# The Procession of the Chariot The chariot emerges from the temple's dark womb into the blinding light of noon. Three giants, carved from ancient wood, sit motionless upon their mobile throne—Jagannatha at the center, his siblings on either side. For three centuries, perhaps longer, this chariot has rolled through the same stone streets, and the people have come, generation after generation, to pull its ropes. What draws them? Is it devotion, or habit? Is it the weight of tradition, or something that stirs in the blood when you stand before the massive wooden wheels, when you feel the rope burn your palms as a thousand others heave and strain beside you? The philosophers debate the meaning of this ritual. Some say it is superstition, the dregs of a more credulous age clinging to the modern world. Others insist it is the deepest truth—that the god within the temple is not a god at all, but a mirror held up to our own yearning. When we pull the chariot forward, we are pulling ourselves forward. When we bow before the idol, we bow to something eternal within ourselves. But perhaps the truth lies elsewhere, in that space between certainty and doubt where most of us actually live. The chariot does not ask why you have come. It does not judge your faith or your skepticism. It simply exists—wood and rope and wheels—and moves forward when enough people pull together. In that movement, there is no philosophy, only fact. In that shared effort, there is no need for explanation. The streets fill with voices. The old songs rise up, songs so ancient that no one remembers who first sang them. And for a moment—just a moment—the distinction between the believer and the skeptic, between the sacred and the ordinary, dissolves. What remains is only this: people, gathered, pulling, moving something vast and heavy forward into the summer light. Perhaps that is all any ritual truly is—the proof that we are not alone, that we can touch something greater than ourselves, if only by touching one another.

(Written on the day of Rath Yatra, six years ago)

Today is Rath Yatra. There are many accounts of its origins. I'll set down a few.

Krishna's uncle Kamsa invites Krishna and Balarama to Mathura with the intention to kill them. He sends Akura to Gokul to bring them. Having bid farewell to the cowgirls, Krishna takes Balarama with him and departs for Mathura in a chariot. After defeating Kamsa in battle, Krishna rides back and grants darshan to his devotees in the city. That return journey—that is the Rath Yatra we celebrate today.

Once, Sri Krishna took his elder brother Balarama and younger sister Subhadra out in a chariot to show them the splendor of Dwarka. Rath Yatra is observed to commemorate that day.

In the eighteen-day war of the Mahabharata, Sri Krishna became the charioteer of Arjuna's chariot—the guiding force of all the Pandavas. Through Rath Yatra, the faithful entrust Krishna with the reins of their entire household, surrendering to him all their worldly responsibilities.

After Balarama's death, Krishna, seized by the desire to depart the world, lay upon the earth in supreme meditation. Then a hunter named Jara, mistaking Krishna's feet for a deer, pierced them with an arrow. Realizing his error, the stricken hunter fell weeping at Krishna's feet, his heart consumed with remorse. Sri Krishna reassured him, saying that this event was written in fate itself—that both of them were bound by the karmic consequences of deeds from an earlier birth, and thus Krishna was surrendering his mortal form through Jara's hand. Yet when the hunter, overcome with contrition, repeatedly beseeched Krishna for permission to worship him, Sri Krishna commanded Jara thus: he should journey southward, then eastward along the ocean's edge; and where he saw the wood of Krishna's funeral pyre floating upon the waters, there he should gather those timbers, establish them, and arrange for their worship. Thereafter Sri Krishna relinquished his earthly body. Arjuna then, rather than bear the corpse back to Dwarka for rites, resolved to cremate it upon the seashore. He placed the body upon the pyre and lit the flames. Following Krishna's command, Jara walked the coastal path and reached Puri. But before the burning corpse could be wholly reduced to ash, a violent wave struck the pyre and extinguished the fire. Some fragments of the body, clinging to the charred wood, drifted upon the water. Jara recovered this sacred timber near Puri, carried it into a deep forest, and there began to worship it as Daru-Brahma, as Jagannatha. This Jara was none other than Vishvavasu, king of the Shabara forest-dwellers. At that time, Krishna appeared before Indradyumna, the king of Puri, and commanded him to fashion an image from a piece of wood that had drifted ashore upon the ocean's beach. At the king's entreaty, Vishvavasu surrendered the sacred timber he had gathered—the pyre wood bearing Krishna's mortal remains—to the monarch. The king sought out a master craftsman worthy of the task. Then a mysterious elderly Brahmin, a sculptor of wood, presented himself before the king and asked for several days to complete the work. He instructed the king that none should hinder him while he labored. Behind closed doors, the work commenced. The king and queen, along with all in the palace, grew intensely curious about the carving. Each day they would stand before the shut door, listening to the sound of the chisel echoing from within. After six or seven days had passed, as the king stood outside, the sound ceased. Unable to contain her curiosity, the eager queen opened the door and stepped inside. She found the image still incomplete, and the craftsman had vanished. This mysterious sculptor was Vishvakarma, the divine artificer. Because the hands and feet of the idol remained unfinished, the king fell into despair, wracked with remorse for having interrupted the work. Then the divine sage Narada appeared before him. Narada comforted the king, saying: this unfinished image is itself a recognized form of the Supreme God. In time, by Brahma's command, King Indradyumna placed the bones of Sri Krishna within the unfinished idol, and having installed in it eyes, vision, and life, he arranged for its worship. The three images became Jagannatha, Balarama, and Subhadra.

