Immersed in the Sacred: A Maha Kumbh Mela Diary
by Saran Suebsantiwongse
Published on April 8, 2025
From an early age, I was captivated by the vibrant religions, languages, art, and culture of India, and attending the Kumbh Mela had always been a wild dream. But this year was different—it wasn’t just any Kumbh; it was supposedly the Pūrṇakumbh, a once-in-144-year convergence of celestial alignments, making the pilgrimage even more momentous. Now, as a postdoctoral researcher specialising in the material and visual cultures of South and Southeast Asia under the PURANA Project at Leiden University, I had the perfect reason to witness the world’s largest religious gathering—this time, at Prayagraj.
Yet, experiencing the Kumbh Mela is no simple feat. With millions of pilgrims flocking to the Triveṇī Saṅgam, accommodations were scarce. I reached out to ashrams, friends, and contacts, but by the time I committed to the journey, every place was booked solid. Determined not to miss the Śāhi Snān on Mauni Amāvasyā on January 29, I explored tented camps—only to find that the luxurious options were far beyond my researcher’s budget.
Just when it seemed impossible, I secured an Airbnb a few kilometres from the Saṅgam—a modest yet practical base that allowed me to fully immerse myself in this extraordinary event. Little did I know that this journey would be far more than just a research trip; it would be an experience of a lifetime.
The Astrological Significance
While the term kumbh appears in some Purāṇas, none explicitly links it to a festival. The Vāyupurāṇa (II.15.47) describes ‘Kumbh’ as a sacred site for performing śrāddha (ancestral rites), while the Nāradīyapurāṇa (II.65.100) describes the now-lost Sarasvatī River as a place where a ritual bath was believed to grant the same merit as a yajña (fire sacrifice).
At Prayagraj, Nashik, and Ujjain, the so-called Kumbha-yoga—a planetary alignment said to determine the festival’s timing—is, in fact, unconnected to any celestial body being in Kumbha Rāśi (Aquarius). Interestingly, the term ‘Kumbh Mela’ was historically exclusive to Haridwar. The gatherings at Nashik and Ujjain have traditionally been known as Siṃhastha, as they occur when Jupiter is in Siṃha Rāśi (Leo). There is no reference in classical astronomical or astrological texts to a Kumbha-yoga governing these celebrations.
It appears that the festival’s original name, Kumbha-parva, was tied to a specific celestial configuration—when Jupiter entered Aquarius and the Sun transitioned into Aries—an event explicitly mentioned in the Nāradīyapurāṇa (II.66.44) and Bhaviṣyapurāṇa (III.iv.7.37-38). These texts highlight Haridwar as the sacred bathing site during this conjunction, suggesting that the Mela was initially observed there and named ‘Kumbh’ due to Jupiter’s presence in Aquarius. Over time, however, this term came to be associated with similar pilgrimages across India, forming the grand tradition of the Kumbh Mela as we know it today.
What made the upcoming Maha Kumbh at Prayagraj particularly special? It again all comes down to the movement of the planets. In 2025, Jupiter will be in Aries (Meṣa Rāśi), a sign of new beginnings and transformation, while the Sun will be in Capricorn (Makara Rāśi), representing discipline, devotion, and purification. The Moon will join the Sun during Amāvasyā (New Moon) in Capricorn, creating an incredibly potent energetic shift. This marks Mauni Amāvasyā, one of the main Śāhi Snān (royal bathing) days, along with Pauṣa Pūrṇimā, Makara Saṅkrānti, Vasant Pañcamī and Mahāśivarātri.
Some believe that this year marks a rare astrological alignment, which happens only once every 144 years, making the 2025 Maha Kumbh a once-in-a-lifetime experience. However, others argue that the 144-year cycle was completed in 2013, and this claim is merely a publicity strategy to attract larger crowds.
Regardless of these debates, legend has it that during this unique planetary convergence, the waters of the Triveṇī Saṅgam—the sacred confluence of the Gaṅgā, Yamunā, and the mystical Sarasvatī—become infused with divine energy. Taking a dip at this auspicious moment is believed to cleanse the soul, dissolve past burdens, and infuse life with spiritual renewal. Whether one approaches it from a mythological, astrological, or spiritual perspective, the 2025 Maha Kumbh promises to be a moment of profound significance, drawing millions in search of enlightenment, liberation, and divine blessings.
