Rain in the Desert 

I was going to the Kabir Yatra after a gap of three years. For the last three years, I hadn’t been able to find the space for myself — a space where I could learn something more about me. I had been sure of attending the Malwa Kabir Yatra, but I couldn’t, and that made it even more evident that I had to do something this year, before December 2025. Lucky enough, I could plan my Rajasthan Kabir Yatra and tried to manage and organize my commitments; otherwise, I wasn’t sure I would have. I was excited and keenly looking forward to it.

The experience of the Yatra was measured against the benchmark set in 2022, which was very high. One of the reasons I wanted to come was also Bikaner and the desert. I was going to see a desert for the first time in my life. And what better way than to witness it with artists who have been performing, singing, and leaving their art for so many years?

The artist lineup was not as promising as in 2022, the number of yatris had drastically reduced, and there were a few other differences here and there. I was not trying to be judgmental or to compare — every Yatra is different. The Yatra gives you a new understanding of life. Being a traveler and a seeker, I have always been keen on trying to understand what happens when we travel. We travel to understand the surroundings, which in turn helps us look within and try to understand and question ideas, philosophies, and beliefs we have been holding close. At the same time, we encounter new ideas and philosophies that might guide us for the years to come.

Apart from traveling, one of the primary purposes of being at the Yatra is to observe people — sit in their routine spaces, look at how they live and work, see how they manage their daily routines while pursuing what they are passionate about. This has always been one of the most motivating factors for me — to see how these artists live their lives within the context of their art, even though there is no external motivation to keep doing what they can do best.

In 2022, Shruti and Bindu were the highlight. In Salumber, it rained heavily, and the organizing team had to shift the satsang indoors at the last minute. It was beautifully managed, and within no time, the satsang began. If I am not wrong, it started with Shabnam and within no time, roughly around 3:00 a.m., Shruti Vishwanath and Bindu Malini collaborated again, singing the mystical scenes and sharing their wisdom. The yatris — some dancing, some sleeping, some meditating — were all trying to absorb the wisdom shared by these beautiful artists. Something moved me from my core, and I was restless. The voices, the words, the wisdom, the atmosphere, the people around me — all of it contributed to a restlessness where I was trying to question my own existence. I was trying to find answers in the sounds and the voices around me.

I asked myself: why is letting go so difficult? Why am I not able to look at things as they are? Did he really miss me today? What would have changed if I had been in a position to stop him while he went away? And the question that broke me down: was I really in a position to stop him from going? I also asked: what did he do when he missed me and I was away? I had always been there when I wanted to share something. When I opened my eyes, I knew I was crying. There was no other way to express my grief.

After the satsang, I made a point to meet Bindu and Shruti. After meeting them, I just wanted to hug them because I had no one around me, and I felt they would understand. That hug changed everything. In the crowd of 500–600 people, singing, dancing, living the mystical scenes that night, I was alone, standing right there, and I realized that he probably had forgiven me. I need not hold this for long.

The journey after that night, listening to Bindu, Vedant, Vipul, Shabnam on loop, was like a drug that stayed with me for many days after I returned from the Yatra. Many beautiful instances happened in 2022–23, including my communications with family and friends, and accepting myself in a much better way — the way I wanted to be, the way I can be, the way I really feel safe being myself.

I bring up 2022 because I had to draw parallels with 2025. In 2022, real collaboration happened when artists just came together and performed for each other without asking or inviting. It was beautiful to see energies coming together spontaneously. Some of the energy I will remember fondly was Vedant and Radhika, or maybe Shruti and Bindu, maybe even just Shabnam singing as a one-man army.

