A Journey Through Poetry and Faith
Rajiv Khandelwal
The Maha Kumbh 2025 was not just an event—it unfolded as a spiritual journey, beginning with chaos and surrender at the parking lot, stretching through struggles and revelations, and culminating in moments of stillness and faith. Held every 12 years at the confluence of the Ganges, Yamuna, and mythical Saraswati, it draws millions seeking purification. This Maha Kumbh would occur after 144 Years
A Journey Through Poetry and Faith
I arrived at the Maha Kumbh to witness a historic spectacle, and found myself swept into a test of endurance, a surrender to the sacred, and a journey toward enlightenment. The Kumbh’s vastness—its unpredictable tides and deep spiritual pull—wove a scenario of chaos and peace that defied expectation.
These six reflective poems mark my pilgrimage through this paradox, mirroring life’s own arc from disorientation to clarity. They explore privilege against hardship, control against release, turbulence against calm—binding the Kumbh’s elusive essence into words. This photo essay beckons you to tread this path, feel its weight, and emerge, like all pilgrims, with a deeper surrender or a glimpse of wisdom.
The journey began at the parking lot, where chaos greeted us like an unyielding wall. Horns blared, heat pressed down, and the weight of our baggage dragged us into a tangle of blocked roads and rerouted paths. Every effort to move forward met resistance—barricades rose unexpectedly, and the privileged roared past, leaving us to navigate a world turned unpredictable. Exhaustion crept in, a heavy shadow over our resolve, until at last we let go, surrendering to the flow of the crowd, I hired a wooden Thela, generally used to transport goods and had my friend, my wife and her friend sit on it with the luggage, while I decided to foot the 6 kilometer journey. Ahead lay a deeper chaos, a sea of humanity waiting to swallow us whole.
Surrender
After our car claimed space
We plodded
At the official parking
Heavy backpacks slung
Towards Sector 26
Past the Arail Ghat
Half a Kilometre in
Our rich life style
Pleaded for Motorcycle taxis
Were euphoric when
At a stiff
A goods carrying wooden Thela
Agreed to transport us
Take-it-or-leave-it figure
Through the stretch
Gagged with VIP vehicles
Where even feet
Laboured to move
Six kilometres stretched endless
As if placed moodily
Barricades loomed randomly
Steered us to
Lower roads
Upper Road
Movement unpredictable
Like the throw of dice
Like paper boats
In chaotic stream
We drifted unknowing
Updating friends on foot
Was non workable
As the traffic commotion
Submerged the mobile’s ring
With no option
We moved
With the confused crowd
Without thought
Without hesitation
The start of the Maha Kumbh visit
Fitted well
Of human life
With the unpredictability
We did
The rickety ride
Handled burdensome baggage
Walked miles in suffocating crowds
Gobbled processed foods
Necessity demanding sacrifices
Without thought to health
We did what circumstances demanded
Relentlessly
We dragged on
A rare run
Echoing birth to death
Crowd Chaos
Fragile Reality
From the parking lot’s turmoil, we plunged into the Maha Kumbh—a boundless surge of humanity, chaotic and overwhelming. Voices clashed in the air—shouts of authority, cries of the lost—blending into a hum that defied understanding. We moved as part of it, small yet swept along, each step a quiet fight against the tide. Then, amidst the crush, a fleeting stillness broke through, a glimpse of something shifting, fragile. In that pause, I wondered: If even this chaos could yield, what else might fade away, unburdening us from what we cling to?
The Chaotic
Random
Unpredictable
Frenzied ‘Maha Kumbh’ crowd
Completely
Surrounded
Us
Us
We were linked
Like atoms
In a molecule
A hidden rhythm held us
Chaos theory
Clearly displayed
Our slow steps moved
Like Kurma
Silent
Steady
Enduring
Beneath the churning sea
The soothing religious Chants
The blaring warnings from the police megaphones
The booming missing persons
The lost and found
The lost and found
Announcements
All together sounded
Like a river swallowing all voices
Yet beneath the turbulence
The impossible occurred
In front of our unbelieving eyes
In that flowing microscopic moment
Suddenly
Mystically
Without a ripple
The crowd dried up
A passageway got created
Very few people walked by
Reality itself
Temporarily changed
Like sand dunes
And then the empty space
Reverted back
That moment
To its original crammed congestion
Inadvertently taught a lesson
For brief moments
Reality
Perceptions
If so,
Can change
Then why hold grudges
Allowing them
To harden into permanent marks
Why not
Let them stick
Like the sacred tika at Sangam's edge
Eventually washed away
For
If reality itself can shift
Six Inches of Space
Then why let resentments cling
To our impermanent self?
