For pilgrims, the attraction to the Kumbha Mela is a confluence of place, time and people—the sangam (the confluence of three holy rivers), the astrologic timing, and the saints, sadhus, and sages. The closest equivalent in the west to saints, sadhus, and sages are monks. The swamis we are meeting at the mela are not the stereotypic monks you might expect—stuffy, uptight, conservative and as sober as their brown robes. Today at least, they are in a festive mood. Some are literally dancing in the street, and others are riding to the main mela site near the sangam with all the glitter and glitz of Mardi Gras royalty.

“Let the party begin!” Swami Bhairavji is full of glee and mischief. His name means “the terrible one,” he tells us, but we know it also means the compassionate one. He has the trident of Lord Shiva entwined with a serpent tattooed on his right arm, orange robes, white tennis shoes, and a Ph.D. in anthropology. In addition to his mother languages, he also speaks excellent English, and at least enough French to quote a raunchy ballad from the annals of New Orleans rock and roll. He has been a swami for 30 years and knows almost everybody we see today, including the organizer of today’s procession who is the head of the group (akhada) that Swami Bhairavji belongs to.

The head of the akhada is loaded down with garlands of marigolds offered by the reverent, but he is otherwise unadorned. He has fierce hawk-like eyes, a sharp nose, a long white beard, and a large red turban; and could pass for a pirate but for his gentle and sweet smile. Others in his group are riding horses, elephants, or tractor-pulled floats, but he is walking in the street giving directions. Close behind him are the swamis on elephants.

The sadhu on the first elephant has dread locks (jatha) longer than he is tall. They hang below the belly of the elephant. The longest jatha on record is 22.5 hands long, I am told. A “hand” is the length from the elbow to the tip of the fingers. Other sadhus have their jatha wound like crowns around their heads; some are piled like beehives; and others are wrapped in knit or gathered caps resembling shower caps.

The next elephant is ridden by a sadhu whose face and bare chest is covered with ashes. This scene has repeated itself for centuries in Allahabad, but there is one addition this year—the nearly naked sadhu on this elephant has a cell phone in his ear. Swami Bhairavji jokes that it has no SIM card and he’s faking it. We catch a glimpse of yet another mahatma (great soul), this one all in black on his red velour chair on a platform pulled by a tractor. “A tantra master,” someone whispers. He is leaning back in the chair, a bit aloof, distinguished by his bald head.

Along side us, a swami walks with bare feet, carrying a black pot in which he receives alms. He carries a stick with a curve on the end with two ears. Sometimes it looks like a dog, sometimes like Lord Ganesh. Every now and then he jumps up on the tractor-drawn float and uses his stick to lift the festoon of wires overhead so the float can pass under them. His companion has a glowing face and traditional wooden sandals. If the eight hour walk through the streets has tired them, it doesn’t show. As for myself, my feet hurt, I’m tired, hungry and thirsty, and drifting off to sleep clinging to the side of a tractor as the auspicious day ends and the procession nears the sangam.

There are many aspects of self to master, and this is what we all as pilgrims are seeking here—the inspiration and upliftment of being in the presence of those whose presence is a blessing, in a place and time charged with subtle energy of the great ones both seen and unseen, past and present.