Like living organisms, fairs evolve.
We saw this when we crossed the Ganga from Patna into Sonepur. It was a 30-km road journey and 80 years of time-travel. Memories surged up, or perhaps they were internalised tales told by our parents, grandparents: the splatter-splatter-splatter of a side-wheeler ferry, flicking foaming paddle-spray onto our faces, belching sooty coal smoke. It is difficult to distinguish between memories and bedtime tales sunk deep into the malleable minds of childhood. The feel and the smell of those times were with us when we spanned the river, driving down the longest road bridge in Asia: the Mahatma Gandhi Setu. At the far end we walked down the gravelled path of the thatched, designer-rustic, Sonepur Tourist Village, sat on a platform around the base of a fig tree while a Bihari group drifted past us, chatting animatedly. With dhotis , saris, salwar-kameezes , jeans and cell-phones they were a normal, generation-spanning Indian family out on a pilgrimage-festive, holiday. They passed and a white-bearded mendicant, fragrant with sandalwood paste, daubed in saffron and ash, sidled up to us. “Good morning! You are knowing legend of Sonepur? It is like this. Here, the sacred rivers Ganga and Gandak come together., and there is great Hariharnath Temple, very crowded” Then he switched to his tourist-guide mode — “There have already been horse-races, camel races and even one show by an Olympic wrestler from Haryana.”
Our minds fled to an earlier Sonepur. In a wrestling ring set in a shamiana with the aroma of sun-warmed canvas, sawdust and sweat, the legendary Gama had pinned his opponents to the floor to appreciative roars from the crowd. It faded and we flipped back to today, thanked our robed informant and drove into ‘the largest cattle fair in Asia’ according to the glossy brochure of the state’s Department of Tourism.
It was wondrous. Decorated elephants swayed in slow, pachydermic rhythm in a light-dappled grove. “No,” said a sleepy attendant. “They are not for sale, only for show” and promptly went back to sleep on a pile of straw. There were also camels and beautiful horses, cows and buffaloes who gave enough milk every day to fill a rani ’s marble tub, There were friendly dogs with wagging tails and guinea pigs, and fluttering masses of colourful grass parakeets, descendants of natives of the Australian outback. The old zamindars and rajas preferred watchdogs and hunting dogs and animals in menageries as status symbols. The official brochure listed “monkeys and bears” but they, too, had gone: performing animals were passé.
It was mid-day and the crowds were thickening.
A little boy ran up to us and said, in a single breathless burst “Hello-whatisyourname? Wantpen.” We asked him in Hindi if he spoke Hindi. His jaw dropped, his eyes widened in amazement. He exclaimed “ Arre baap !” and scurried away. We wondered if they taught those phrases in the Spoken English classes so popular in Bihar.
We didn’t see a single foreigner so, possibly, this has still retained its original truly-rural character. Women in groups, unescorted by men, walked around freely shopping, chatting, snacking at the rows of halwai stalls. The Sonepur Mela has retained much of the atmosphere of a village fair, a traditional haat , convivial and happy without the abrasive undertones that exist in transitional societies. We visited the Hariharnath Temple, teeming with devotees. At the bathing ghats , dotted with shrines under banyan and pipul trees, women plunged into the river sequestered by faith and tradition. Then, after adroitly changing into dry saris at the ghats , they sat and cheered their favourite teams skimming past in a boat race. Said a venerable bystander, sipping a cup of tea, “The boat race is something new.” Added his friend with a walrus moustache, “It was started by a babu from the south. In the old days, the zamindars would row past in decorated boats in a river durbar for the raja-saheb. ” He, too, had probably internalised myths and legends and blurred them into his memories.
We drove away from the river and into the heart of the mela . Here, in an open ground, music blared and banners fluttered in the breeze. This was the noisy, throbbing heart of the fair. Carousels swirled with bobbing blue horses; a boat-swing carried excited passengers high into the air; there was a giant wheel, a roaring Well of Death with motor cycles defying gravity, and stalls selling everything from garments to trumpets to hideous masks. Small groups of visitors sat on the grass, snacking, relaxing. We spoke to one of them. “We are from Karnataka,” said a heavily built man in bulging jeans. “Myself, I am a farmer. I came to see the cattle, especially buffaloes. My wife and children came to enjoy.” He grinned and shook his head expressively. “Now, also I am enjoying. So, at sunset, we will return to our lodgings.” “Will you not wait for the lights to come on? We are told that the mela is very beautiful at night.” “No, no,” he stood up and spoke almost in a whisper. “In the theatre opposite there are unsuitable shows for families. We should leave before that starts.”
The “theatre” was a bamboo and canvas affair. Bouncers stood outside. Enormous posters displayed the overblown charms of their stars. Bollywood Item Numbers had, clearly, influenced this 21st century attraction.
As we said, like a living organism, the Sonepur mela is evolving.
QUICK FACTS
Getting There: By road from Patna.
Stay in Sonepur: Tourist Cottages at Sonepur Paryatak Gram,
Recommend keeping taxi when in Sonepur as it is more convenient.