Six-Kilometer Journey
Each step was a battle. The six-kilometer journey from our tent to the Ghats took one and a half hours. Every inch of space was fought for; each step gained, a victory. The crowd was a medley of souls—some driven by religious fervor, chanting "Har Har Mahadev" with relentless zeal; others curious, here to witness the spectacle; some guiding relatives from abroad, others simply avoiding being the odd ones out in their social circles. Amid the herd, I glimpsed faces—eyes alight with devotion, brows furrowed in frustration, hands clutching loved ones. Each carried a story, a reason to be here.
As the crowd surged, I felt both overwhelmed and strangely uplifted—a paradox of exhaustion and awe. The chants echoed in my chest, grounding me amidst the chaos. Faith endured. We pressed forward despite the tide, learning that patience was our truest guide. Standing space was scarce, and even waiting demanded resolve, as the human sea pushed and pulled and I wondered and I wondered if patience—or faith—would carry me through.
With sluggish steps
Surrounded
By the swirling throng
We travelled 6 km
In one and a half hours
Each inch gained
A victory in space
Bahadur Shah Zafar
Yearned for six yards of earth
But we rejoiced
When our feet found
Six inches of space
A rare blessing
On the sandy soil
Locating space
Where none existed
We pressed forward
Then stopped
To hire a Kewat
Astonishingly,
The crowd
Humming with restless life
Flowed as one
Bound like water drops
At the confluence point
Some pilgrims proceeded
Chanting prayers
Mantras
Some in pious silence 
All Inching towards sacred waters
Some for the holy dip nearby
Some struggling to reach Triveni point
After an hour
Thick with stillness
Weighted by waiting
We learnt
No boats were available
Tolerantly resigned
We trudged to the VIP Ghat
Another hour’s pause
And finally,
A Mallah stood lured
With Rupee power
To row us
For the holy dip
I returned
Wondering
Through unyielding tides
For most times,
The Maha Kumbh
Of what I had carried
And what I had left behind
That day,
We received raw lessons
On patience,
On pressing forward
And in the power of belief
For most times,
Even we do not know
What our mind and body
Can endure
Can achieve
The Maha Kumbh
Unveiled insights
Unlocking
No self-help text could teach
Only patient footsteps reveal
Boat Ride and Holy Dip
Shoes soaked, we stepped onto a boat and trudged through several decks to reach our hired vessel. The Kewat pushed off, undeterred by the chaos of colliding boats, their hulls scraping like discordant notes. Yet he rowed with steady hands, guiding us through the tangle. Midway in the river, Siberian gulls glided above, their wings slicing through the cool morning air. We fed them salty namkeen bought from passing boats, their calls merging with the splash of oars and the river’s earthy scent.
Then, Triveni. The first dip. A sudden calm. It washed over more than the skin—the water, the atmosphere, seemed to sink deeper, into my mind, into my bones. As I surfaced, the river whispered an age-old lesson: No matter the problems, the turbulence, stay composed. Life, like this current, will carry you where you are meant to go. As I stood dripping on the boat, the gulls circling above, I wondered: Could I carry this calm beyond the river’s edge?
