Gold Diggers and Good Samaritans At Maha Kumbh
By Gajanan Khergamker
As the sun rises over the Triveni Sangam, its golden rays glisten on the rippling waters where thousands of devotees, draped in saffron and white, take their sacred dips. The Maha Kumbh Mela is not just an event; it is a grand confluence of faith, tradition, and spirituality. Millions flock to Prayagraj with devotion in their hearts, hoping to cleanse their sins in the holy waters. But alongside the piety and grandeur of this ancient festival lurks an age-old reality—where faith becomes a business and trust, a commodity.
For many, the journey to the Maha Kumbh is a pilgrimage of a lifetime. But to some, these pilgrims are merely walking wallets waiting to be fleeced. Rooms that would ordinarily rent for a few hundred rupees suddenly cost a fortune. Makeshift tents with nothing more than a thin mat and a flickering bulb are sold as “luxury accommodations with a riverside view.” Middlemen, sensing the desperation of tired travelers, hike prices on the spot, demanding arbitrary "advance booking fees" before vanishing into the crowd.
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| Prayagraj has its share of gold diggers and good Samaritans alike, among shopkeepers, rickshaw-drivers and hotel owners |
Take the case of Ramesh, a school teacher from Bihar, who had travelled with his aging parents and wife. Having pre-booked a modest room at a dharamshala, he was shocked to find the owner claiming, "Rooms are all full. You didn’t confirm again, so we gave it to someone else." The only option left was a tiny tent, with a price so outrageous it would shame a five-star hotel. Just as they resigned themselves to spending the night out in the open, a local auto driver overheard their plight. "Aap mehmaan hai yahan ke," he said warmly, before taking them to his cousin’s home, where they were welcomed like family, given a warm meal, and a place to rest.
For many elderly devotees and first-time visitors, taking a dip in the river is challenging. Recognising this, some opportunists have turned it into a business. “Gangajal bottles—pure, straight from the Sangam!” they cry, hawking plastic bottles at prices that rival packaged mineral water. The irony? Some of these bottles are filled with regular tap water, their sacredness limited to the seller’s exaggerated claims.
But where there is deceit, there is also kindness. A group of young volunteers, led by a local college student, Rajat, counteracts this exploitation by filling earthen pots with fresh Sangam water and distributing them free of cost. “Faith shouldn’t have a price tag,” he says, as he carefully hands over a pot to an elderly woman who, with trembling hands, accepts it as though it were divine nectar.
Hunger is another weakness that vendors shamelessly exploit. A humble plate of khichdi, which should cost no more than ₹50, suddenly comes with a "pilgrim special" price of ₹500. “Blessed food,” they claim, convincing the devout that it carries special divine blessings. A simple roti, sold for ₹5 on regular days, now costs ₹50, and those who refuse are met with scoffs and scorn.
Yet, just a street away, a langar is in full swing. Volunteers, many of them from Punjab, tirelessly serve piping hot dal, rice, and sabzi to thousands, without asking for a single rupee. Old ladies sit cross-legged, sharing stories over a meal that is served with love, not greed. A foreign tourist, taken aback by the generosity, hesitates before joining in. A Sikh volunteer laughs, places a warm roti in her hands, and says, “Yahan sirf pyaar bikta hai, paisa nahi.”
Another classic scam involves local rickshaw pullers who double, even triple, their fares when they see an outsider. An unsuspecting family from Karnataka, exhausted after a long journey, hops into a cycle rickshaw, only to be charged ₹2500 for a ride that should cost ₹50. The driver justifies it with a grin—“Kumbh ka time hai, saab!”
Yet, for every swindler, there is a simple, honest soul. Another rickshaw puller, Nandlal, sees a group of lost Bengali widows struggling to communicate. Instead of taking advantage of their confusion, he drops them at the nearest camp free of charge, refusing any payment. “Punya kamaane aaye hai, lootne nahi,” he says, pedaling away into the night.
Prayagraj during the Maha Kumbh is a reflection of humanity in its rawest form. For every cunning trickster looking to turn a quick profit, there is a kind stranger who believes in the true spirit of the festival. Some exploit, others serve. Some cheat, others give. It is this eternal balance—the battle between greed and goodness—that makes the Maha Kumbh not just a sacred gathering, but a true test of human nature.
And in the end, it is kindness that prevails. Because for every greedy vendor selling "miracle threads" for good luck at inflated prices, there is an old sadhu tying free sacred threads on devotees’ wrists, whispering a quiet blessing. For every scammer peddling fake prasad, there is a mother who shares her homemade laddoos with a stranger. The Maha Kumbh, for all its chaos, still shines as a testament to the spirit of humanity—where, despite the greed and deception, faith, love, and generosity always find a way to win.
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