I grew up with India in my ears. My maternal grandfather had been a commissioner in the Indian customs service and my mother went to school in Mussoorie, on the hem of the Himalayas.

I remember suitcases in the attic full of folded dress clothes, white gloves and letters from England – and every time my mother stopped her knitting and fell silent, I could see it in her eyes. India is where she went, and she took me with her.

I have always wanted to go there, to taste it, to test it. And so I turned up in a dry river bed on the outskirts of Allahabad, one human being among the 20m who had come to bathe in the holy River Ganges at the Hindu Kumbh Mela, the biggest gathering of humanity at the largest camp site on the planet.

From here, my journey would take me upstream into the Himalayas, as far as our vehicles could go – which is no further than the snowline. I would be living with a group of sadhus, peripatetic holy men, and seeing the country they see every day – very different from the rich economic pastures we are being sold as “the New India”.

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BACKGROUND

• Dine with a maharajah in Udaipur

• Tea time in Kerala

• Ageless Udaipur

• Do the hippies still run Goa?

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Most sadhus live alone, in caves in the mountains or in makeshift shelters under holy trees on the outskirts of towns and villages. The Kumbh Mela is one of their few opportunities to be together.

I was there for five days, and it’s like living, eating and sleeping in the middle of a cup final, a metropolis of boulevards and backstreets constructed from canvas and carpets. There are children dressed as gods, gods dressed as children, elephants dressed in chalk. The sadhus either wear nothing but a light covering of ash, or are draped in marigold-orange – except, that is, for a small group of travelling minstrels. These sadhus have been castrated and dress as women, moving from tent to tent, dancing very badly and singing even worse.

Other sadhus practise what they call “austerities”, many of which involve self-mortification. One middle-aged man had held his right arm above his head for 14 years, another had not sat down for six – he slept standing, slouched over a cushion suspended from the roof.

I slept at an ashram – one of perhaps a thousand at the Kumbh Mela, each centred on a guru. I had been adopted by a guru called Jagdish, and for the duration of my stay he treated me as his son. He spent his days sitting in the lotus position on a small platform above a holy fire. I never saw my “father” without a smile on his face.

THE MELA is a sensory onslaught: I didn’t sleep for three straight nights, and after five days I was ready to go. The plan was to travel north by road into the Himalayas – a three- or four-day journey. I intended to sleep all the way.

Some chance. In the first 12 hours on the road, we hit 50mph once and, frankly, I didn’t want to go any faster. The problem is the prevailing overtaking ethic, which manifests itself as an endless game of chicken. I was travelling with a young sadhu called Vasistha, and every time we dodged disaster by millimetres, he would look at me wide-eyed and say: “We are all going to die, yes, very soon I think.” Then he would laugh uncontrollably. At first I thought this was just bravado, but then I realised it was more serious – he genuinely didn’t mind whether we survived or not.

Thankfully, Indian main roads seem to have a broken-down lorry every mile, slowing the traffic. Nine times out of 10, the back axle has gone because of overloading. Most things in India are overloaded – the buses with people, the arms with bracelets, the air on the plains with dust, the tea served up beside the road with sugar. The sugar itself comes from the roadside: from mile upon mile of sugar-cane fields interspersed with smoking clockwork molasses refineries. These are family concerns, staffed by grandparents, barefooted children and their bored oxen, all sweating those sweet crystals out of stalks and soot.

I couldn’t work out whether India was falling down or going up. The towns on the plains are ugly and dirty, but the people are beautiful, and occasionally there are incongruous reminders of another country. The ghosts of the Raj are everywhere – haunting the stations, ringing the church bells.

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