January 27
I was lucky enough to secure one of the last seats on a direct flight from Delhi to Prayagraj. The flight was full, with half the passengers being Westerners equipped with fancy cameras and gadgets. Even an hour before the official boarding time, the line had already snaked around the desk, filled with nervous and overly enthusiastic travellers.
The flight took off on time and landed smoothly at Prayagraj airport 45 minutes later. The airport was tiny, and as expected, I was immediately swarmed by auto and taxi drivers trying to charge exorbitant fares to town. However, I was fully prepared and, with a quick tap on my phone, ordered an Uber. I thought I had outsmarted the other passengers, but I ended up waiting for over an hour as drivers after drivers accepted and then cancelled my requests. Later, I learned that these cab drivers were the same ones greeting passengers at the airport. They would accept Uber requests but cancel them if they found a passenger willing to pay in cash, allowing them to avoid app commissions and earn more.
Eventually, I secured a ride, and 30 minutes later, I arrived at my hotel in the Georgetown district of Prayagraj. I was welcomed by Śiva, the host, who runs a tuition centre with guest rooms on the upper floors and a rooftop that caught a nice, gentle breeze.
In the early evening, I joined a long procession of pilgrims from all over India, making our way toward the Parade Ground, where the main event and other official sites were located. My goal was to visit the tourist centre to get my bearings and locate the akhāṛās I wanted to see, as well as the Nāga Sādhus.
To my surprise, the area (Sectors 1 and 2) was bustling with activity—not just with pilgrims but also with a massive media and press centre, an exhibition hall, and a variety of food outlets, including cafés and even pizza joints! Though I didn’t manage to obtain all the information I was looking for, I gathered that the Kumbh was divided into three main areas: the main site, where the information centre was located; the western Arail Ghat (Sectors 24 & 25), home to luxurious tented accommodations and international ashrams, where many Western devotees stayed; and the tented city on the Jhusi side, where major akhāṛās from across India were based. A fellow pilgrim tipped me off that the Nāga Sādhus were staying in Sectors 19 and 20 on the Jhusi side, situated east of the Triveṇī Saṅgam.
After that, I wandered into a small shopping area—a Mela in itself—featuring products from across India, from pickles to hair oil and from kurta pyjamas to woollen suits manufactured by local communities. I was surprised to see high-quality products at affordable prices and purchased a rare goat-fur shawl from Gujarat. The shopkeeper told me that the government provided the accommodation for free and did not charge any rent to help promote their products.
I returned to the hotel early to study the map and plan the next day’s itinerary. Śiva advised me to start early, as a minister was scheduled to visit, and all roads leading to the Saṅgam would be closed. He offered to arrange for one of his students to pick me up on a motorcycle at 3 AM and show me around the akhāṛās, which I gladly accepted.
Although I had studied the Kumbh Mela site map religiously before my trip, I still had no idea which areas, ghats or akhāṛās to visit first. Like most Kumbh tourists, my priority was to see the Nāga Sādhus, but I had no clue where exactly they were in the sprawling tented city. I hoped that the student Śiva arranged would be able to guide me to them.
January 28
I woke up hours before the Brahma Muhūrta. The streets were quiet, with only a few pilgrims walking toward the Saṅgam. However, the motorcycle and driver I had arranged for were nowhere to be found at 3 AM. Not wanting to waste time, I checked Google Maps and realised that Jhusi was several kilometres away—it would take about an hour and a half to walk there.
Determined to reach Jhusi faster, I hailed a random motorcycle. The driver initially demanded 2,000 rupees, but after some haggling, we settled on 1,000. However, when we reached the platoon bridge, it was closed, and every shortcut we attempted was blocked. Frustrated but undeterred, the driver led me on foot to the main bridge where vehicles crossed, only to find it closed as well. The crowd was growing, and movement seemed impossible.
Then, without a word, the driver guided me under a restricted area, climbing under barbed wires, jumping over puddles and eventually dropping me off beneath the bridge. I noticed a small group of young men ahead, along with a Baba wearing a real human kapāla around his neck. Without hesitation, I followed them down a narrow path, keeping close to the Baba as his swinging skull cup nearly hit me a few times. At the foot of the bridge, we reached a fence just a few meters away from the police barricade. One by one, we climbed over—first the Baba, then me—until, at last, we made it onto the bridge and walked across to Jhusi.
