In Bageshwar Baba's Land, A City Built On Religious Tourism

He’s a fair-skinned young man with bright black eyes and a wide grin that never seems to fade. You can’t miss Dhirendra Krishna Garg, aka Bageshwar Baba and his androgynous aura, as his interminable stare greets you in photographs the moment you step into Bageshwar Dham in Madhya Pradesh’s Chhatarpur district.

Sometimes he’s in aviators. Sometimes he’s in a turban fit for an 18th-century Maratha king. On days he does not wear elaborate headgear, his flowing hair flops over his forehead and when it overgrows, his jet-black mane spills over his collar. His face is everywhere: on walls, road signs, posters, T-shirts and tote bags hawked in the temple’s bustling marketplace.

Of Faith & Followers

To say that Bageshwar Dham, located in the jurisdiction of Gadha village, is built around Garg would be an understatement. The locals will tell you he built this city, transforming it into a hub of religious tourism. Quite like the Dera Sacha Sauda in Haryana, which transformed from a modest spiritual commune into a virtually self-sustaining town. Faith-driven tourism fuelled its expansion as roads, schools, hospitals and markets followed. Devotees poured in, funding infrastructure, businesses and a full-fledged economy built on religious fervour.

“Before Corona, there was nothing here—no roads, no hotels, no jobs beyond farming or construction labour,” says Gadha Sarpanch Arun Shukhla. In January this year, residents protested after a nearby railway station, about three kilometres from the Dham, was renamed from Duriya Ganj to Dariya Ganj. They argued that both names had Islamic origins and demanded that the station be renamed Bageshwar Dham Railway Station instead.

Gadha is Garg’s home, a stone’s throw from Bageshwar Dham. His parents still live there, in a new house built last year. When he’s not touring India, London or Dubai, he stays there too. The village streets are lined with ‘Jai Shri Ram’ slogans and posters bearing his face.

Five years ago, Bageshwar Dham was just another temple with a trickle of visitors. No hotels. No high-rises. No economy. Then, in 2019, Dhirendra Krishna Garg began uploading his sermons to YouTube.

The first video featured a 23-year-old Garg in a blue kurta, addressing an audience of around 50. He lacked the swagger he has now, but you could see it coming. “Bolo Jai Shri Ram,” he urged. The voices barely carried, but the video hit 56,000 views. His rise has been meteoric. By 2023, BBC reported 3.4 million Facebook followers, 3.9 million YouTube subscribers and a growing fan base across platforms. By February 2025, those numbers have doubled: 7.8 million on Facebook, 9.59 million on YouTube and 2.4 million on Instagram.

That kind of following buys attention. Politicians, businessmen, power players… and they all come calling.

A Day at The Dham

On Tuesdays, Bageshwar Dham transforms. Between one and 15 lakh people pour in, hoping for a personal reading from 28-year-old Dhirendra Krishna Garg. His followers believe he has supernatural powers.

Kiran, 35, has travelled 900 km from Jodhpur. She discovered Garg on YouTube and was drawn to him because he doesn’t ask for money. “You can donate if you want, but there’s no ticketing system. That’s how I know he’s real,” she says. It’s her first visit, but she already feels at home among the lakh-strong crowd outside Garg’s newly constructed procession hall. She has been waiting for two days, skipping meals and sleep. “If I meet him, my life could change for the better,” she says, eyes shining with faith. Married for six years, she’s been unable to conceive. Garg’s blessings, she believes, will change that.

The Dham’s day starts slow. People arrive by car, bus, even on foot. The main street is packed with stalls selling Bageshwar Baba merchandise, photos of a grinning Garg, T-shirts, tote bags and silver-gold kadas. There are also colour-coded potlis as offerings: white for family troubles, yellow for health issues. Priced between Rs 100 and Rs 500, they make their sellers a tidy sum; sometimes up to Rs 50,000 a day.

On the day we visited Bageshwar Dham, members of the Madhya Pradesh Sansad are visiting, hoping for a one-on-one with Garg. They arrive in a black Toyota Fortuner with VIP plates. Unlike the masses, they don’t have to wait. They are ushered into a private room. Meanwhile, Garg’s crowd managers keep his followers in check, maintaining order in a well-oiled system.

