Saffron Staffs and Shattered Truths: The Spell of Entitlement in Devbhumi

Once a sacred march of barefoot devotion, the Kanwar Yatra now pulses with a disturbing new energy – where the saffron staff is no longer just a symbol of surrender to Shiva but a scepter of self-appointed sovereignty.

This is the 16th article in Senior Journalist and author Nalin Verma’s fortnightly column in The AIDEM titled ‘Everything Under The Sun’, where he delves into this transformation, where entitlement cloaked in faith spills into lawless aggression and local despotism. Nalin Verma threads together scenes from the Yatra to Bihar’s hinterlands, exposing how power, unmoored from accountability, mutates into tyranny. Through myth, reportage, and rebellion, the article asks: when devotion becomes domination, who dares to relight the lanterns of dissent?

In the ancient land of Devbhumi, pilgrims once tread softly, their saffron staff swaying as they chanted “Bol Bum! Bol Bum!” in devotion to Mahadev, the Lord of Transformation. Villagers, bound by tradition, welcomed these Kanwarias, offering water, food, and blessings. The pilgrims’ journey wove a tapestry of harmony, uniting castes and creeds in reverence for Lord Shiva. 

But a shadow crept over Devbhumi—a whisper, the Voice of the Throne, slithered into the pilgrims’ hearts. “Your staffs are scepters,” it hissed. “You are the land’s chosen guardians.” Seduced by pride, the Kanwarias began to wield their staffs not as symbols of faith but as rods of judgment. They smashed carts, silenced voices, and claimed dominion over the streets. In one village, a traveler sowing seeds of peace was driven out by a headman who saw himself as the arbiter of truth, his authority unchallenged. 

The river goddess Saraswati, her waters dimmed by their arrogance, warned, “Devotion lifts all, not one above another.” Yet the Kanwarias marched on, their chants drowning out the rivers’ gentle songs, their steps heavy with entitlement. 

Today, Devbhumi’s tale reverberates across India’s bustling streets and its corridors of power. The Kanwar Yatra, once a humble pilgrimage to honor Lord Shiva, has morphed into a display of para-sovereign might. Kanwarias, clad in saffron, act as self-appointed enforcers, disrupting lives with impunity. 

Broader Malaise

Their sense of entitlement, cloaked in devotion, mirrors a broader malaise where power—whether on the streets or in governance—fosters arrogance over accountability. 

In Turkaulia, Bihar, on July 13, 2025, Tushar Gandhi, great-grandson of Mahatma Gandhi, walked in his ancestor’s footsteps as part of his “Badlaav Yatra” (March for Change) to rally support for the Mahagathbandhan ahead of Bihar’s Assembly elections. Invited to speak at the Panchayat Bhawan near a historic neem tree tied to the Champaran Satyagraha, Tushar faced the wrath of Mukhia Vinay Kumar Sah. When Tushar’s associate, Vijay Pratap Singh, criticized the Nitish Kumar-led government and praised the opposition, Sah’s pride flared. He humiliated Tushar, questioning his Gandhi lineage with venomous words: “You are not a descendant of Mahatma Gandhi!” Sah drove Tushar from the village, a place once sanctified by the Mahatma’s lessons of peace and non-violence. This act of para-sovereignty—where a local leader assumes state-like authority—revealed Sah’s belief that his power, tied to the ruling establishment, trumped any outsider’s voice. 

Similarly, in Begusarai, Bihar, on July 12, 2025, journalist Ajit Anjum exposed irregularities in the Election Commission’s voter roll revision, a process meant to cleanse electoral lists but lacking transparency. Instead of investigating his claims, authorities filed an FIR against him, accusing him of interference and communal provocation. This silencing of truth echoes the Kanwarias’ violence and Sah’s outburst against Tushar. 

When devotion morphs into dominance and truth becomes a threat, the throne of entitlement—whether wielded by pilgrims or officials—trembles at the voice of dissent.

In the sacred month of Shravan, the streets of north India—Bihar, Uttar Pradesh, Madhya Pradesh, and Rajasthan—transform into a vibrant stage for the Kanwar Yatra. Pilgrims in orange attire, balancing water pitchers on bamboo poles, march barefoot from rivers to Shiva shrines. This age-old ritual once united castes and genders in a collective celebration of faith. Non-Hindus joined in, offering water, shelter, and food, their hearts open to the pilgrims’ devotion. The air rang with songs and dances, a testament to shared humanity. 

