The Call of the Sangam, Mahakumbh 2025 - A journey that was destined! Chapter 4: Wonders of Day 1 Part 2

The Return Row and the Road to the Tent City

Fresh from our second dip — because once is never enough at the Sangam — Baba and I towelled off and dressed quickly, waiting for our fellow passengers to wrap up their pooja and reassemble for the journey back. The row out to the Sangam had been a relatively direct affair, but the return trip was a different story. The currents being what they are, our boatman had to swing wide — roughly 300 meters upstream before arcing back another 300 meters toward the ghat. 

A longer route, but nobody was complaining. It gave us time to feed the birds that hovered expectantly alongside the boat, enjoy the gentle rhythm of oars on water, and take in the magnificent Allahabad Fort standing proud and ancient along the riverbank — unmoved by the millions of pilgrims surging around its feet.

Back at the ghat, the clock was nudging past lunch hour. The sensible thing, of course, would have been to eat. But Baba and I are not always sensible men. From across the Ganga, we could see it — a vast, shimmering city of tents stretching into the distance, buzzing with life. We simply had to get there.

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36 Bridges Over Troubled Waters (Well, Holy Waters)

We began walking westwards, hunting for one of the pontoon bridges that would carry us across the Ganga. From our last visit — 2010, fifteen years ago — we recalled two such bridges in the vicinity: one closer to the Sangam, another further west. The Kumbh, however, operates on a scale that renders all prior memory quaint. Our trusty guide booklet — the gift from the volunteer earlier in the day — informed us that 34 additional pontoon bridges had been erected for the Mela, bringing the grand total to 36. Of these, at least 3 were designated for vehicular traffic.

Thirty-six pontoon bridges. Across a river.

We let that settle in for a moment. Just another Tuesday at the Kumbh.

By the time we crossed over to the other side, it was well past 2 PM — and our bodies had finally decided to lodge a formal complaint. We were starving.

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Chholla-Samosa and Jalebis: The Meal That Cost ₹170

A quick scan of the tent city confirmed our fears: the bhandara — those glorious free community kitchens that the Kumbh is famous for — had wrapped up service for the afternoon. No food vendors in sight either. A rapid consultation of Google Maps pointed us toward Jhunsi, a small settlement about a kilometer ahead, past the highway.

Hunger, it turns out, is an excellent motivator. We walked fast.

We sat down at the first food stall we encountered — no deliberation, no reviews, no second opinions. The owner served us Chholla-Samosa: a bowl of dry pea dal with two small, crisp samosas balanced on top and a bright green chutney drizzled over the whole affair. We had two servings each without pausing for breath. Tea followed. And because no meal in India is truly complete without something sweet, we split 250 grams of fresh, syrup-soaked jalebis between us.

Total damage: ₹170.

We sat back, thoroughly satisfied, and briefly marvelled at the arithmetic of simple pleasures.

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The Damroo-Dwar and the Juna Akhada

Refuelled and recharged, we retraced our steps to the riverbank and began walking along it, mapping out the lanes of the tent city, getting our bearings before committing to a direction. Eventually, a gateway presented itself — the Damroo-Dwar — and we walked through it with the casual confidence of men who had absolutely no idea what awaited them on the other side.

The very first complex we encountered was the Juna Akhada.

Now, I'll be honest — I am no scholar of the Sadhu Akharas of India. But even a layman knows the name. The Juna Akhada is, quite simply, the OG. The oldest, the largest, the most revered of all the akharas — a fraternity of ascetics whose roots stretch back over a thousand years. We entered with curiosity, as tourists might. But the Juna Akhada had other plans for us.

Curiosity gave way to wonder, and wonder gave way to something quieter, something harder to name. By the time we stepped back out, we were humbled. All around us, sadhus went about their sacred routines — some deep in prayer, others tending to a havan, lips moving in silent jaap, ash-smeared figures seated in contemplation. And some, refreshingly, simply sitting with their fellow sadhus and chatting — because even the most enlightened souls, it turns out, enjoy a good conversation.

The Man Draped in 125,000 Rudrakshas

Word had spread through the lanes that somewhere nearby sat a Sadhu who was supposedly adorned with 125,000 Rudrakshas on his body. Not a garland or two around the neck — 125,000, covering him from head to toe in layer upon layer of the sacred beads, each one a universe of its own significance in Hindu tradition. We had to see this for ourselves.

We found him seated on his aasan, deep in jaap, lips moving in quiet, rhythmic communion with something far beyond the crowd gathered around him. A small, orderly queue had formed — pilgrims waiting for a moment at his feet, a touch, a blessing. We joined it without a second thought.