Every visitor must first visit the old Balaji temple before heading to the procession hall. The unpainted ceiling looms over a giant stage where Garg sits on a golden couch, surrounded by cushions emblazoned with his own face.

Outside, another saffron-fenced stage hosts a revolving door of followers. An old woman in a pink sari is called up. She kneels before Garg as he places a hand on her head. “You’re here because of your son. He’s struggling with his job, but don’t worry. He will succeed, but it will take two and a half years. Be patient and pray.” The crowd erupts in applause and awe.

“He can see into our souls,” says Anna* (name changed), who has flown in from Edinburgh. She’s here for her Irish husband and brother, both battling mental health issues.

As a non-resident Indian (NRI), Anna has been allowed into the procession hall, a privilege granted to those who’ve travelled far. But she’s been waiting three days for a private audience and there’s no guarantee she’ll get one. The rules are strict. One must attend the temple’s maha aarti 21 times before being considered. Attendance is tracked on a slip of paper. Any attempt to cheat results in a ban.

Among the waiting faithful, stories are currency. Followers, sometimes, try to curry favour with Garg’s aides, spilling their troubles in hushed tones. It’s no mystery how Garg knows their secrets. In just a minute, this reporter overhears intimate details about Anna’s brother’s depression.

But Anna is convinced. She points to the sheer diversity of Garg’s followers, here in India and abroad in London, where she witnessed “not only Indians, but white people too” throng to his appearances. “These are educated people you see,” she says, adding that “if even educated people believe in him, then there must be something to it, right?”

As the day wanes, Anna and her parents remain inside. Too risky to step out. What if their name is called? Like many, they’ve gone without food. The hall is packed with hopefuls clinging to faith. Those who must step out get a “Ram” penned on to their hand as proof for re-entry. Outside, desperate visitors stretch their arms between the iron bars of the gates, frenzied voices scream, “Baba, look at me!” Parents clutch screaming babies, hoping for a blessing.

Garg works late. Last night, he held court till 3 am. Tonight, he promises to sit till 1 am. “I work 18 hours a day,” he claims. Why? “Because people’s problems need fixing.”

He agrees to an interview on stage, in front of his followers. He knows how to play the crowd.

Asked why his popularity has surged, he grins, voice rising to a shrill pitch: “Because more people believe in God!” The crowd explodes in laughter and applause. When he calls for a Hindu Rashtra, arguing, “There’s no country for Hindus like there is for Muslims or Jews,” the cheers are deafening.

He refuses to answer questions about the hate speech controversies that surround him. While on camera, he says, “I have no problem with other faiths, I just want acceptance for Hindus.” Just three years ago, Shastri urged Hindus to bulldoze the houses of stone-pelters. “I will also buy a bulldozer after a few days… I don’t have the money right now. But soon I’ll buy a bulldozer… Whoever throws stones at Ram’s work, Sanatani principles, saints, or Indian Sanatani Hindus, we will run a bulldozer over their house,” Shastri was seen animatedly saying on camera in an interview flagged by the News Broadcasting and Digital Standards Authority. He then made the same statement the next year.

In July 2023, eyewitness reports state that Garg and his followers allegedly assaulted an elderly woman who was wearing saffron and had allegedly come to file her application for a meeting with the Baba. At the same time, reports of Garg and his aides assaulting women occupants of the Dham’s caretaker’s house with sticks and rods. Reports allege a minor girl’s hands were fractured during the raid.

But these reports go unnoticed by his followers. Inside the hall, women wail. A woman convulses in hysteria. Four aides carry one woman away, accompanied by her family. Her father insists it’s not epilepsy. “She’s in the thrall of God.”

Outside the hall, there’s no seating. People sleep on the bare ground, waiting for days. Sampath Ram (name changed), a 37-year-old engineer from Kerala, first found Garg on YouTube while working in Abu Dhabi. He’s here for the first time, hoping to donate Rs five lakh. Maybe it will speed up his turn.

