When Gilbert describes how, during the annual Dussehra festival, 100 men drag Ragunath, the presiding deity of Kullu, in its chariot across Kullu’s central plaza to another maidan, several 100 gods carried by groups of drumming, horn-blasting men leading the way, we naively refer to it all as sounding ‘like a parade’.
‘No, no’, Gilbert exclaims. ‘Iz definitely not a parade. Iz crazy, completely crazy. You can’t imagine’.
Of course he was right – again. It was no parade.
Imagine 30-50,000 people milling in anticipation across a dusty plaza, with gods (made from haystack shapes of brilliant fabric and covered in silvery and gold face masks, the whole covered in stripped parasols) constantly emerging from the crowds and side streets and amongst cars, each carried overhead on log palanquins by groups of men preceded by drummers and others playing metre and a half long horns, some straight, some like rising cobras, little clouds of candy floss bobbing over the crowds, the air thick with greetings among old friends, cell phone conversations, more drumming, more blasts of horns.
Dussehra is an annual meet-and greet of the gods in this ‘Valley of the Gods’ – a time when the major devtas from the valley towns of Kullu and Manali play host to several hundred village deities, each belonging to one of the region’s mountain communities. It is each deity, through the village shaman, who uses her powers, we are told, to heal, to arrange marriages, protect the village from evil spirits, to summon rain, to ensure a successful harvest and give voice to a variety of other community decisions.
We have arrived on the first day of week-long Dussehra, the day when the gods first gather to pay homage to Kullu’s Ragunath, and when Ragunath himself is hauled in the six-wheeled chariot across town through our mob of thousands, led amidst the swirling excited throng by the dozens of village deities, each palanquin, drumming, horn-blasting group cavorting randomly through crowd, creating sudden mob surges, pandemonium. A wild holy procession, definitely not a parade.
During the day, we pass groups of village men in brightly draped tents, sitting around their devi drinking chai, chatting. Gods on palanquins are brought side by side, then tipped and tossed together as if in conversation and hugging.
Beyond the main avenue, covered this week in tinsel streamers and lined with market stalls, fairground rides and stalls are going up. A circle of men very attentively surround a magician and child. The grounds are becoming home to astrologers, shoe and sweater markets, snake charmers, circus acts and many, many sweet stalls. The harvest is almost in, the last of the winter’s silage is almost gathered. It’s time to find that winter sweater, to dance, to meet an old acquaintance or a prospective husband or wife, to see your future.
A procession, not a parade! Love the photos!
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