Upon arriving, I found myself first in the Vaiṣṇava sector (Sector 5). I was flabbergasted—it felt like an arcade in a cosmic shopping mall of ashrams, where one could shop for spiritual needs at leisure. Bhajans blasted on loudspeakers, gurus stood proudly on display, and liberation was just a mantra away. After slowly gaining my bearings, I meandered south towards Sector 19. Along the way, I passed the Śṛṅgerī Pīṭha camp—the seat of the Śaṅkaracārya from Karnataka, which I was familiar with from my PhD research on Vijayanagara. It was still dawn, and I had a rare opportunity for an intimate darśan of Candramaulīśvara and other deities with full regalia brought directly from the Maṭha. Normally, at Śṛṅgerī, one would only catch a distant glimpse due to the large crowds, so this was a truly special moment. After completing a round of japa, I resumed my quest to seek out the Nāga Sādhus.
Before reaching them, I passed another familiar ashram—the Ramakrishna Mission, founded by Ramakrishna Paramahamsa and spread globally by Swami Vivekananda. The makeshift ashram’s architecture, with its dome reminiscent of its headquarters, the Belur Maṭha in Kolkata, was unmistakable. Stepping inside for a brief darśan, I unexpectedly ran into T.S. Mohan, a longtime friend from Bangalore I had met more than two decades ago during the Kailāsa-Mānasarovara Yātrā. It felt like destiny—reuniting on yet another pilgrimage. Mohan was waiting to check in, so we made plans to meet later in the afternoon.
Arriving at Sector 19, I found the small, scattered camps of Nāga Sādhus, starkly contrasting with the imposing, gilded façades of the well-established akhāṛās. Some sādhus were completely naked, others half-clad, most sitting around their dhūnis (sacred fires), attended by Indian devotees. A few sādhus playfully struck me on the head with peacock feathers as a blessing, while others demanded money. Speaking Hindi often led people to assume I was from Northeast India, which made things easier. I had expected the Nāga Sādhu camps to be as exotic as a National Geographic documentary, but the reality was much more ordinary.
I continued weaving through Sectors 19 and 20, visiting different akhāṛās. Most were still quiet in the early hours, but I noticed local volunteers diligently sweeping the streets, keeping them surprisingly clean—challenging the usual perception of urban India.
By the afternoon, the crowds thickened as pilgrims gathered for the upcoming Mauni Amāvasyā Snān. Many of them seemed to be from villages; they walked in a line, tying themselves to a rope like schoolchildren. I retreated to the Ramakrishna camp to plan the next day’s ritual bath with Mohan. He suggested I stay at his camp since the monks had arranged for a private bathing session at the Triveṇī Saṅgam at 4 AM.
That evening, I returned to the Śṛṅgerī Pīṭha for the Candramaulīśvara Pūjā. Sitting in the front row, I had the privilege of witnessing the abhiṣeka and other upacāras performed by Śrī Vidhuśekhara, the young pontiff recently ordained by Śrī Bhāratī Tīrtha, the senior Śaṅkarācārya amidst the chanting of Śrīrudram, Śrīsūkta, Durgāsūkta and Śānti Pañcaka. Back in Karnataka, such an experience would have been nearly impossible due to the overwhelming crowds.
Returning to the Ramakrishna Mission, I realised that unregistered guests were not allowed to stay, and every available sleeping spot was already taken. With the massive crowd preventing me from crossing back to the other side, I had little choice but to hide inside the main temple. Finding a spot among the volunteers, I lay on a bed of hay and wrapped myself tightly from head to toe in a blanket as the temperature dropped to 5°C.
January 29
At 3 AM, the sounds of excited devotees stirred me from sleep. A procession was forming, led by monks en route to another akhāṛā. Mohan, his wife Vidyā, and I joined in, but the monks walked so fast that at times we had to run to keep up. The crowd surged in all directions, and at a major intersection, chaos struck—a stampede had just occurred. Police intervened, cutting our group in half. The monks ahead were unaware, leaving behind a group of elderly Bengali devotees, along with us. Panic spread.
By the time we crossed the intersection, we had lost the monks entirely. Realising there was no way to rejoin them, Mohan, Vidyā, and I decided to make our own way to the river. At that point, we abandoned the idea of bathing at the precise Triveṇī Saṅgam —anywhere in the river would suffice, as long as we took our dip at the auspicious muhūrta, which would begin around 5 AM.
