They call it Devbhumi - the
I often wonder, if it is the jitteriness of fellow rafters at the face of impending danger, the evening prayers offered by the bhakht, or the mendicant's monotone that create such a rush of devotion. Or is it, in the mind? I can wear a navaratan and feel empowered to face the wrath of clashing planets; walk down the mountain slopes of the himalayas with a clutch of followers of the hippie movement; or sail across the ganga as a deep and soulful Om resonates from the gaping hole in the boat, the pillars of the mansa mandir, or the rustle of leaves enroute to Kedarnath; would I, then be called a devotee? I guess, mine is a loaded statement. As Tru says, "I believe in God and, therefore, he is." Thus far, it has been a pot pourri of sights and sounds -- the aroma of incense, the loud sound of gongs, and the lone garland of flowers floating hurriedly past the zillions of visitors sitting along the banks of the raging ganga, giving me a picture of devotion.
I now feel at one with the procession for Guru Gobind Singh; the procession that defies the silence, settling with the crowd gathered around Harkipyaari Ghat. I feel at peace with the multitude that raises their hands to invoke the Gods. I invoke too, without inkling...
