Michael Wood on an astonishing Hindu pilgrimage

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The roots of the mela lie far back in Indian civilisation. Though it only reached its present form in the British period, a Chinese visitor in AD 644 describes a huge gathering of half a million pilgrims here on the “Sands of Charity”, which he was told had “gone on since ancient times”. This may well have been the periodic “great synod” that was recorded by the Greek ambassador Megasthenes in 300 BC.

Perhaps earlier still the place is the climax of the sacred circuit defining India in the epic book Mahabharata. This I think tells us something essential about Mother India: from early on it was imagined as a holy land from the Himalayas to Cape Comorin. Indian civilisation had many great achievements in science and mathematics, art and architecture, but its essential bent was, in the broadest sense, religious. ‘Hinduism’ as a concept is a western construct, but religion is the ‘ism’ of India.

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The central ritual in the mela is to bathe in the sacred rivers at the most auspicious time. This is a very ancient idea in Indian culture. The junction of the Ganges and the Jumna was evidently seen as an axis mundi, the place of creation, rather like Delphi to the Greeks, or Cusco to the Incas. On top of that, in later times, many different myths and stories have gathered.

On the second evening of our stay we made our trip down to the Sangam, the junction of the rivers. We walked along with vast crowds: it seemed like all the peoples of India in their incredible diversity. At the river pilgrims stood waist-deep, hands lifted in prayer to the setting sun, rapt in concentration. On the sand, crowds were camped with their bundles, smoke swirling from cooking fires.

Soon we reached the Sangam itself, where the muddy brown current of the Ganges meets the blue of the Jumna. It was a breathtaking scene: the last golden light shimmering on the water; the boats, the flags, the lamps, the music; streamers of sari cloths drying in the wind – crimson, yellow, gold, green, snapping in the breeze. All around us were excited shouts and bright-eyed women coming out in clinging saris, soaked and shivering, pushing back their glossy, black, dripping hair.

There we took our holy dip, as the Indians say. Around us were poor people who had done long journeys by train and bus, and even on foot, to be there for that auspicious moment. Afterwards a group of Rajasthanis in white turbans held our hands and patted the kids on the head, thanking them for coming.

At moments like this, many thoughts go through your mind. Where will we be when the sacred rivers dry up, when they become seasonal, as the scientists now predict? How true, the ancient perception that these rivers’ glaciers and snow-capped mountains are life-giving presences, which are indeed in a profound sense sacred.

Back in our tent that night, as we mulled it all over, our eight-year-old said this: “The Indian people think that rivers are holy, and maybe it’s true, because millions of people came here to do this, who all believe the same thing that rivers are holy... I also think that maybe they are saying that nature is holy and you have got to look after it. Because if it gets polluted, then all the animals die and the creatures die. So they are saying that, I think.”

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Looking back now on that magical time, though still sombre after recent events, I guess my daughter’s words touch on the point of any great pilgrimage: the shared experiences in such a splendid natural setting, the age-old rituals and stories, the human solidarity. And our aware- ness of our place on this fragile planet.

This article was first published in the March 2025 issue of BBC History Magazine