By Ashvini Ranjan

The line for taxis at the Prayagraj airport stretched endlessly, filled with weary travellers eager to reach the Kumbha Mela. The distance to the city was a mere fifteen kilometres, yet the taxi fare stood stiff at Rs. 2,500. “No guarantee you will reach Prayagraj, Sir,” cautioned the man at the counter, as if issuing a prophecy of doom. Traffic could be impenetrable. Should that happen, an alternate mode of transport — an e-rickshaw or even a motorbike taxi — might become necessary. Those ahead of us in the queue accepted these terms without protest, either too eager or for want of an alternative.

Our taxi crawled forward, inching through throngs of pilgrims. The cacophony was overwhelming — blaring horns, piercing Police whistles and the frantic shouts of parents clinging tightly to their children. The mist of dust never settled, stirred up by the relentless movement of people and vehicles. The density of the crowd increased with every hundred meters. Then, abruptly, our journey halted as a metal barricade was erected for a VIP procession. Whoever said we are an egalitarian society? The cars passing by had a visible sticker that read ‘District Collector’ — a public servant, in theory.

Yet, its passengers included women, children and a dog, besides an opulent-looking gentleman who was, presumably, the Collector himself. We, the supposed masters of democracy, were required to scurry aside to make way for our servant to pass. Soon, other ranks of the establishment followed with sirens blaring and escort cars in tow. It was a spectacle of entitlement, a feudal charade in               modern disguise.

Three hours had passed since we left the airport and we were still at least five kilometres from our camp, a daunting distance under the scorching sun. The dry, dust-laden air made walking seem like an act of self-punishment. Lost in a mass of humanity, we found ourselves adrift, moving with the tide of pilgrims, momentarily without a plan. Announcements from loudspeakers added to the chaos, listing the names of those separated from their families and instructing them to designated reunion points. My grip on my wife’s hand tightened. Losing each other in this sea of devotion was an unfathomable thought.

A motorbike taxi rider sensed our distress and offered to take both of us. The very idea of two septuagenarians balancing precariously on a single motorbike was absurd. Sensing he might lose a customer, he made a quick phone call and another bike magically emerged from an alleyway. It took all my skills of persuasion to convince my wife to mount the motorbike. Once seated, she held onto the rider as if her life depended on it. I dared not negotiate the fare — our priority was survival, reaching our destination and not thrift. The ride itself was unforgettable.

The motorbike weaved through the dense throng like a circus performer on a tightrope. The rider kept his horn pressed, in addition to shouting for people to make way. My wife’s bike soon disappeared into the crowd, swallowed by the sea of humanity. My heart pounded with anxiety and a barrage of irrational questions — was she still on the bike? Was she safe?

Unlike us, privileged travellers who had flown into Prayagraj and could afford taxis or bikes, millions of others had walked for miles from distant towns and villages. Probably for days. Old and young, men and women, some even in wheelchairs pushed by loved ones, journeyed tirelessly. As night fell, they found shelter wherever they could, ate what they could afford, or relied on free kitchens set up along the way. Their conviction was unwavering — one sacred dip in the confluence of the Ganga and Yamuna would cleanse them of sins, paving their way to heaven or at least a better life. The marked contrast on the faces of those making their journey back after the Holy Dip in the sacred waters was evident. Their foreheads were smeared with saffron and vermilion paste. With their mission accomplished, there was joy and vigour in their movement.  More than all, there was a sense of spiritual fulfilment.

And me? I had come seeking an experience, not salvation. I had every material comfort, yet the joy that lit up the faces of these pilgrims remained elusive. Over two days on the ghats and streets of Prayagraj, I witnessed the rawest facets of human nature. An elderly woman, exhausted from her journey and the relentless sun, pleaded for water. Many passed her by, indifferent. When I handed her my bottle of water, she didn’t just thank me — she blessed me. And in that moment, I realised something profound.

Perhaps the true pilgrimage wasn’t just about reaching the Holy waters. Perhaps it was about moments like these — where faith met kindness, where devotion transcended privilege. I had come as an observer, but they had come as believers. And for the first time, I wondered — who among us had truly found what we were looking for?