On the pontoons at sunrise, an officer sweeps his arm toward the water.Man bathes in the Ganges betweenba series of temporary bridges
The Kumbh Mela occurs every twelve years at the Indian city of Allahabad. During this event, millions of Hindus from all around the world converge at the confluence of three holy rivers: the Ganga, the Yamuna, and the mystical Saraswati. Here a temporary city is built on the dry river bed to accommodate the religious pilgrims, Sadhus and Swamis.
A great lamp of fire swings out over the water at night.Sadhu meditates in his tent while offering blessings to passerby’s
At dusk, loads carried on heads across the pontoon bridge.Thousands of Naga sadhus rush to the water on Shahi Snan, one of the holiest days in Hinduism. Covered in ash to honor the dead, they cleanse themselves in a celebration of life and rebirth.
Chalk lines and a trident painted across the elephant's brow.Sadhu’s bound in decorative rope march through the mela center.
Small lamps drift through the river's dark reflections.A flower perched on the spare tire of a tuk tuk: a romance bathed in joyous yellow.
Paper boats float among the marigold petals at the foot of the steps.A basket of paper boats filled with Pooja offerings to be sent down the river
A banner snaps in the wind above a sandbank of tents and boats.People travel along the dirt roads lined with steel plates
A shrine of marigolds, glowing in the half dark.Three women bathe in the Ganges. A man carries life jackets along the barrier. Another tosses seed to the birds. Here at the rivers edge life gives and it receives. It preserves and purifies.
A man sweeps the dust along a fence painted with crowds, the light going pink.A lone white horse and its rider cross the temporary bridge towards Sangam
A puppy pauses its digging to look straight back.The streets of Prayagraj, thick with people on their way to the river.
Bridges span from Sangam to the Mela center
A mooring post in the sand, the pontoon bridge alive with light behind it.The sun rises weak through the haze as the tent city stirs, a hose coiled on the sand.
Woman prays to Mother Ganga
A tuk tuk crammed full with passengersGarlands of marigolds in a red tent, ready for the morning's offerings.
A maze of sarees and clothes dry in the sun
A pavilion glows on the camp's hazy horizon.Two sadhu’s (Hindu sages/priests) converse while a man stirs a giant kettle of milk representing the Samudra Manthan, an auspicious ocean of milk from Vedic mythology. This scene, peppered with religious symbolism, was one of countless others within the grand theater of the Mela. Every street, a cast of characters with stories and wisdom to share. But this was far more than pageantry. This was a reflection of the dense and diverse Hindu culture. This was a glimpse into millennia. These were the most
A floodlit stage tent, the seated crowd washed in red.An intricate array of lights marks the entrance to the central Mela.
Night falls and the tent city becomes a sea of light.The back of a truck doubles as a bed and laundry room.
A tower of lights floats in the fog above a small shrine.Women gather along the shore of the Ganges to give puja offerings
A gate outlined in neon, a lone figure standing before it.Pink neon and red tassels frame a gate in the night.
An elephant named Lakshmi collects money from bystanders with her trunk. She stepped forward, tilted her head and looked intently into the camera. When I placed my hand on her head she bowed and stepped back. She chose to encounter me.
Figures rest on the floodlit sand through the night.Family rests in a SUV
Small flames glow through the gap in a canvas tent.A novice monk runs through his ashram. Chants and chai, the simplest of amenities, the shelter of kind hearts. Home, for now.
Painted gods under shifting colored light.Illuminated roadside food stall
Before dawn the crowd presses to the river's edge, lamps flickering on the black water.Boats line the shore as a mass of people gather to bathe in the ganges
Fire on the water before first light.Early morning rush to Sangam, the confluence of the three holy rivers.
Before dawn, the crowd lines the river beneath the lit bridge in fog.Bangled hands light a small flame and a stick of incense on the riverbank.
A red boat waits at the water's edge as the lit bridge dissolves into the fog.Marigolds and petals crowd the water against the pontoons, the morning's offerings drifting together.
The pre-dawn fog, the crowd at the water, the bridge fading behind.
At Sangam, the confluence and one of the holiest places in Hinduism, thousands press toward the water through the night, a fire glowing at the heart of the crowd.Floodlights and boats tremble in the dark ripples.
