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is in north-east India, in the state of Uttar Pradesh. As I travelled north, the talk of my fellow passengers began to fill me with trepidation. Twenty million people would be there, said some; fifty million, said another. I would see wondrous feats of asceticism. I would see the most austere meditators, who leave their caves only twice in a decade. There would be stampedes during the auspicious bathing days. And the greatest gurus of the sadhu ranks would move through the crowds on sacred chariots.
    All of it sounded most daunting, and, as my rickshaw trundled away from Allahabad station, my concerns only magnified. From the railway bridge, a scene reminiscent of a medieval battleground came into view. Across the river plain, an ocean of old-fashioned tents stretched away on the horizon. I had never seen, nor even imagined, such multitudes. In the early morning the campground looked serene. But even in its silence, the size of this gathering beggared belief. Here was the very heart of the Hindu faith. A belief in the governing influences of planets and in the sanctity of rivers, so that to bathe at the confluence at the auspicious moment was to cleanse away earthly sins. Its presence, in the early years of the twenty-first century, was an unforgettable reminder of the world of the spirit.
    A complete confidence in the spiritual realm is all well and good, but the navigation of the material world remains to try us. With the polluted lanes of Allahabad crammed to bursting, traffic sat bumper to buffalo. Carts overloaded with holy men. Maruti people-carriers bringing high-ranking civil servants behind tinted windows. Whole families on single wheezing scooters. Bus drivers leaning from the windows to spit great Jackson Pollock spurts of paan . Matriarchs clasping woeful hands to their brows. From the bullock cart, the holy men smiled and looked down on the scene with detached amusement.
    Conducting all this, a scrawny traffic policeman clamped his lips around a penny whistle and waved his stick as if this were the defining battle of his life. Perhaps it was? He looked too young for the job. His moustache hung limply from his upper lip. Around him, the world spun past, disregarding his instructions. Horns blared derisively. Abuse rained down on him in several different dialects. His white gloves grew black with dust.
    Next morning, as the sun rose weakly over the Mela ground, I entered the kumbhnagar , the tented city. I was dressed simply, with a brown khadi shawl around my shoulders, but nevertheless felt remarkably out of place as I walked amongst the colourful throng. Everywhere, long bearded sages wearing orange or white strode purposefully about. Tired-looking pilgrims, many of whom had travelled hundreds of miles to get here, moved towards the sangam , the confluence of rivers. Uniformed police, street sweepers, electricians and sanitation experts went about their business, keeping this makeshift spiritual metropolis running smoothly. In the air, the smell of cooking fires and sweet incense. Beneath my feet, an ochre carpet of dust.
    Stretching over thirty-five kilometres, the Mela ground is the largest campground in the world. More than 25,000 tents had been erected, their tent poles fluttering with flags and banners. Building had started the previous July, as soon as the rivers started drying up after the monsoon. Some 20,000 workers had laid water pipes, sanitary facilities and electrical cable. The irrigation department, the public works department, the bridge corporation, the waterworks department and the Ganga Pollution Control Board had sent delegates to lay the ground for the impending onslaught. Devotees had begun to decorate their makeshift temples with garlands of flashing lights and devotional images, some of them hand-painted in primary colours, others lit up in electric neon.
    Two months later, the first holy men began to arrive. A ragtag army, clad in robes, some carrying archaic tridents or broadswords, on