Where Rivers and Souls Merge
The moment we arrived at Kumbh Village, we were warmly welcomed and guided to our cottage. The air carried a pleasant warmth, with temperatures hovering around 26°C—a stark contrast to the biting chill of the previous day. Our trip organizer, beaming with excitement, remarked, "You couldn’t have gotten luckier! Just yesterday, it was 8 degrees. Freshen up in your tent, and we’ll head straight for a boat ride to the Sangam." Hearing those words, our anticipation soared. This was the moment we had been waiting for—the journey to the sacred confluence was about to begin.
The Kumbh Village in Sector 25 of Maha Kumbh at Prayagraj is a vast expanse of meticulously arranged cottages and tents, a microcosm of the spiritual grandeur unfolding across the Sangam city. The air is laced with the distant echoes of conch shells, the rhythmic chants of prayers, and the earthy aroma of smoldering incense. Walking through the village, one can see neat rows of cottages, each adorned with vibrant drapes and symbolic motifs. The white canvas roofs glisten under the golden sun, and colourful festoons flutter gently in the crisp winter air. Pilgrims, ascetics, and seekers from across the world move about, some lost in deep meditation while others engage in soulful discussions over steaming cups of tea.
As we step into our car, the engine hums to life, and we roll out through the grand Shankh Dwar. Beyond the Shankh Dwar unfolds a mesmerizing cascade of tents and akharas. To the left, a grand pandal houses a revered Guru addressing a sea of devotees. To the right, a community kitchen or ‘bhandara’ is in full swing, where volunteers tirelessly serve piping hot khichdi and puris to the endless stream of pilgrims.
The road widens as we near Arail Ghat, where the mighty confluence of the Ganga, Yamuna, and the mythical Saraswati awaits. The scenery transforms—the structured settlement of Kumbh Village gives way to an open landscape of shimmering waters and an ocean of humanity converging at the banks.
The first sight of the Sangam is breathtaking—millions of devotees, clad in saffron and white, stand at the edge of the holy waters, their silhouettes reflecting in the rippling surface. Priests perform elaborate aartis, their brass lamps swaying rhythmically, casting golden reflections on the waves.
As we step out of the car and walk towards the ghat, the atmosphere is electrifying yet serene. The pathways are lined with saffron-clad sadhus, their dreadlocked hair tied in high buns, their foreheads smeared with sacred ash. The rhythmic clanging of temple bells from nearby akharas mingles with the soothing melody of bhajans wafting from a distance. Makeshift stalls selling rudraksha malas, holy scriptures, and clay diyas , offer a feast for the senses. The collective faith of millions seems to pulsate in the very air. Somewhere, a conch shell blows, as if signaling us the auspicious moment to take the holy dip.
The sun hung high in the cloudless sky as we stepped into the gently bobbing boat at Arail Ghat, its wooden hull worn smooth by the countless journeys it had undertaken. The boatman, pushed off the shore with a practiced ease. The water rippled outwards in shimmering rings, as if welcoming us into its sacred embrace. The rhythmic creaking of the wooden oars against the water blended with the distant chants of pilgrims on the banks. All around, people stood knee-deep in the river, cupping the holy water in their hands, letting it trickle down their faces in silent prayers. Some families sat in small boats like ours, heads bowed as they whispered mantras, while others clutched brass pots filled with sangam water to carry home. As we glided forward, the boatman pointed to the various temples dotting the shoreline.
The boat continued cutting through the river’s expanse, and suddenly, the scene before us transformed. Herds of birds, their white feathers glistening in the sun, blanketed the water like a celestial sheet. They moved in perfect synchrony, rising and dipping in aerial ballet, their wings slicing through the air in unison. Some skimmed the water, their beaks barely touching the surface, sending tiny ripples through the serene expanse. “The birds know this place is sacred,” the boatman chuckled. “Even they come here to pray in their own way.”He then leaned over the edge and gestured for us to look down. “See this?” he asked. I peered into the water and noticed the stark difference—the deep, almost ink-black waters of the Yamuna shifting into the lighter, greenish waters of the Ganga. The contrast was mesmerizing, as if two celestial beings were merging, embracing each other in an eternal confluence.
And then, right before us, the moment arrived. The boat slowed to a halt. We had reached the Triveni Sangam—the confluence of the playful Yamuna, the mighty Ganga, and the mystical Saraswati. The very air around us felt charged, thick with devotion, humming with the prayers of millions who had come before us.
The boatman gestured with his hand. “This is it,” he said. “Your Sangam Snan awaits.”
We stepped out onto the wooden platform, my heart pounding—not with fear, but with an inexplicable reverence. All around, pilgrims dipped into the waters, their hands folded in prayer, their eyes closed in surrender. Some poured the sacred water over their heads, while others stood with arms raised, offering their devotion to the infinite sky above.
We walked forward, barefoot, the cool water lapping at our ankles. I gazed as far as my eyes could see—the vast expanse of holy waters, shimmering under the golden sunlight, where the three rivers met in a divine embrace. A surge of energy coursed through me, sending shivers down my spine.
This was no ordinary place. This was a realm where time stood still, where the soul shed its worldly burdens and merged into the eternal flow of divinity. The moment felt surreal—as if I had dissolved into the very essence of the rivers, into the prayers, into the faith of millions before me. As we stepped deeper into the water, ready for my holy dip, we knew this was not just a ritual. It was a homecoming—an awakening of something ancient within me.
... to be continued
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