A Glimpse Into the Past: The History of Guptipara Rath Yatra
The Rath Yatra in Guptipara dates back over 400 years, rooted in Bengal’s rich Vaishnava tradition. Guptipara itself has historical importance—it is believed to be the place where the first community Durga Puja was organized, giving birth to the idea of “Barowari Puja” (public festivals arranged by 12 or more friends/families). The town is also home to the Brindabanchandra Temple Complex, built during the late 17th to early 18th century, showcasing Bengal’s terracotta temple architecture.
The tradition of Rath Yatra here started during the time of the local zamindars, who were followers of Vaishnavism. The temple complex dedicated to Lord Jagannath and his siblings was constructed, and with it began the annual procession of the Rath (chariot) — just like in Puri. Over centuries, the festival evolved from a religious ritual into a grand cultural event for the people of this region. Yet, unlike Mahesh, which has gained wide attention, Guptipara’s Yatra remained quietly powerful, mostly known to locals and surrounding villages.
What makes this Rath unique is not just its age, but also the community’s deep emotional connection to it. The chariot is made entirely of wood, rebuilt every year using traditional methods. Local artisans work tirelessly to prepare it, using age-old carpentry techniques passed down through generations.
The Journey Begins
I woke up early that morning, around 7 a.m., with my gear packed the night before. My dad gave me some last-minute advice — how to approach the crowd, what moments to look out for, and even reminded me to carry a small notebook to jot down things I might forget later. After a quick breakfast of leftover kichudi from the rainy night before, I set out.
Getting to Guptipara wasn’t the easiest. There aren’t many direct trains from Konnagar, so I had to time it right. I caught the 10:30 a.m. Howrah–Katwa local. The return ticket cost me ₹30. As I sat on the train, looking out the window, the weather started to shift — thick clouds rolled in, and by the time I neared Guptipara, it had started raining. At first, I felt disheartened. I thought the rain would ruin the visuals, the energy, the whole event. But little did I know — it would become the very soul of my experience.
Midway through the journey, I began to feel hungry. I hadn’t eaten much in the morning. A hawker was passing by with small peanut sachets — I grabbed two for ₹5 each. Not enough to fill my stomach, but enough to keep me going.
Arrival: A Town in Motion
As I stepped onto the platform at Guptipara station, I could already feel the shift in the air. Pilgrims were everywhere — some barefoot, some carrying offerings, others singing bhajans under umbrellas. The station area itself became my first frame — so much movement, so many layers of life in one space.
From there, people were taking totos (e-rickshaws) to the chariot site. Locals warned that it was far away, but when I asked at a nearby sweet shop, I learned it was less than a kilometre. So I decided to walk — camera in one hand, umbrella in the other, rain slowly increasing around me.
By the time I reached the site, the rain had turned heavy, almost relentless. I found myself soaked, but something in the atmosphere made me stay. The chariot stood tall — enormous and majestic, decorated with bright clothes, flowers, and ornaments. Despite the rain, people gathered all around it, calm but eager. The energy wasn’t chaotic; it was disciplined, almost meditative.
The Pull of Faith
Then came the moment of Ulto Rath — the return journey. Pilgrims took hold of the thick ropes tied to the chariot. There was no pushing or loud shouting. Instead, there was quiet strength. People walked barefoot through the muddy streets, singing, praying, chanting names of the Lord. The rain didn’t stop. If anything, it became a part of the celebration. Clothes clung to the skin, camera lenses fogged up, but nothing stopped the rhythm of devotion.
I kept shooting, switching between stills and slow shutter captures to preserve both the motion and the emotion. At one point, I noticed vapor forming inside my lens, and I panicked a little. A fellow photographer told me bluntly, “It’s fungus. It happens in weather like this.” His words were casual, but my heart sank a little. Still, I kept going. I didn’t want to miss a single moment.
More Than Just a Festival
What touched me most was the silence in the noise — an odd calmness that lingered behind the rituals. No loudspeakers blaring film songs, no impatient pushing through the crowd. People waited their turn, folded hands, bowed heads. There was respect — for the tradition, for the space, for each other.
I saw old men sitting quietly with umbrellas, children perched on their father’s shoulders, and women offering flowers to the Lord as the chariot passed. Some stood silently under tin roofs, watching from a distance with folded palms. The rain was everywhere, yet no one seemed to complain.
A Memory Etched
This was my first visit to Guptipara, and I didn’t even get to witness the main Rath. I saw only the Ulto Rath, the return—but in that moment, it didn’t feel like I had missed anything. I felt like I had seen what truly matters—not the grandeur, but the belief, the community, and the rootedness of an old tradition that refuses to fade.
The pictures I took that day weren’t just of an event—they became a personal archive of a place where history, devotion, and everyday life still walk together.
