By the time we reached the Akhada site we wanted to go to, the sun had dipped low and a soft haze settled over the banks of the river. What greeted us was not a chaotic congregation, but a surreal calm—almost sacred in its stillness.
The Akhadas, home to various sects of sadhus and ascetics, felt like another world within the Kumbh. We wandered the Akhada and were invited in like old friends. There was no pressure, no formality. Just openness. The sadhus welcomed us with warm smiles, cups of sweet, earthy tea, and in many places, a small offering of chillum or water. No one insisted. It was always a choice, never an expectation. Some of the sadhus were quiet and contemplative. Others, unexpectedly perceptive. One of them, with a faraway gaze, answered a question my friend and I had been discussing earlier that day—without us ever having spoken it aloud. Another asked about our third friend—the one who’d turned back earlier. It wasn’t eerie. It felt… natural. Like we were meant to be there, just then.
Time passed in an unhurried flow. Drums began to beat faintly in the distance—a rhythmic pulse that echoed through that Akhada lanes. We could sense rituals unfolding nearby, sacred rites hidden from the public eye mostly. It was, after all, an auspicious night. The following dawn would see the revered sadhus take their holy dip in the Ganges. Many hours passed, the outer areas of the Akhadas started filling up again—spectators, pilgrims, devotees, all hoping to catch a glimpse of the upcoming shahi snan (royal bath) procession.
Some Akhadas began quietly closing their gates to outsiders. A few sadhus entered maunvrat—a vow of silence. The mood shifted. Something sacred and personal was about to unfold, and we understood it was time to step back. We received a call from a friend working at one of the media booths. “Come join us,” they said. “Best view of the chariots tomorrow morning.” We said we would join them later. But we were done. Not in a weary way, but in a fulfilled one. We had seen enough. Felt enough. Pushed our limits enough.
As we made our way back, the road leading into the mela was now impassable. It was packed shoulder-to-shoulder, pilgrims settling in for the night or finding a place to witness the next day’s holy procession. Our decision felt right. We were ready to return. By some stroke of luck—and a bit of hustle—we found a ride. Even then, it took us three hours, multiple police checkpoints, and long walks through sealed areas to make it close to our camp.
On the way, we stumbled across a Domino’s Pizza that was still open. That meal was oddly perfect. Just us, a quiet space, and a few staff members winding down their shift. After a day of sacred smoke, divine tea, and spiritual curiosity, a cheese pizza grounded us back to earth. And we were close to our tented camp once again. That night, as the freezing winds swept over the Yamuna and millions slept under open skies, we lay in our comfortable tents, grateful—not just for what we had seen, but for what we had felt.
To be continued in Part 3...
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