During the festival of the Chariot procession, the images of Jagannatha, Balarama, and Subhadra are brought forth from the inner sanctum of the main temple and placed upon three massive wooden chariots, then drawn nearly three kilometers to the Gundicha temple. The devotees themselves pull these chariots in procession. Wherever a Jagannatha temple stands, such a chariot festival is held.

Now let us see what the various scriptures have written about the chariot.

In the Katha Upanishad, Yama tells his son Nachiketa: the person who makes intellect the charioteer of his life's chariot, whose mind fully governs the five senses, can journey thus through this world and reach his desired destination.

In the Ramayana, Rama speaks to Vibhishana thus: the wheels of our chariot of worldly life are courage and determination, immutable truth and character are its banner, its four horses are strength, deliberation, self-control, and generosity, and devotion to God is its charioteer. In such a chariot, one can overcome all worldly obstacles.

In the Mahabharata, Krishna becomes the charioteer of Arjuna's chariot and guides the five Pandavas toward victory. When one journeys in the chariot of life through the world, if one surrenders all one's destiny to a true charioteer, then one can walk the path to perfection.

The Chariot Festival is fundamentally a strategy for the recovery of our lost soul. To place Krishna—that is, God—in our heart through meditation: this is the Chariot Festival. The first step of this meditation is the purification of the heart. This purification is accomplished by freeing oneself from desire, envy, arrogance, greed, anger, and delusion. The philosophy of the Chariot Festival is not merely to purify oneself, but to help others too to cultivate a beautiful heart.

On the chariot ride Jagannatha, Balarama, and Subhadra.

Jagat means the world and natha means lord. Jagannatha means the Lord of the world, the master of all the world's deeds and actions.

Bala means strength and rama means joy. Balarama is he who grants us spiritual strength so that we may enjoy God's blessings.

Su means good and bhadra means auspiciousness.

Thus when Jagannatha, Balarama, and Subhadra are together, this trinity of powers makes human life blessed and allows one to recover one's fortune. In the Bhagavad Gita, Lord Krishna says, "I dwell in the hearts of all." When God resides in the heart, our body is nothing but a chariot. The charioteer of that chariot is our heart. The beautiful journey of the chariot is the beautiful journey of our life.

The Chariot Festival is essentially a philosophical endeavor to guide our lives along the path of truth and beauty.
Rabindranath Tagore wrote in Kanika---
The Chariot Festival, the throng of people, the great tumult,
The devotees scatter prayers along the path.
The path thinks "I am the God," the chariot thinks "I am,"
The idol thinks "I am the God"—and the inner witness smiles.

The God we worship does not dwell on paths, nor in temples, nor reside in any idol. God's true seat is in the seeker's own heart. If that heart does not awaken, we shall remain forever deprived of God's grace. The awakening of one's inner strength is the highest form of prayer. Whoever cannot recognize the power within their own soul cannot venture far by leaning merely upon external piety and blind faith.

Religion is fundamentally a matter of understanding, not belief. The mimicry of religious forms emptied of knowledge and consciousness is nothing but helpless blindness. The ceremonies and rituals we perform—if we understood even the smallest fraction of them, the beauty of religion would fortify our individual and collective standing. God grants us fortune through action, not through religion. Faith and imitation are not religion; understanding and action are religion.