Kiran tried the same. No luck. But that only reinforced her belief. “I asked an aide, ‘Can I donate money to meet Babaji?’ They refused. You see? He’s not money-minded. That’s why he’s the real deal,” she explains.

By nightfall, the Dham glows under fluorescent red and green bulbs. It feels like a carnival. Children launch toy helicopters, adults huddle over chaat and pakoras. Garg, ever tireless, instructs his followers to chant Om and rub their palms together. Two lakh hands whisper in unison. Every few moments, someone cries Jai Shri Ram and the crowd roars back in perfect sync.

Capitalisation of Faith

Garg’s Dham has been a spiritual centre for locals for generations. The 28-year-old comes from a family of priests. His grandfather was the head priest. But now, he runs more than just a temple. He presides over a booming tourism business. Women and young children walk around the Dham, offering tilaks, malas made of leaves and flowers and small offering potlis to the faithful. They earn around Rs 400-Rs 500 a day, nearly double of what they earned before the Dham gained popularity.

“Earlier, we did mazdoori (labour). You went with your husband or sons and worked. Now, we sell malas (garlands) and our men do the mazdoori. So we get some time for ourselves and earn a little more than they do,” says 50-year-old Shanti Bai.

Gadha’s people speak of Garg with reverence and affection. Those who disagree with him refuse to speak at all, fearing repercussions. But everyone has either watched him grow up or have grown up with him. And they agree that his popularity has inspired major improvements in the region, including better roads, facilities and higher incomes for local residents.

“You can see vikas (development) here. People from outside are now building homes. Earlier, plots sold for a maximum of Rs 1 lakh; now, they cost at least Rs 10 lakh, so incomes have risen,” says Shukhla.

But not everyone has benefitted.

“People are opening hotels on their land and outsiders are building homes here,” says Mohit S* (name changed), pointing out the uneven development. “People rent homes and shops to those with the most money, so most shopkeepers here aren’t locals. We can’t afford those rents.”

He gestures towards his house, its white paint peeling, a weather-beaten corrugated iron roof and exposed electricity wiring. “You can see this hasn’t helped me. We were poor five years ago and we’re even poorer now.”

Water is another challenge. Despite having a higher underground water level than most drought-prone areas in Madhya Pradesh, the village struggles to meet the demand of lakhs of visitors every day. “We’ve built three tanks for the Dham and nearby villages and two more are under construction,” Garg says.

Some are worried about the waste generated by Garg’s followers. Even though the Dham’s sevakars (workers) help sweep up the rubbish — empty plastic water bottles, wrappers, wasted food and so on — twice a day, it never ends, says Manju, who works as a sweeper, earning Rs 8,000 a month.

Shukhla sees plastic waste as a major problem. “We’ve requested a recycling plant because most of the garbage is plastic and we don’t know what to do with it.” Currently, the village collects, burns and buries plastic in a field near the mountains. With farmland surrounding the area, Shukhla worries that plastic pollution could poison the soil and affect the food supply.

Baba In Absentia

Perhaps Garg’s influence is most evident in his absence.

On Wednesdays, when the godman leaves for Bihar, the Dham is unrecognisable. Though a few hundred people still gather for the maha aarti, the place is a shadow of what it was in Garg’s presence.

Shops are shuttered and those that remain open, have no customers. The maidan outside Garg’s procession hall is empty, littered with the previous day’s trash. Except for prayers inside the temple, the Dham is quiet. No chants of “Jai Shri Ram,” and no loudspeaker instructions from Baba’s aides either. Ram Mohan, a shopkeeper near the Balaji temple, sums it up: “When Babaji isn’t here, there’s nothing. I make maybe Rs 1,000 a day. But when he is, I can make up to Rs 10,000.”

Avantika Mehta is a senior associate editor based out of New Delhi

This article is a part of Outlook's March 21, 2025 issue 'The Pilgrim's Progress', which explores the unprecedented upsurge in religious tourism in India. It appeared in print as 'In Baba-Land'.