We woke early on the third day, expecting to hear of the most sacred moment of the Maha Kumbh—the shahi snan, when the sadhus take their royal procession and plunge into the confluence of the Ganges, Yamuna, and the mythical Saraswati. But that moment never came. Word spread quickly through the camp: the procession had been cancelled. Police had cordoned off the confluence. There had been a stampede, and in a decision unheard of in Kumbh’s long and sacred history, the sadhus had cancelled their holy dip. No chants. No drums. No chariots. Just silence—and confusion. Lives lost. Some identified. Some remain just a statistic.
News trickled in, slowly at first and then in a flood. The airport had been shut down. Trains were no longer stopping at the town station. Curfews were being enforced in the nearby towns. Over a 100k people were now stranded. And we were growing nervous. We were supposed to leave the day after next. We wondered if we’d be stuck too. Nothing changed on this side of the River Yamuna.
But as the day wore on, things shifted slightly at the Akhada site — once pulsing with people everywhere was suddenly empty. Only the sadhus and the babas remained. Without any audience, the sadhus went for their dip in the river. Quietly. Without fanfare. The moment, though sacred, passed like a whisper. We stayed indoors for the most part that day, walking only to the banks of the Yamuna, taking in the stillness. That night, feeling restless, my friend and I decided to walk out and see the town again. A cycle rickshaw dropped us near the crowd zones. What we saw was unlike anything we had imagined. People were sleeping on the roads. Not beside them—on them. Sprawled across the road and the footpath, not out of protest, not even out of devotion—but simply because there was nowhere else to go. They were waiting—for permission to cross the river, for a chance to bathe, or maybe just to leave the town.
It was freezing. Many had no shawls or blankets. It made us wonder how they would survive the night. The next day looked no different—until around 3 PM, when we heard the bridges were finally open again. One of them was just beside our camp. We crossed it. This time, the Akhada site was just an hour’s walk away. The mood wasnt great, but we went anyway. Spoke to a few sadhus, had tea and lemonade with others. There was no grand event anymore. Just a feeling of having witnessed something that went beyond spectacle. Then came the drums again. Chants from a nearby Akhada. Another ritual, perhaps—but we didn’t follow this time. We looked at each other and simply knew: we were done.
We had a flight to catch the next evening. And with the condition of the roads, the 40-kilometer stretch to the airport could easily take five hours. We confirmed our taxi, packed up, and spent our final night under the stars. Talking about the past. The future. Making vague plans to meet again—somewhere, someday. Despite the chaos, there had been peace. Somewhere in the middle of that human tide, there had been something grounding, something strangely reassuring.
Would I go back? Absolutely.
Am I afraid of crowds now? Maybe not. I think I could brave it again. For the Kumbh, at least. Not the Maha Kumbh though—that’s a story for another 144 years.
Thanks for reading.