In 2025, it was difficult to identify such instances of collaboration that led to a philosophical elevation for everybody. I was restless from day one as it wasn’t working out for me. I was trying to find solace, trying to find peace with everything happening around me, and somehow I wasn’t able to. The highlight of the entire Yatra for me was the morning satsangs — the only time to sit, reflect, and try to immerse in the wisdom the artists were sharing. I’m not sure the evenings offered the same depth; they seemed more about sound, light, and states rather than reflection. This changed version of the aesthetics of the Yatra was hard to digest, and maybe I am yet digesting it. Perhaps this is how the Yatra will be henceforth — losing its charm of being a settled, real, aesthetic space where you have time for yourself to sit, see, and absorb the wisdom of artists, folk artists, and mystic saints.

The moment I was introduced to the work of Vedant, Bindu, Vipul, and Shruti, I felt I had found my purpose of trying to understand art. Apart from being a huge fan of Vedant’s work, I was completely sold whenever I listened to his lullabies. I had to meet him. The only thing I was looking forward to this year’s Yatra was the last two days — being in the space where Vedant would sing, stay with us, eat food, sleep around, and talk to people. Even such a small initiative — being in the presence of these artists — adds a lot of peace of mind. That’s what was happening in the last two days.

Apart from everything else, I now had Mahesh Ram, Mura Lalaji, Kaluram ji, and other wonderful percussion artists present. My other favorite, Arun Goyal ji, was sitting next to us. Vedant was going to be there, and he didn’t disappoint.

On the fifth day, during the evening satsang, my hopes were high. I was looking forward to an elevating experience in the desert village after having a humble dinner at the Gorakhnath Temple. I was sitting there when the satsang began. My friend and I went to secure pivotal seats to visually see the satsang. Kaluram ji performed, and then there were some collaborations, but they were not worth mentioning. A storm began brewing in the desert; everything started moving, swirling around, and soon it began to rain. I was thrilled — I was going to experience rain in the desert, and that change felt like a blessing.

We were told that the moonlight satsang would be held indoors in the kitchen area. Until then, we wandered, sat, and talked. My friend mentioned she was hearing music happening around us. I was skeptical until another friend called, urging me to come immediately to the Gorakhnath Temple — Vedant was singing.

If I had known that this moment would change my life forever, I would have done it long ago. But suddenly, the desert had transformed. The cold breeze made it feel like a hill station. Lights went out, darkness enveloped us, and there he was — Vedant singing a few feet in front of us. I could have reached out and touched him, asked him to pinch me to check if this was real.

I asked him softly to sing Bhajore Bhaiya Ram Govind Hari, and I cried while listening, just a few meters away. After the song ended, the festival team said the setup was ready and we could go for the satsang. But some of us stayed back, not wanting to break the moment. Again, it rained. Walking toward the satsang without an umbrella was not ideal — or maybe this was the reason we wanted to tell ourselves, as we all wanted to sit there and continue the night to see where it leads us.

As the evening continued, I realized something — I hadn’t noticed who was around me. In that moment, I asked Vedant, “Where is the Yatra?” He smiled, sang a Meera Bai bhajan, and after the song, there was silence. No one wanted to do anything but enjoy the silence. The breeze at the temple was the only sound. And then Vedant said, “Here is the Yatra.”

That moment set the benchmark for the entire experience. For the next three and a half hours in the desert of Bikaner, what happened became a memory for a lifetime, never to be repeated. Everyone present was trying to recall, trying to sing, trying to stay in the present moment. Every song, every note, every drop of rain made us relook at ourselves, question our existence, and try to understand the meaning of life. Tears rolled down faces. Some hugged. Some sat close to each other. Some said nothing, simply being there, closing their eyes, being with each other. The Gorakhnath Mandir was all around us.

As people joined late, one requested Vedant if we could sit in silence for ten minutes after the satsang. But he soon realized there was no need — the songs, the music, the breeze, and the presence itself had created complete silence. Everybody was being there for each other, through the wisdom of the artists, in tribute to the mystic saints and their art, which had kept us going even in moments of darkness and self-questioning.

That night in the desert, amidst the rain, the swirling storm, the music, the hugs, and the tears, the Yatra existed fully in that space. There was no next day, no sun, no morning — only that night, only that rain, only the presence, only the music, only the silence. That is where the Yatra happened. That is where it lived.