Yet, in recent years, the Yatra has cast a shadow of awe and fear. State administrations and police, rather than upholding order, often enable the Kanwarias’ lawlessness, fostering a sense of entitlement. In Haridwar, Uttarakhand, in July 2025, Kanwarias vandalized a car and assaulted its driver after a minor accident in the Mangalore area. In a separate incident, they brutally beat a woman on a scooter over a trivial collision, her cries ignored by onlookers. In Ghaziabad, Uttar Pradesh, a car driver was hospitalized after Kanwarias attacked him and damaged his vehicle, alleging it grazed a Kanwar. In Muzaffarnagar, a dhaba was ransacked because Kanwarias found onion—a food they shun during Shravan—in their meal. 

In these cases, police often stood by, implicitly endorsing the Kanwarias’ actions, reinforcing their belief that their violence is a “fate accompli” for ordinary citizens. This mirrors the para-sovereign mindset of Vinay Kumar Sah, who saw Tushar Gandhi’s presence as a challenge to his local dominion. The Kanwarias’ saffron staffs, once symbols of devotion, now resemble scepters of unchecked power, wielded to enforce their will. 

This pattern extends beyond the Yatra. In Bihar, journalists like Ajit Anjum and Santosh Singh (writing for The Indian Express) face backlash for exposing systemic flaws. Anjum’s video reports and Singh’s print investigations meticulously document lapses in the Election Commission’s voter roll revisions, particularly the exclusion of alleged “ghuspathias” (infiltrators) from Bangladesh and Myanmar. Yet, no concrete list of infiltrators exists, as the Union Home Ministry has not conducted the required identification process. 

Instead, self-styled “entitled” groups—on social media and the streets—label these journalists “anti-Modi” or “anti-national,” heaping verbal violence on them. These groups, like the Kanwarias and Sah, act as para-sovereign enforcers, guarding a corrupt system by harassing whistle blowers. Arvind Varun, a social activist with the Gandhi Peace Foundation in Muzaffarpur, Bihar, who joined Tushar Gandhi’s Yatra, shared his despair: “The Rashtriya Swayamsevak Sangh and its affiliates have poisoned the minds of ordinary people, even in Bihar’s hinterlands. They’ve systematically eroded the spirit of love, harmony, and mutual respect that defined Bharat Rashtra. It’s hard to see how society will emerge from this darkness.” 

Varun’s pessimism reflects the weight of this spell of entitlement and para-sovereignty, where devotion, activism, and truth are met with hostility. 

Yet, a spark of hope persists, woven into a folktale for those like Varun, who feel trapped in an abyss of gloom. 

The Lantern Rebellion

In a village cloaked by the sorcerer-king Valthor’s dark spell, fear silenced the people. A young weaver, Lila, uncovered an ancient tale of a lantern that could shatter tyranny if lit by collective courage. With Torin, a blacksmith’s apprentice, she rallied the villagers in secret. One starless night, they slipped into the forest, each clutching an unlit lantern, evading Valthor’s shadow-wraiths. At the forest’s heart, they found the ancient lantern, its faint glow pulsing with forgotten magic. Lila whispered, “Together, we light the way.” 

One by one, they kindled their lanterns from the ancient flame, their hands steady despite the wraiths’ shrieks. A hundred lanterns blazed, a constellation of defiance. Dawn broke, its light shattering Valthor’s spell. The sorcerer-king vanished, his power dissolved, and the village stood free, their lanterns a testament to unity. 

This tale mirrors the struggles of Tushar Gandhi, Ajit Anjum, Santosh Singh, and countless others who face the modern spell of entitlement and para-sovereignty. The Kanwarias’ violence, Sah’s arrogance, and the silencing of journalists reflect a system that elevates the few over the many. 

Yet, like the villagers in the folktale, hope lies in collective courage—when people unite to challenge tyranny, whether on the streets or in the system. The Kanwar Yatra, once a symbol of devotion, now tests India’s social fabric, exposing how entitlement can corrupt sacred traditions. Similarly, the targeting of activists and journalists reveals a governance structure that fears truth. 

But as Saraswati’s warning echoes—“Devotion lifts all, not one above another”—so does the folktale’s moral: even the darkest tyranny falls when people unite with courage and hope. In Devbhumi and beyond, the lanterns of defiance—lit by those who dare to question—may yet dispel the shadows of entitlement and restore harmony to a fractured land.