Though the occasional helicopter suggested otherwise, there was only one way to make it into the official Kumbh Mela grounds from central Prayagraj: on the back of a two-wheeler, India’s official mode of transport. And so off we weaved, inches from rickshaws, cows, horse carts piled with families, futile traffic cops and, already, more people than I had ever seen. These motorbike “taxis”, I came to learn, were an almost spontaneous industry born from the influx – 660 million visitors by final estimates; the largest gathering of humans in history.
Once we’d crossed the old Yamuna bridge, there was no great entrance to the vast pilgrimage site. Instead, very busy roads gave way to very busy temporary roads, wheeled traffic lost ground to foot traffic, and solid structures became tents and makeshift compounds. As journeys go, I’ll never take a more exhilarating one.
Once we’d crossed the old Yamuna bridge, there was no great entrance to the vast pilgrimage site. Instead, very busy roads gave way to very busy temporary roads, wheeled traffic lost ground to foot traffic, and solid structures became tents and makeshift compounds. As journeys go, I’ll never take a more exhilarating one.
Sadhus at Kumbh Mela
In a few months, these northern Indian floodplains would be underwater; for now they were the pop-up 76th district of Uttar Pradesh, a head-spinning infrastructural feat complete with tax offices, courts, jails, phone masts, 30 river-spanning pontoon bridges, and at least one Domino’s. To put the visitor numbers in context, it’s not far off twice the population of the US passing through an area three times the size of Heathrow airport in the space of 45 days.
A dip in the hallowed bathing spot, the Triveni Sangam, where the Ganges, the Yamuna and the mythical Sarasvati rivers meet, is a sacred Hindu ritual for cleansing one’s sins. It’s where Mahatma Gandhi’s ashes were immersed. Maha Kumbh is marked every 12 years, with pilgrims coming from far and wide to celebrate the holy rivers – and this year boasted another significant draw: a rare lunar alignment not seen for 144 years.
In a few months, these northern Indian floodplains would be underwater; for now they were the pop-up 76th district of Uttar Pradesh, a head-spinning infrastructural feat complete with tax offices, courts, jails, phone masts, 30 river-spanning pontoon bridges, and at least one Domino’s. To put the visitor numbers in context, it’s not far off twice the population of the US passing through an area three times the size of Heathrow airport in the space of 45 days.
A dip in the hallowed bathing spot, the Triveni Sangam, where the Ganges, the Yamuna and the mythical Sarasvati rivers meet, is a sacred Hindu ritual for cleansing one’s sins. It’s where Mahatma Gandhi’s ashes were immersed. Maha Kumbh is marked every 12 years, with pilgrims coming from far and wide to celebrate the holy rivers – and this year boasted another significant draw: a rare lunar alignment not seen for 144 years.
Dusk rituals at Kumbh Mela
For 24 hours, I tried to soak up as much of it as I could, getting up close to the fire and smoke of the Ganga Aarti river-blessing ceremony, witnessing a few quiet moonlit dips from the frog-dotted riverbanks, taking a morning boat ride past the Allahabad fort to the confluence, obliging a few selfie requests as the out-of-place westerner, and politely avoiding the attentions of a snake-toting mystic. Then, I was gone. And soon, any trace at all of the world’s biggest gathering would be gone, too.
The green lawns of the University of Allahabad whizzed by as I began the journey to Lucknow, still trying to distill that most dizzying of arrivals. As well as being Uttar Pradesh’s seat of governance – and the birthplace of Cliff Richard – Lucknow is a place of prose, of poetry, of music, where locals are notably easygoing, loquacious and well-mannered. It's by no means sedate but it felt like a welcome respite.
By way of introduction, my guide, Ajay Jain, told a joke about two Lucknowites attempting to board a train. “After you,” the first one offers. “No, after you,” the second replies, and this gracious back and forth goes on until they both miss the train. “Here, we even quarrel in a sophisticated manner,” Jain said.
For 24 hours, I tried to soak up as much of it as I could, getting up close to the fire and smoke of the Ganga Aarti river-blessing ceremony, witnessing a few quiet moonlit dips from the frog-dotted riverbanks, taking a morning boat ride past the Allahabad fort to the confluence, obliging a few selfie requests as the out-of-place westerner, and politely avoiding the attentions of a snake-toting mystic. Then, I was gone. And soon, any trace at all of the world’s biggest gathering would be gone, too.
The green lawns of the University of Allahabad whizzed by as I began the journey to Lucknow, still trying to distill that most dizzying of arrivals. As well as being Uttar Pradesh’s seat of governance – and the birthplace of Cliff Richard – Lucknow is a place of prose, of poetry, of music, where locals are notably easygoing, loquacious and well-mannered. It's by no means sedate but it felt like a welcome respite.