We reached the riverbank at 4 AM, but Vidyā, overwhelmed by the ordeal, refused to wait for the muhūrta and insisted on bathing immediately. We found a safe spot to leave our belongings while she changed. I noticed local boatmen using their boats to slow the river’s current, making it easier for pilgrims to bathe. Volunteers patrolled the area, warning people not to venture too far despite the floating barriers in place.
After assisting Mohan and Vidyā, taking turns holding their belongings while they bathed, I chose to wait. I wanted to observe the crowd, and their rituals and to also take my bath according to the tradition, which I had researched before coming.
The tradition dictates that one must submerge in the river five times, facing different directions. First and second dips should be done while facing East to obtain blessings from the Sun. Then one should dip facing North, paying homage to Lord Śiva and the Saptaṛṣīs. The third should be done facing West, honouring semi-divine beings such as yakṣas, kinnaras and so on, and the last should be done, facing South, offering arghya to the ancestors.
I have also observed pilgrims first offering prayers to the river, placing small banana-leaf baskets filled with flowers, kuṁkum, a lamp, and incense upon the water before stepping in. Some tossed a coin into the river—a dakṣiṇa or offering to Mother Gaṅgā—before receiving her blessing.
Additionally, each of the Śāhi Snān days also has its own designated muhūrta for bathing. For Mauni Amāvasyā in 2025, the first bath, the Brahma Muhūrta bath, takes place from 5:24 to 6:18 AM. This is followed by Lābha Kāla, believed to bring prosperity, from 7:11 to 8:32 AM. The most auspicious time, Amṛta Kāla, occurs from 8:32 to 9:53 AM. Determined to partake in all three kālas, I waited on the riverbank and took two more dips at the designated times.
Standing there, witnessing this sacred moment unfold, I prepared myself for my own immersion into the waters of the Gaṅgā, first at the auspicious hour of Brahma Muhūrta. After paying homage to Sūrya by offering arghya, I dipped into the river, which was ice-cold that I wasn’t able to dip five times in different directions and I jumped out of the river after the third dip. I waited around for another hour or so then took the Amṛta Kāla Snān.
Having completed the ritual baths, I proceeded to the Kāñcī Kāmakoṭi Maṭha camp of the Śaṅkarācārya of Kanchipuram. There, Mohan and his wife were preparing for their pitṛkarma, while I attended the Subrahmaṇya Homa. As Mauni Amāvasyā coincided with Thai Amāvasyā in the Tamil calendar, it was considered an especially auspicious day to worship Lord Subrahmaṇya (Skanda).
After their pūjā, Mohan mentioned that the monks of the Ramakrishna Mission had not taken their ritual bath during the Brahma Muhūrta either, due to a dispute over which akhāṛā would go first. As a result, they ended up taking the dip at 8 AM instead of the traditional 5 AM.
I later learned that such disputes are a recurring issue at nearly every Kumbh Mela. Apparently, there is an unspoken and rather ambiguous set of conventions governing the order in which the akhāṛās proceed for their ablutions. This often leads to disagreements among some of the largest, most politically influential akhāṛās.
Similarly, I noticed later in the evening via the news that the four Śaṅkarācāryas also performed their joint ablution much later than originally scheduled—presumably due to a stampede that had occurred earlier in the day.
After taking the prasāda, I bid farewell to Mohan and Vidyā and set off on another adventure—finding my way back across the river. I retraced my steps to the road bridge, as all the platoon bridges remained closed. The bridge, though shut to vehicular traffic, was teeming with an extraordinary exodus of pilgrims moving in both directions. After finally making it to the main bank, I hailed another motorcycle rider and asked him to drop me at my hotel.
January 30
The morning was spent packing up my belongings, ensuring that everything was in order before my departure. With my bags ready, I set out for one final visit to the city—the Prayagraj Museum, a place that remains one of India’s best-kept secrets. Despite being relatively lesser-known compared to major museums in cities like Delhi and Mumbai, it houses an extraordinary collection, particularly of Gupta-period sculptures. The collection is striking in its breadth, featuring exquisite carvings from both Hindu and Buddhist traditions, offering a glimpse into the artistic and religious syncretism of the era.