The queue moved slowly, as queues at such moments should.

When I finally reached him, the universe decided to intervene — as it had been doing rather frequently on this trip. Just as I stepped forward, he rose from his seat. And in that movement, a string of his Rudraksha mala gave way. Beads scattered across the aasan in every direction. He settled himself back down, unbothered and blessed me. Then, almost as an afterthought, he picked up two of the fallen Rudrakshas and pressed them into my palm.

Baba, standing just behind me, received one.

He looked at his single Rudraksha. He looked at mine. He quietly got back in the line.

He emerged, eventually, with his second one — honor restored, cosmic balance maintained.

Both Rudrakshas sit in my home shrine today. Some souvenirs you don't go looking for. They find you.

A City Built on Sand — Literally

We wandered through the tented lanes at our own unhurried pace, drinking it all in. I didn't photograph everything I saw — some moments felt too alive to interrupt with a camera — so allow me to paint the picture with words instead.

The entire tent city, every walkway, every temporary structure, every makeshift lane — all of it had been erected on the vast, soft sandy banks of the Ganga. There is no tarmac here, no concrete foundation, no permanent infrastructure of any kind. The administration had divided the sprawling grounds into neat rectangular sectors, with lanes cutting through at intervals to allow the movement of millions of human beings without complete anarchy.

But soft sand and millions of footsteps are a problematic combination. The solution? Thick metal sheets — roughly 4 feet wide and 15 feet long — laid down across the entire area as a hard base. Every lane, every thoroughfare, every pathway was lined with them, interlocking across the sand like an enormous, improvised floor stretching as far as the eye could see. (See image for reference.)

Chai, Abuses, Chillums and Rudrakshas

And then there was the chai.

At some point during our wandering, a Naga Sadhu — ash-covered, uninhibited, and thoroughly unbothered by the concept of social decorum — pressed a cup of hot tea into our hands. He served it with complete generosity and a steady stream of colorful abuses directed at no one in particular and everyone in general. There was no malice in it, not even a trace. It was simply the unfiltered, joyous expression of a man who has shed every last social constraint and arrived at a place of absolute freedom. We sipped our chai, grinned at each other, and decided we rather liked him.

The lanes around us told their own stories. Street vendors squatted on the metal sheets selling Rudrakshas — the sacred beads — in every size and combination imaginable. A few paces further, with the same casual openness, others were selling chillums. And right alongside them, wrapped in the same transactional normalcy as the bead sellers — weed. Out in the open. At the Kumbh Mela.

We acknowledged it with the quiet acceptance that the Kumbh demands of you. This is a gathering where the ascetic and the anarchic coexist without apology, where the sacred and the scandalous share the same sandy lane. Who were we to argue with a thousand years of tradition?

The Aarti — Following a Hunch Across the Ganga

As the sun began its descent and the sky over Prayagraj softened into shades of amber, Baba mentioned — almost offhandedly — that there might be an Aarti ceremony on the other side of the Ganga. He couldn't say for certain; it was more instinct than information. I was skeptical. I had no knowledge of such an event being scheduled, and after a full day on our feet, we had another purpose of the day before it ends. But then again — what's the worst that could happen? We'd walked this far on far less certainty.

We crossed back over and began asking around — cops, volunteers, vendors, anyone who looked like they might know something. The answers came in fragments, each one nudging us a little further in the right direction, until we finally found the spot.

We were early. Very early, as it turned out — but that worked entirely in our favour. We claimed a vantage point that would become prime real estate in the next hour, settled in, and let the wait wash over us. A group of singers had already begun — soft, melodious bhajans drifting across the riverbank, the kind that don't demand your attention so much as gently earn it.

Forty minutes passed in what felt like fifteen.

A Governor, a Surprise, and an Aarti Worth Waiting For

By now the crowd had grown considerably. Young priests and priestesses had taken their positions, dressed in traditional ceremonial attire, the kind that signals something is about to begin. There was a quiet choreography to their preparations — lamps being arranged, incense lit, the air thickening with the scent of devotion.

Then, a ripple of commotion. Word travelled quickly through the crowd: a VIP was arriving to witness the Aarti. A quick Google search on my phone revealed the name — the Honorable Governor of Punjab, Mr. Gulab Chand Kataria. I read it twice and smiled. A veteran politician from our home state of Rajasthan, of all people, showing up at our unlikely little Aarti on the banks of the Ganga. The Kumbh, as I was quickly learning, has a way of engineering these small, improbable coincidences.