By way of introduction, my guide, Ajay Jain, told a joke about two Lucknowites attempting to board a train. “After you,” the first one offers. “No, after you,” the second replies, and this gracious back and forth goes on until they both miss the train. “Here, we even quarrel in a sophisticated manner,” Jain said.
A sadhu at Kumbh Mela
As part of the wider Awadh region, the city has a past shaped by many rulers – the Mughals, the Nawabs and the British (Husainabad Clock Tower, India’s tallest, bears more than a passing resemblance to Big Ben). But it’s the Nawabs who are largely credited with the region’s fused Hindu-Muslim culture (“aadab” is an enduring secular salutation meaning “I greet you wholeheartedly”) and who oversaw construction of one of Lucknow’s most renowned landmarks, the Bara Imambara, a Shia Muslim gathering space famed for its labyrinth with 489 identical doorways. The fish symbols that adorn its towering gate are auspicious in Islam – in Hinduism, too – and Jain explained another local idiom: to “wish you fish and yoghurt” as good luck.
As part of the wider Awadh region, the city has a past shaped by many rulers – the Mughals, the Nawabs and the British (Husainabad Clock Tower, India’s tallest, bears more than a passing resemblance to Big Ben). But it’s the Nawabs who are largely credited with the region’s fused Hindu-Muslim culture (“aadab” is an enduring secular salutation meaning “I greet you wholeheartedly”) and who oversaw construction of one of Lucknow’s most renowned landmarks, the Bara Imambara, a Shia Muslim gathering space famed for its labyrinth with 489 identical doorways. The fish symbols that adorn its towering gate are auspicious in Islam – in Hinduism, too – and Jain explained another local idiom: to “wish you fish and yoghurt” as good luck.
Lucknow’s ruins | Credit: Maroof Culman
Good luck is not something needed to find good food in Lucknow. Follow your nose to its bustling backstreets and among the faded facades and decorous doorways you’ll find countless purveyors of Awadhi cuisine, most notably biryanis and kebabs. Here I met Maroof Culmen, a Lucknow native who has built a cult following on Instagram by showcasing the stories of the city’s artisans, from chefs to Chikankari textile artists. He begins to explain that the unique melt-in-the-mouth qualities of the famed kebabs stem from an ancient god who lost his teeth, but his story is cut short when someone recognises him in the street and gushes: “We’ve come here from Mumbai and we’re heading to all the spots you’ve recommended!”
That evening, Culmen and I were among guests invited to dine at the historic Mahmudabad House by Ali Mahmudabad, academic and cultural guardian of his ancestral home (chronicled by Nobel Prize-winning writer V.S. Naipaul among others). As a welcome, Mahmudabad led us to the rooftop courtyard and introduced us to Zeeshan on the sarangi, a traditional stringed instrument, and Ilyas on tabla drums, who performed a mesmeric and moving Yaman raga – a semi-improvised piece of Indian classical music with ancient roots and a romantic heart – as candles flickered. Back down in the stately dining room, our fellow guest Taiyaba Ali, a chef and food writer, had crafted the 12-course menu of generational Awadhi fare – those melt-in-the-mouth kebabs, slow-cooked saffron chicken, charcoal-fired breads, and much more. For all the flair needed in its cooking, she explained that the highest praise a family could give is “the water and salt are just right”. To see Lucknow is to love it, but to taste its food and hear its music in such a place was to imprint something a little deeper. The water and the salt were just right.
Good luck is not something needed to find good food in Lucknow. Follow your nose to its bustling backstreets and among the faded facades and decorous doorways you’ll find countless purveyors of Awadhi cuisine, most notably biryanis and kebabs. Here I met Maroof Culmen, a Lucknow native who has built a cult following on Instagram by showcasing the stories of the city’s artisans, from chefs to Chikankari textile artists. He begins to explain that the unique melt-in-the-mouth qualities of the famed kebabs stem from an ancient god who lost his teeth, but his story is cut short when someone recognises him in the street and gushes: “We’ve come here from Mumbai and we’re heading to all the spots you’ve recommended!”
