There is always a solution to be found in Maharaj Ji’s darbar in Gorakhpur. Twenty-eight-year-old Laxmi came here in 2018 with her mother, looking for a groom. And Uttar Pradesh Chief Minister Yogi Adityanath’s assistants found one for her. Now, five years later, she has returned to complain that her husband beats her.
From domestic abuse to hospital expenses to neighbourhood troubles, the Gorakhnath Mutt has a solution for everything. The people of UP may not be able to easily reach CM Yogi in Lucknow with their laundry list of grievances, but the ancient mutt has emerged as the ante-room to the seat of power. They mete out solutions and dole advice, forward requests to Lucknow, bring in the city sub-divisional magistrate to check local problems and sometimes, even find a groom.
“My daughter’s husband is beating her. She wants to divorce him. But what will her life be without her husband? Please help by counselling him,” pleaded Laxmi’s mother, Devi, with Yogi’s assistants.
The temple manager Dwarka Tiwari told her not to be stressed. “We will prevent a divorce,” he assured her.
The petitioners start pouring in as early as 7.30 am and wait for the darbar door to open. And then the jostling begins. Once inside, they wait patiently in a hall full of life-size portraits of Yogi, one with a lion’s face next to his. There are paintings of various gurus of the mutt. Everyone in the hall has to be quiet. If they speak loudly, they are hushed and admonished.
The daily hearing, which has been going on for decades, is conducted from 9 am to 11 am. The darbar hearing has gotten real swagger and power because the mutt head is now the chief minister, and he still drops in twice a month.
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The men who run the show
It takes two people to do Yogi’s job at the darbar in his absence. Tiwari and retired SDM Vinod Kumar Thakur, who sits at a desk in the corner with his secretary taking notes. He’s Yogi’s ‘officer on special duty’ and helps people who’ve run into problems within the administration—such as a corrupt cop, or a lazy administrative officer.
Despite running for decades, the Gorakhpur public assembly is increasingly coming under the scanner. The most persistent criticism is that it exposes the inefficiency of authorities, underscored by the fact that the chief priest of the Gorakhpur Mutt is the chief minister.
“I agree that we need to make our system robust, but with Yogi ji at the centre, these janta darbars give us a transparent view of what’s happening on the ground. We are taking immediate action against officials who are delaying people’s work,” says Thakur.
The manager and ex-SDM work seamlessly together, often interchanging their roles.
Inside the darbar, petitioners press upon the railing separating them from Tiwari and Thakur. Many speak Bhojpuri, and some have come from as far as Ghaziabad district to submit their petitions. They argue and jostle with each other while a constable keeps a sharp eye out for any unrest.
It is RN Singh’s turn next. He kneels in front of Tiwari and talks at length about the water problems he’s facing back in Ghaziabad. Singh says that he has met authorities and submitted dozens of applications, but there has been no response. Maharaj ji’s darbar is his last hope. Tiwari listens patiently, picks up his phone and barks out orders.
“His name is RN Singh. Get his job done. Maharaj wants it. He will come to you tomorrow,” Tiwari hollers at an official from his phone.
Singh looks up at Tiwari, who raises his hand and says, “The work will get done.”
Clutching a file of documents under his arms, Singh slouches toward the exit, proclaiming at the top of his lungs: “Jai Yogi Maharaj ki”. The file he holds contains all his applications to the authorities.
With his exit, all eyes turn to Kavita, 48, from Unnao. She’s rolling on the floor in anguish in front of Thakur, who is sifting through piles of documents. He rises from his chair, holds her, and asks her to stop. As Kavita sobs and stumbles through her story, he learns that her husband Vinod is battling cancer in Lucknow and that she has run out of money for his treatment.
“Please help me. My husband will die,” Kavita sobs profusely.
Thakur’s secretary, a young man in his 30s, notes all pertinent facts neatly on an A4-sized sheet. At the other end, constable Birender Singh thumps his lathi (stick) on the railing to keep the crowd quiet.
Thakur asks a few questions and calls the hospital. He instructs the management to extend Vinod’s hospitalisation. “Maharaj’s order”, he says. Thakur then consoles Kavita and assures her that her problem will reach “Maharaj”, and some financial arrangement will be made.
Kavita touches his feet and leaves, her faith in the system restored.
Laxmi has a similar unwavering faith in Yogi Maharaj. Her hopes are pinned on Tiwari’s counselling skills to save her marriage and end the abuse.
“I have spoken to Tiwari ji and given him my husband’s contact details. He says he will call both of us to the darbar and resolve the issue there itself. I am looking forward to it,” she says, hopefully.
But her mother is leaving nothing to chance, also turning to the gods to ensure domestic bliss for her daughter. Devi is convinced that someone has cast an evil eye on Laxmi and will soon hold a hawan (prayer meeting) to shoo it away. Tiwari ji will be cordially invited.
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A road to justice
For teenager Mahi and her older sister Nisha, 23, the darbar is an extension of the government. And today, they want justice for their father.
Mahi explains that her father, Ram Singh, was beaten up by goons in their village, Nausar, in Gorakhpur last month. They filed a police complaint, but nothing happened. Her father is still recovering from his injuries in the hospital.
She presents a copy of the FIR to Tiwari and shows him photos of her bloodied and beaten father on her phone.
“We went to the police several times, but they kept ignoring our requests. Until these goons are arrested, we will always be afraid for our lives,” she tells Tiwari as he adjusts his spectacles to read the FIR.
Tiwari mumbles some instructions to his assistant, Shukla ji, who jots something down on a piece of paper, and hands it over to Mahi. He dials a number from his black and white feature phone and lashes out at the police official who answers the call.
Mahi carefully opens the chit. “Nyay milega (Justice will be delivered),” it reads. She and her sister bow and leave the hall cheerfully.
(Edited by Zoya Bhatti)