Apart from its impressive sculptural collection, the museum also has a significant historical dimension, as Prayagraj is the birthplace of Jawaharlal Nehru, India’s first prime minister. As a result, the museum houses a dedicated section displaying Nehru’s personal belongings, letters, photographs, and memorabilia, providing insight into his life and legacy. Among the exhibits were also paintings, including illustrated manuscript folios, which captured my attention. These delicate, finely painted manuscripts revealed the depth of India’s artistic heritage, bringing to life narratives from religious epics and historical chronicles. I spent a considerable amount of time admiring the intricate details, marvelling at the precision of the miniature artists who had once brought these stories to visual form.
By this point in my journey, I had figured out the most efficient way to navigate Prayagraj during the Kumbh Mela—using motorcycle taxis. The streets were still flooded with pilgrims, sādhus, and visitors, but with a bit of luck, I managed to hail a motorcycle taxi and made my way swiftly to the airport. Even with the unpredictability of festival traffic, I arrived at the airport with ample time to spare before my flight.
The return flight to Delhi was completely packed, unsurprising given the sheer number of visitors who had come for the Mela. Fortunately, the flight departed on time, and I landed in Delhi in the late afternoon, leaving behind the intensity of Prayagraj and the Kumbh, but carrying with me an unforgettable experience.
What I Learned from the Kumbh Mela
Despite the stampede, which was unsurprisingly blamed on the organizers and the government, I must say that the overall organization of the Mela exceeded my expectations. Having visited numerous pilgrimage centres across India, often on the busiest holy days such as Vaikuṇṭha Ekādaśī and Mahāśivarātri, I had anticipated the worst-case scenario—and, unfortunately, the stampede was one of them. Given the sheer volume of devotees, such incidents seemed almost inevitable.
The scale of the crowd, as reported in the news, was immense. I witnessed villagers in tears, separated from their groups, children misplaced, and elderly individuals struggling to navigate the sea of people. Certain areas of the tented city, especially at intersections, were particularly hazardous. Here, streams of people converged from multiple directions, and once at the centre, any movement became almost impossible. The police attempted to manage the flow by closing some lanes, but in doing so, they unknowingly separated people from their groups, leading to panic and distress. Based on my experience, I would strongly advise extra caution at intersections and at bottlenecked lanes leading to the Saṅgam and the riverbanks, where movement becomes unpredictable.
That said, I also witnessed many positive aspects that I had not expected. Street sweepers diligently carried out their work without supervision. Local boatmen played a crucial role in safeguarding the riverbanks, while volunteers assisted pilgrims at key locations. These were clearly locals who knew the city and the river well, working quietly behind the scenes to keep things running smoothly.
Another surprising observation was the absence of beggars and scam artists—a common concern at large religious gatherings. I did not encounter any individuals attempting to lure pilgrims into purchasing unnecessary items or engaging in deceitful practices. This created a more focused and spiritually immersive environment, allowing devotees to participate in the Mela without constant distractions.
While the Kumbh Mela presents inherent risks due to its sheer scale, it remains an extraordinary gathering where faith, tradition, and human resilience come together in a way that is truly unparalleled.
It is no exaggeration to say that the Kumbh Mela is truly the survival of the fittest. To participate in this grand and spiritual event, one must possess not only physical stamina and good health but, above all, an immense amount of courage, faith and devotion. Embarking on the Kumbh journey requires a readiness to endure the harsh conditions, the overwhelming crowds, and the intense spiritual fervour that defines this remarkable festival.
If you truly want to experience the essence of the Kumbh, it is essential not to settle for a bubble-like, unrealistic and isolated luxurious tent reminiscent of the colonial era, far removed from the real atmosphere of the event. These accommodations, while comfortable, create a barrier between you and the raw, authentic experience of the Mela. To truly connect with the spirit of the Kumbh, you must immerse yourself in its heart, alongside the thousands of pilgrims who make the sacred journey. On the main bathing days, when waves of humanity converge at the holy ghats, reaching such isolated spaces becomes nearly impossible. This may explain why I saw very few Westerners on the Jhusi side, in contrast to my flights, where more than half of the passengers were non-Indians.
However, if you seek to truly understand the essence of the Kumbh, you must witness firsthand the devotion of the monks, the solemn rituals of the sādhus, and the unwavering faith of pilgrims who have journeyed from every corner of India and beyond. This is not merely a spectacle to be observed from a safe distance behind a camera lens, but a transformative experience—one that demands courage, patience, and an open heart to embrace the sacred chaos unfolding around you.