hands had eroded the original Lingam. He further informed me that the one standing in its place is a replica, which like the original barely peeps out after the disheartened Ravan had shoved it inside the earth.

Myths often assume gargantuan proportions and at Baidyanath Temple in Deoghar—touted as the Cultural Capital of Jharkhand State and a Dwadash Jyotirlinga, or one of the twelve most sacred Shiva temples spread all over India—it reaches its crescendo.

Having worsted gods on innumerable occasions Ravan was a formidable power. Therefore, when Gods knew of Shiva’s boon, they panicked. Fearing annihilation they under the wily guidance of Lord Vishnu, one of the trinities in the Hindu pantheon assigned the role of a Preserver, devised a tactic.

As Ravan moved on he felt an urge to pass water. A while later he felt that his bladder would burst. The first part of the God’s stratagem was working. Unable to hold himself, his eyes scanned the landscape, looking for someone who would hold his Lord since Lord Shiva had expressly prohibited him from keeping him down upon the ground. It turned out to be his nemesis.

Ravan found a shepherd. Handing over to him his Lord, he took the leak. As he eased himself, according to the myths, for centuries because the gods had routed a river through his tract, the shepherd, none other than sly Vishnu, went a little distance. He kept Shiva on the ground and ran away. When Ravan returned, he seethed with anger, but he could not do anything.

All his pleadings fell on deaf ears.

“I won’t budge. Even an inch.” Shiva reminded him. “I had warned you.”

From the temple, the pond is about 4 km away. At a place called Harlajodi. Surrounded by green paddy fields in a lush countryside –wondering at Ravan’s role in enhancing the fertility—the sight turns out to be an ante-thesis to this spectacular journey.

“Are you sure this is it?” I ask five kids on whose directions I negotiate the dirt track, skirting excrements. And they nod in unison.

What confronted me barely resembled a poodle. Fed by a brook.

And every wee bit of it, shorn of its mythical grandeur.

“Ravan’s ten heads,’ I wonder, “If they are still down with disgust.”

Photos: Anand Jha