A sadhu throws his head back mid-chant, prayer beads wrapped around his raised arm.
Before dawn, the oar drags through the water toward a pink horizon.A young girl balances on a tightrope while another stands stoically below to collect money from bystanders, one of the carnival acts of the Mela. With so much theater, her face seemed to reveal something true.
A sadhu stands in the frigid waters of Ganga, alone and silent, his lips forming words he never speaks. Forty minutes pass and he remains, eyes fixed on the unseen.The oar dips through olive water as marigold petals float past.
Guru enters a Hindu temple that he upkeeps.Walkers cross the pontoon bridge at dusk before a far bank strung with lights.
Covered in ash to honor the dead, the Naga sadhus roar as they plunge into the water.
A bird crosses the lit water in the dark.Tents in every color crowd together on the riverbed.
Over the tents to the river, the pontoon bridges crowded under a pink sky.Petals and marigold garlands spill into the black water beside an orange float.
A thin line of people crosses the pontoon bridge into the pink dusk.On Shahi Snan a man floats completely still in the murky water of Mother Ganga, undisturbed, while millions clamor to the water's edge above him.
Huddled by a fire, a family gathers on the outskirts of the Mela, preparing for their morning walk to Ganga.
The boatman rows us out to the confluence.Hundreds of Sadhu’s prepare to rush into the Ganges for the celebration of Shahi Snan
At sunset, an offering is prepared at the water's edge.Boats wait on the dark river as gulls settle on the water, the far shore lit end to end.
Sunset over the boats, petals floating at the river's edge.On the morning of Shahi Snan, a series of unexpected events landed me on the front line of the press. Saffron flags crowd the far bank as a lifeguard waves toward shore and a hundred cameras wait.
The pontoon bridges at dusk, threads of people across the river.
On Shahi Snan, Naga sadhus charge into the river while a wall of cameras records every splash.Leaf boats of marigolds drift on the current.
Under the floodlights, pilgrims wade into the river in the dark before dawn.Two clay lamps burn among the petals.
An elder with a white beard rises from the water, one hand pressed to his chest.A vessel garlanded with marigolds, its keeper seated behind.
Vedic text sits on a novice monk’s vibrant blanket
A single flame among marigold and rose petals.A pilgrim rests with his staff in an abandoned fortress in Allahabad, where he stayed with his wife and daughter during the Mela. It did not glisten, but it was home, and they were happy.
Through a temple door, a deity in a glass case under blinking lights.Beautiful orangeness scattered throughout the mela area
Brass bells before a shrine hung with marigolds.Five puppies peer over a brick ledge, keeping watch on the lane.
An altar of gods, lit by lamps.
Songs and prayers on a striped mat before a small temple, a hand drum keeping time.At night the pontoon bridges glow in rows, pilgrims crossing in silhouette. All of it built to be dismantled, soon washed away as Mother Ganga reclaims her veins.
Women in saris sing and clap their way through the crowd.Outside the Mela, on a hilltop over the sprawl, stands the only tree we had seen in days, with a broken swing. To the right, millions of people. To the left, desolation.
Sadhus in saffron sit in a row, facing the morning sun.Man sleeps in an ocean of colored fabrics.
Mayuri Ma cradles a baby in a pink blanket, her forehead painted gold and red, as the others lean in close.
Before dawn, the pilgrims pass by a hole torn in a poster.A phone records the fire and the lit shore beyond it.
A saffron flag snaps in the wind against the low sun.A frenzy of Naga Sadhu’s celebrate Shahi Snan at Sangam, the confluence of three holy rivers.
A small stone shrine stands in a pond of lotus leaves.Novice monk studies in his tent
Before dawn, tea poured steaming into clay cups.A man stands, bathed in crimson light, downloading the teachings from the glowing roadside sadhu. Here at Kumbh consciousness moves. It is pulled and pushed. For some it shrinks and others it expands.
A calf noses the lens, a lamp-lit shelter behind.From above, the temporary city sprawls along the river, girded by steel roads hammered into the riverbed, pontoon bridges stitched across the water.
