Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
was in hope of a similar runaway train of popular righteousness that Shri Baba and com-
pany had launched the Yamuna yatra. So far, though, he had motivated somewhat fewer
marchers than Gandhi or Martin Luther King Jr. had. It was hard to be sure in the dark, but
I counted about twenty tents.
In the middle of camp, they were holding a
satsang
—a kind of group discussion or
teach-in. Two dozen people from nearby villages sat on the ground in the garish light of
a work lamp, while Jai talked over a microphone connected to a pair of earsplitting loud-
speakers.
“You are the owners of this country,” Mansi translated. “Taxes are supposed to perform
for you, but they don't. You don't get what you deserve. Come with us tomorrow morning.
Come walk with us. Come with us to Delhi.”
At quarter past five in the morning, I became aware of the ground, and then of the tent, and
then of the sound of tiny cymbals clashing together. I unzipped the collapsible mesh pod of
mosquito netting—thoughtfully provided by Sunil—and stumbled out of my chrysalis into
the dark of a new day. Bats flickered overhead.
Jai was on the loudspeakers again. “FIVE MINUTES!” he said, through a squeal of
feedback. “IT'S OKAY TO CHANT GOD'S NAME, SO LET'S DO IT!” He warmed us
up with a piercing round of
Radhe Krishna Radhe Sharma.
A couple of men in orange
robes bumped around and got in line behind the white pickup truck on which the loud-
speakers were mounted. Jai gave us our marching orders. “Don't get in front of the truck!”
he said. There was some hollering, and they gave the truck a push. The driver popped the
clutch, the engine burped to life, and just like that, the yatra was in business for another
day.
There weren't more than twenty-five of us. We walked down the road, following the
pickup truck, which was mounted with side-facing banners showing pictures of Shri Baba
and the leader of the farmers' union, with whom Shri Baba had formed a strategic alliance.
There were several union members among us, recognizable by their green caps.
We walked, passing misty fields of green wheat, and the day came up. I hung back a
little, avoiding the sonic kill zone directly behind the truck, and settled into the rhythm of
the march. Eventually Jai would tire of leading us in chants of
radhe-this
and
radhe-that,
and a combo of young sadhus would get out their drums and cymbals and improvise a vig-
orous set of Krishna-themed songs. Jumbled among them in the bed of the truck, a young
man cradling a laptop with a data antenna and a webcam tried to throw together a live
webcast. Once the musicians exhausted themselves, they would patch the speakers into the
