Kanwar Yatra: Shiv-ji Coachella laced with cannabis

Editor’s note: This excerpt from ‘Ananda: An Exploration of Cannabis in India’ by Karan Madhok offers a glimpse of the ‘Shaivite Coachella’—with cannabis-fuelled devotees, Kanwaria party anthems, and pehelwans with their daily milk-laden concoctions. Published with permission from Aleph Book Company.

In the month of Shravan—which falls during the monsoons in the Hindu calendar—millions of Shiva devotees undertake what is called the Kanwar Yatra, a pilgrimage that takes them to the hotspots of Shiva worship around the country: Haridwar, Gangotri, Sultanganj, Devgarh, Meerut, and of course, Varanasi. In July/ August every year, these Kanwarias are seen on their great journey across the Gangetic belt. The crowds are made up of mostly men (including younger boys) all clad in saffron gear with Shiva insignia, and carrying decorated bamboo poles known as kanwars on which they tie small earthen pots. While many hitch a ride on the way, the entire journey should ideally be walked barefoot, letting the soft bottoms of their feet feel the path: the bitumen or concrete of the highways, dust and mud, heat, moisture, sharp rocks, slippery pebbles, crawling creatures, the smooth marble floor at a temple, the wet stone steps down to the water.

Varanasi gets particularly crowded during Shravan each year, with hundreds of thousands of devotees streaming into town, filling up ashrams and queuing up outside the major Shiva temples—including Kashi Vishwanath, which recently received a glitzy renovation and was inaugurated by the prime minister in a high profile blend of politics and spirituality.

But the main goal of the Kanwarias is to reach up to the riverbanks. Like many other aspects of Hindu customs and mythology, the Kanwar Yatra is also related to that great Samudra Manthana—the churning of the milky ocean. Before the amrit came the halahala, the deadly poison that Shiva had to swallow whole to save the rest of the cosmos. According to the legends, it was the consumption of bhang that brought Shiva some relief. But he would need an offering of Ganga water to cleanse his body of the poison altogether. Kanwarias have since marked the Kanwar Yatra as a favour back to the god: they travel from far and wide to get to the banks of the Ganga and collect the (supposedly) holy water in their earthen pots. Devotees believe that the river’s water has regenerative and healing properties; they return home after the long season of journeying to pour the water upon a Shivling, to continue providing him an antidote for the poison. 

It won’t surprise you to hear that bhang/cannabis is linked to this entire process. Kanwarias plunge headfirst into full-Shiva roleplay during this journey, adopting a temporary ascetic lifestyle, singing and celebrating on their way.  Many will consume bhang to keep their spirits high over the hundreds of kilometres of ultra- marathon walking.

Nowadays, there are even Kanwaria party anthems in Bhojpuri, Hindi, Rajasthani, etc., recorded and released for the devotees every few years in time for the long journeys, including titles like, ‘Lagata Kanwariya Bhang Khaile Ba (Looks like the Kanwaria has consumed some bhang)’, ‘Bhangiya Ke Pisai Na Hoyi (The Bhang Hasn’t Been Ground)’, or ‘Bhang Mein Talli Ho Raha Soo (Getting Wasted on Bhang)’.*

(Footnote: *I’m not sure if I should recommend a deep dive into the Kanwaria music video genre.)

There is another traditional hymn among Shaivites that is the spiritual anthem of each monsoon journey, a verse that goes:

Gang, Bhang, Dono Behen Hai,

Rehti Shivji Ki Sang.

Charan Karne Ki Gang Hai,

Bhajan Karne Ki Bhang.

 

The Gang(a) and Bhang are sisters.

They live with Shiva

We chant praises with the Gang(a)

We sing bhajans with the Bhang

The praise-singing and cannabis-inspired meditations provide a sense of fun and frolic to the Kanwarias, some ananda once the heat of the North Indian summers subsides with the respite of rain. The Kanwar Yatra is almost like an ancient music festival: where a group of superfans gather for long journeys, camping out in fields across the country, singing and dancing, consuming a whole lot of narcotics, and cheering on their rockstar god. 

As many of you may have already experienced, however, this ‘Shaivite Coachella’ can sometimes become a menace, too. In the past, some locals have clashed with aggressive pilgrims. There have been traffic concerns in gridlocked Indian towns and some instances of violence and vandalism, including stone pelting and a lathi charge, during major clashes in Khandwa, Madhya Pradesh, in 2023.* 

(Footnote: *In the 2024 Shravan season, a major controversy erupted as dhaba owners on the Kanwaria path in Uttar Pradesh were coerced to display their names to discriminate between Hindu and Muslim shops.)

And still, the troupes march on; the great monsoon expedition has continued annually, for centuries. 

In Varanasi, one doesn’t necessarily need to wait for Shravan, or Holi, or Shivratri, or any such special occasion. Bhang and Shiva go hand in hand with the daily lifestyle of many Banarasis. The signboards are omnipresent across the old city: ‘Sarkari Bhang Ki Dukan’—Government-approved Bhang Shop—often coupled with a portrait of Shiva or a Shivling. Varanasi is also popular for its akharas, a sort of academy of the physical arts, where pehelwans (wrestlers, bodybuilders, and other martial artists) congregate for kasrat (exercise) and competition. It is well known that the pehelwans will have a daily glass of bhang—mixed with fresh cow milk—to aid their focus and concentration for the long day of practice ahead. 

Public fairs and festivals of the past and present Varanasi— like the Bhor Aarti during the Ramlila performances or the Burva Mangal Mela—have historically involved the preparation and use of bhang by local attendees. Close to the Holi festival, some Shiva devotees in Varanasi also celebrate ‘Masaan Holi’ or ‘Chita Bhasma Holi’ at the Manikarnika ghat. Here, along with the usual shower of colours, some even smear themselves in ashes of the recently dead as a symbolic gesture to embrace Shiva’s role as the god of continuity between life, death, and the afterlife. There’s dancing, devotional music on the loudspeakers, and no shortage of bhang.

When the real Holi hits a few days later, the whole city becomes a party zone. During my most recent visit, neighbours on both sides of my parents’ home began to blast techno-bhakti tracks from as early as 6 a.m. on Holi morning, while men congregated on the street to dance, drink bhang, and wash each other in a rainbow of colours. By afternoon, the celebrations finally quietened down, and the city becomes as ghostly as I’ve ever seen it. ‘Everyone who drank too much bhang is now taking a nap,’ my mother tells me. 

There is no shortage of chai and paan shops across town, which often sell bhang golis—sometimes sprinkled with pepper or sweetened with sugar—to go as an appetizer alongside the afternoon chai. Yoghurt-based thandai drinks and lassis are sold in many older neighbourhoods of Varanasi, too, where one doesn’t have to strive too hard to find the option spiked with cannabis: it will usually be labelled as ‘Special’ Thandai, and will be more expensive than the rest of the non-narcotic beverages.

One can simply walk into one of these hole-in-the-wall establishments, find a seat, and watch the expert mixologist operate. This bhang is extracted by crushing dried cannabis leaves with mortar and pestle, and water is added to make it into a pasty goo. Some people add black pepper to this goo, which could help lighten the strong smell and taste of wild grass from the bhang paste. This paste is strained through a piece of cloth to produce the final residue. It’s stirred into your drink of choice—milk, chai, thandai, whatever—before the final concoction is ready, cheaper than the milkshake from any fast-food restaurant down at the mall. Sometimes it’s sweet, sometimes it’s salty. Sometimes it’s icy, too.