To climb the deck
Of our designated boat
Our canvas sneakers
Had to drown themselves
In the Ganges water
Then heavy with water
They trudged
Across decks
To the foot well
The Kewat
Parted
Shoved
The boats
Till we cleared the ghat
The ride to Triveni point
Was alive with chaos
A boat nearly struck us
We screamed with dread
But the Kewat stayed unfazed
Boats bumping all the way
A flock of Siberian seagulls
Glided gracefully
Across us
Dived near us
A balm to the chaos
Their low piercing keow
Cow-cow-cow
Blending with the oar’s splash
Then we reached
Triveni Point
The holy dip
Was profoundly peaceful
With a never felt
Inner calm
We felt the river’s pull
What the Kewat taught us:
No matter the challenges
Be unperturbed
Undismayed
Be calm
Composed
For life will carry you
Where you are meant to go
Tea Stall Interaction
We all carry burdens—some physical, some spiritual, some both. Sweat stung my eyes as the heavy water cans pressed into my palms, their weight a constant reminder of the journey’s toll. We stopped at a tea stall for a much-needed rest and ordered five cups of coffee. After a long delay, the shopkeeper apologized—the milk had soured, rendering the coffee undrinkable. He tried again, but the second batch spoiled too. Embarrassed, he suggested tea, suspecting the coffee powder was faulty. We obliged, the scent of brewing tea a brief solace.
When it came time to pay, I offered to cover the cost of the ten wasted coffee cups. His eyes, lined with years of labor, met mine as he spoke, his voice steady with conviction: "If I take your money now, I will owe it in my next life. A burden I must not carry." In that moment, my purse felt hollow—meaningless against a belief so profound. I realized then: Wealth is not just in currency, but in faith, in the refusal to carry burdens beyond this life.
Refusal
Pampered hands,
Rarely lifting more
Than red rose bouquets
Groaned
On carrying two cans
Of sacred water
Heavy for kilometers
As the journey stretched
The plastic handles
Knifed into soft flesh
The Palm
Bargaining for relief
Would insist on switching the Jerry cans
With dissolving moments
With privilege
Clashing with hardship
Spine and knees
Muttered dissent
Muttered dissent
Under the pressure
Of a bursting snack-shoved backpack
Burdened with soggy shoes and clothes
We stopped at a stall
Five coffees ordered
To bribe our aching bones
Fifteen minutes passed
Bad milk
Coffee tossed
The shopkeeper apologized
Promised fresh
The wait stretched 
Another batch soured too
Another batch soured too
“Two hundred rupees lost”
He mourned
But waved off my money
“My karma,” he said.
“If I
Take your money now,
I will owe it in next life
A burden I must not carry”
My lavish life
Felt trivial beside his faith
My brimming Purse
Stood humbled
The giving
Refused
Brahma Muhurta
The alarm rang at Brahma Muhurta, the tent glowing under yellow lights, casting a warm cocoon against the pre-dawn chill. We stepped out, the cool dawn air brushing my skin, and saw the opposite shore shimmering silver. The flags of distant nations swayed gently in the breeze, their rhythm a quiet hymn to the silence. After days of chaos, my breath slowed, and for the first time, I felt the weight lift. There was a sort of stillness. Silence. Oneness.
In that moment, I understood: Maha Kumbh was not just about the journey or the struggle. It was about this—absolute communion with something larger than the self, a silence that spoke louder than words.
That Dawn
Alarm stirred us
We tucked away sleep
Rose reluctantly
At Brahma Muhurta 
Yellow string lights
Skirted our tent
Piercing black night
The opposite shore’s silver dazzle
Rippled the dark waters
Wandering
By the Ganges’ edge
Absorbing the atmosphere
We sat in the lotus position
Eyes closed
Where flags of nations swayed in dawn’s breath
Sparked
By the faint sounds of mantras
Wafting in
Wind’s nip and silence
Wove an inner calm
Peace descended
Engulfing me
Like dense fog
Never felt such emotional communion
As
In that Maha Kumbh dawn
Reflections
The Maha Kumbh of 2025 was more than a sacred spectacle—it mirrored life itself. We arrived as strangers, were swept into unpredictable currents, wrestled with exhaustion and obstacles, surrendered to forces beyond us.
Yet, amid the chaos, unshakeable faith guided our group through struggles, quiet acts of grace, and a sacred dip, leading us to a stillness untouched by turmoil—not through conquest, but through surrender and acceptance.
These poems bear witness to that truth. May all pilgrims, drawn by Kumbh’s call or life’s trials, find their dawn of communion, trusting as I did:
"For life will carry you / Where you are meant to go."
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