Flowing with the river: Reflections from the Yatra

  • Sachin Rao

The first week of the ‘Bharat Jodo Yatra’ was an emotional one. After wandering through the cynical desert of everyday politics, it feels as if I have stumbled unexpectedly upon a life-giving river that nurtures all those who submit to her flow. The river burst forth tumultuous from a ‘sangam’ of the seas; Mighty, exuberant, almost raucous. And yet tentative, self-conscious and surprised by her own power. But most of all, she is inevitable. The turning Universe has made this time and place hers alone.

I arrive in Kanyakumari on September 7, my fiftieth birthday. An early flight, a long drive on jammed roads, the chaos, and the audacity, bordering on the madness of the idea of walking the length of India at the rate of a half marathon a day, weigh me down. I can hear a voice in my head asking, ‘Kaha phas gaya re tu?’

The beach is overflowing with people. A sea of humans, the shine in their eyes, a spring in their step. People from all over India and every walk of life, most from outside the Congress. They have come for no reason other than to witness what their bones tell them is history being made and to be counted by their presence with an idea whose time is now. The atmosphere is electric. The air crackles with the latent potential of a million voices waiting to be unleashed. The collective energy is an explosive force that launches our Yatra forward.

I well up with emotion as I realize that every step in the journey to come is a step shared by the lakhs in Kanyakumari and the crores with us in spirit. I take pride in myself being a ‘Nirgun bhakt’, a rationalist after Nehru. But I cannot help interpret the gift of a moment that comes but once in many lifetimes, on my fiftieth birthday, as anything less than a call from the Universe. I am overwhelmed with gratitude, joy and purpose. This may be as close to venerating the divine as I come.

The unruly river soon finds her banks. She gathers her energy into a gentle, mighty flow. She cannot see the ocean or the route that takes her there, but she knows she can no longer be stopped. She embraces us within her firm but protective swaddle. We find our flows within hers.

Our days settle down into a rhythm. I discover the intense effort required to walk a half marathon daily, but I also discover that it could be done. I discover blisters, sores and sprains, but I also discover that I can walk through the pain. I discover the discomfort of sharing portable toilets with ten dozen others, but I am amazed at how soon it ceases to matter. The fears disappear; and calm, quiet confidence takes their place. I, too, start flowing with the river.

The river heals. As she flows, she caresses, soothes and repairs the fractures of those within her embrace.

Our ceaseless steps unlock a new dimension to travel, a dimension that leads within ourselves. How can the act of putting one foot in front of the other open doors we have long hidden from ourselves? I have not a clue. But I see it in the smiles and stillness in some with whom I walk. I asked a fellow yatri how she was holding up. She tells me that she has never felt freer, “Bharat ka nahi pata, mai apne aap se jaroor jud rahi hun.” (I do not know about India, but I am certainly reconnecting with myself). And this despite blisters on both feet. Go figure.

The river accommodates everyone from the lone drop to the broadest stream. But she will be dominated by none. Each will retain their identity, but none will define the river. As we walk, streams of people join us each with their flags, slogans and politics. We accept them and gently negotiate a new normal. We shape their understanding of the walk to create something new and more powerful. A walker tries to regiment others into a formation. The rest resist gently. A wizened lady explains that we are not walking to create uniformity but confluence.

The river may find adoration in crowds, but her flow through solitudes makes her precious. After the thrill of crowded streets, we encounter our first unpopulated stretches. As we slog along lonely miles, I wonder who our walk, slogans and songs are for. My spirit sags, fatigue sets in, and irritation rises. Then in the distance, I see a group waiting for us. Today’s walk through the wilderness has connected to habitation and perhaps two hearts to one another.

Connections are precious because they traverse empty spaces between them. I now feel the river as much in solitude as I do in communion. The river is timeless. It is I who have only now stumbled upon her.

We meet endless streams of people. Families waiting at their doorsteps, children looking out the window of their schools, shoppers in busy bazaars, workers in shops of every kind, and travellers stuck in traffic jams caused by the ‘Yatra’. Nothing has prepared me for the number of people who I have never met before or will again, showing me how deeply we share a common vision for how society should be. Some ignore me, some give me a cursory nod, but most wave back with a warm smile, their eyes firmly on my own. Some go further with an unprompted signal of solidarity a thumbs up, a V-sign, a clenched fist or a high-five. But the most overwhelming moments come when someone thanks. It begins with asking where I am from and whether my legs hurt, followed by a confirmation that we will walk all the way to Kashmir. With their doubts settled, they break into a warm grin and raise both hands as if in blessing and ‘All the best, thank you!’ I well up. This is more than an encounter of individuals; it is a communion.

The communion is the river caressing me. I realize that she is timeless. She has flowed for aeons through channels etched upon the hearts of our people. It is up to us to discover her.

The author is a member Congress Working Committee. He is also taking part in the ‘Bharat Jodo Yatra’ Courtesy: The New Indian Express