The Aarti itself was not the grand, theatrical spectacle you witness at the famous ghats of Rishikesh, Varanasi, or Haridwar — those sweeping ceremonies with their towering brass lamps and hundreds of synchronized priests, designed as much for the camera as for the cosmos. This one was humbler. It was held on a temporary structure, like everything else in the Mela grounds — erected for the occasion, earnest in its purpose, and quietly moving in a way that grandeur sometimes isn't.

(Short video of the Aarti below.)

A Welcome Pause — and the Walk That Followed

We were glad we had trusted Baba's instinct and stopped for the Aarti. After hours of relentless walking, it had been exactly the kind of break the body and spirit both needed — not idle rest, but the active stillness of witnessing something meaningful. An Aarti, after all, is considered the culmination of any Hindu prayer or ceremony — the moment where devotion finds its most luminous expression. To have stumbled into one, almost by accident, on the banks of the Ganga at dusk, felt like the Kumbh offering us a quiet gift.

But the evening wasn't done with us yet. We still had a couple of kilometers ahead before we'd find any public transport at Chungi Chauraha. The feet were informed of this development and, to their credit, kept moving without formal protest.

A Country Within a Country

It was around 8:30 PM by the time we found ourselves in front of what I can only describe as a food plaza — a large, bustling complex of local restaurants and familiar big brands: Domino's, Haldiram's, and several others operating with the full confidence of a well-appointed shopping mall. The fact that the entire structure was temporary — assembled for the Mela and destined to vanish after it — made it all the more remarkable. We browsed through a few gift shops while our food was being prepared, though nothing quite caught our eye.

What caught our eye, however, was everything around us.

Fully functional bank branches — not ATM kiosks, but proper branches, complete with ATM machines, signage, staff, and the quiet bureaucratic hum of financial institutions going about their business. All temporary. All erected specifically for the Mela. The LIC had an office. The Reserve Bank of India had a presence. There were post offices, administrative counters, medical facilities — an entire civic infrastructure conjured from scratch on a sandbank.

It struck me then, standing in that unlikely food court with a plate of something warm in my hands, that what the Kumbh had built here was not merely a gathering. It was a functioning country — complete with its own economy, its own governance, its own roads, bridges, hospitals, banks, and places of worship — compressed into roughly 50 square kms, and timed to exist for exactly 45 days before quietly disappearing back into the sand.

No country in the world builds and unbuilds a city of this scale, at this speed, for this many people. And most of them don't even notice, because they're too busy praying.

Kumbh ke mele mein bicchad gaye the — But Not Anymore

If you grew up watching Hindi films, you know the trope intimately. The Kumbh Mela has, for decades, served as Bollywood's favorite plot device for separating families — usually involving a small child, a surging crowd, a dramatic wail, and a storyline that takes twenty years and three songs to resolve. "Kumbh ke mele mein bicchad gaye the" has practically become a cultural shorthand for the most chaotic kind of lost.

We walked past the modern answer to that ancient problem: a fully computerized Lost and Found Centre — staffed, systematized, and apparently quite busy.

Somewhere in Bollywood's writers' rooms, a generation of screenwriters just lost their most reliable plot twist.

31,500 Steps — and Counting

Stomachs full and souls fuller, we navigated our way to the transport interchange — a process that involved considerably more deliberation than either of us would like to admit. Eventually, a sharing auto-rickshaw materialized and carried us part of the way, where we transferred to an e-rickshaw that delivered us, finally, to the Officer's Mess. 

We washed. We changed. We collapsed onto our beds with the deeply satisfied heaviness of men who have earned their rest.

Phones came out one last time — calls home, pictures shared, the predictable chorus of amazement from loved ones who hadn't quite grasped, until now, what exactly we had walked into. I caught myself saying it out loud, almost involuntarily: "I still cannot believe I'm here." And I meant it. Having flown in from Vancouver, I was quietly certain that I was among the pilgrims who had travelled the furthest to stand at that Sangam — though the Kumbh, being the Kumbh, probably had a few contenders I'll never know about.

Just as I reached over to put my phone and fitness band on charge, a thought stopped me. I flipped the band over and took a reading - 30,570 steps.

The phone's health app said 33,000. Baba's phone offered 32,000 as its opinion. We settled, democratically, on 31,500 — and wore that number like a badge.

Alarms were set. One last decision was made before sleep claimed us: no mess breakfast tomorrow. We would start the day the right way — out in the city, something local, something Prayagraj. And after that, we head to at a place called Shivalaya Park.

What is Shivalaya Park? What awaits us there?

That, dear reader, is a story for the final chapter — along with a few more surprises that the Mela and the city of Prayagraj had quietly been saving for us.

The best, as they say, was yet to come.