That evening, Culmen and I were among guests invited to dine at the historic Mahmudabad House by Ali Mahmudabad, academic and cultural guardian of his ancestral home (chronicled by Nobel Prize-winning writer V.S. Naipaul among others). As a welcome, Mahmudabad led us to the rooftop courtyard and introduced us to Zeeshan on the sarangi, a traditional stringed instrument, and Ilyas on tabla drums, who performed a mesmeric and moving Yaman raga – a semi-improvised piece of Indian classical music with ancient roots and a romantic heart – as candles flickered. Back down in the stately dining room, our fellow guest Taiyaba Ali, a chef and food writer, had crafted the 12-course menu of generational Awadhi fare – those melt-in-the-mouth kebabs, slow-cooked saffron chicken, charcoal-fired breads, and much more. For all the flair needed in its cooking, she explained that the highest praise a family could give is “the water and salt are just right”. To see Lucknow is to love it, but to taste its food and hear its music in such a place was to imprint something a little deeper. The water and the salt were just right.
Inside a fort within the Mahmudabad Estate
Up until this point, days had been full of life and people and noise and traffic and riots of colour but the next day, as I floated down the Girwa river in a small boat through Katarniaghat Wildlife Sanctuary, it was suddenly just quiet and green. Amit Bhangre, a noted naturalist on guide duty for the next few days, pointed out “the last village in India” in the distance; Nepal lay just beyond it. And then, as we rounded a bend, some company.
The gharial is perhaps the most prehistoric beast imaginable. With their narrow, fish-eating snouts and their “legs” that only evolved as far as turtle-like flippers, used to drag themselves on and off land, they make crocodiles look positively modern. We spied dozens and dozens on the opposite bank, slipping into the water in unison. As we edged closer, the strains of the Jurassic Park theme played in my head. The resurgence of this dwindling species here is a testament to the park’s conservation efforts. “If the river’s healthy, so is everything else,” said Bhangre, as a grey-headed fish eagle swooped down for a catch as if to reinforce his point.
Up until this point, days had been full of life and people and noise and traffic and riots of colour but the next day, as I floated down the Girwa river in a small boat through Katarniaghat Wildlife Sanctuary, it was suddenly just quiet and green. Amit Bhangre, a noted naturalist on guide duty for the next few days, pointed out “the last village in India” in the distance; Nepal lay just beyond it. And then, as we rounded a bend, some company.
The gharial is perhaps the most prehistoric beast imaginable. With their narrow, fish-eating snouts and their “legs” that only evolved as far as turtle-like flippers, used to drag themselves on and off land, they make crocodiles look positively modern. We spied dozens and dozens on the opposite bank, slipping into the water in unison. As we edged closer, the strains of the Jurassic Park theme played in my head. The resurgence of this dwindling species here is a testament to the park’s conservation efforts. “If the river’s healthy, so is everything else,” said Bhangre, as a grey-headed fish eagle swooped down for a catch as if to reinforce his point.
On the tail of an Indian rhino, left, and taking in Dudhwa National Park
That evening, I settled into the exquisite Jaagir Manor, Bhangre’s base of operations, and began an immersive couple of days hurtling through the pristine pockets of forest and grasslands that make up Dudhwa National Park. A safari here is a meditative thing; unlike on the abundant plains of Africa, it’s more about patience.
And how it paid off. One early morning, as the sunbeams poked through the trees after a dawn frost, we witnessed a tiger close enough to make eye contact. We inched alongside an Indian rhino and its calf grazing on tall grasses. A pair of rare Indian otters gorged on fish at a watering hole right in front of us, as more sea eagles swooped down for lunch. We glimpsed brightly coloured bee-eaters and handsome hornbills. Grey langurs leapt through the trees above.
That evening, I settled into the exquisite Jaagir Manor, Bhangre’s base of operations, and began an immersive couple of days hurtling through the pristine pockets of forest and grasslands that make up Dudhwa National Park. A safari here is a meditative thing; unlike on the abundant plains of Africa, it’s more about patience.
And how it paid off. One early morning, as the sunbeams poked through the trees after a dawn frost, we witnessed a tiger close enough to make eye contact. We inched alongside an Indian rhino and its calf grazing on tall grasses. A pair of rare Indian otters gorged on fish at a watering hole right in front of us, as more sea eagles swooped down for lunch. We glimpsed brightly coloured bee-eaters and handsome hornbills. Grey langurs leapt through the trees above.
A tiger patrols Dudhwa National Park
This quiet communion with nature made for a fitting finale. My time in Uttar Pradesh had, in essence, been a whole journey of communion – one that doesn't need a once-in-144-year planetary alignment to convince me to do it again.
This quiet communion with nature made for a fitting finale. My time in Uttar Pradesh had, in essence, been a whole journey of communion – one that doesn't need a once-in-144-year planetary alignment to convince me to do it again.
The Lowdown
A 10-day itinerary curated by the Explorations Company starts from £11,150pp, based on two sharing, including flights, private road and air transfers, guided tours and game drives; explorationscompany.com
British Airways flies from London to Delhi; britishairways.com
British Airways flies from London to Delhi; britishairways.com
