At the edge of the Ganges: inside a spiritual journey to Rishikesh, the yoga capital of the world

For a fleeting moment, sitting beside Mother Ganga, I felt connected to it, as if I belonged to the river, as if I, too, were eternal.

It is no coincidence that Rishikesh developed around this river. For centuries, pilgrims, yogis, sages and seekers have travelled to this Himalayan foothill town, attracted by the sacred waters of the Ganges and the promise of spiritual awakening.

Known today as the yoga capital of the world, Rishikesh is located where the Ganges leaves the towering Himalayas to begin its long journey across the plains of India. The mountains themselves hold profound spiritual significance. Hindu mythology describes the origins of the river as being in the heavens before descending through Shiva’s locks. Simultaneously, the Himalayas have long been home to Buddhist monasteries, Tibetan healing traditions and wandering mystics who see the mountains as a place where the veil between worlds feels thin.

It is a landscape where spiritual traditions intertwine and merge, formed by centuries of pilgrimage and devotion.

During my stay in the region, I had the chance to learn about Sowa Rigpa, a traditional Tibetan system of medicine that views the body as inseparable from the spirit. Practitioners speak of Rangshin—one’s essential nature—and Nyepa, the imbalances that develop through life. Healing, in this tradition, is not just about curing symptoms but restoring harmony between the body, mind and the energies that surround us.

In a place like the Himalayas, that philosophy feels instinctively true as the mountains themselves seem to invite reflection.

To be so close to the top of the world, so close to the heavens and the sky, is humbling. The sheer majesty of the landscape has a way of silencing you. It reminds you of the vastness of time and of how small we are within it and yet, how connected.

If the mountains invite stillness, the town of Rishikesh is something else entirely.

One thing that is quite striking about the city is that it is pure chaos. The cows, the bells, the tricycles, the traffic—everything happening all at once. But it is an effervescent chaos; it doesn’t feel anxious or stressed. People are smiling. People are kind. It is a communal energy of joy.

So many things are happening at once that the city feels layered in grit, beauty, honesty authenticity—and poverty, in some cases chosen, that means shedding earthly possessions and entrusting their lives to the kindness of humanity. Wisdom, music, chanting and mantras fill the air. Incense drifts through the streets. Then suddenly, the entire town seems to glow as the evening sun washes everything in gold.

In this cacophony of life, there is a palpable sense of peace.

Every evening along the banks of the Ganges, the Aarti ritual takes place. Priests in flowing saffron robes perform a choreographed offering of fire to the river, raising flaming lamps in sweeping circles while kirtan melodies fill the air. The ceremony occurs every single day, without fail.

Watching it, I couldn’t help but reflect on how rarely we pause for ritual in our own lives.

What rituals do we carry home with us? Where do we honour the sacred in our daily lives, when so often we move through the world in a kind of autopilot?

Here, devotion and spirituality feel alive in every corner—not confined to temples or cathedrals but woven into the rhythm of everyday life.

It was during one of these evenings by the river that I met the priest who left a lasting impression on me. Manoj Dwivedi, mahant or chief priest of Shatrughana temple, was calm, humble and completely unassuming. He didn’t have the dramatic charisma that people often associate with spiritual leaders. It was simply: I am here. I am present. I am at your service when you need me.

He shared that he was about to leave for Assisi, which he described as his second favourite place in the world after Rishikesh. He tries to visit every year or every other year, often with his wife. He spoke warmly about the teachings of Saint Thomas Aquinas and the deep spiritual energy he feels in Assisi, much like the energy he experiences beside his beloved Ganges.

It struck me how effortlessly he discussed this bond between traditions. For him, spirituality obviously went beyond religion. It was something that could be sensed in nature, in sacred sites and in the quiet presence of others.

When I think of Rishikesh now, I remember the little boy who gave me flowers by the river. Earlier that day, I had seen him trying to sell offerings to pilgrims. Instead of selling them, he handed me one with a smile.

I think of his kindness, of this ephemeral bloom given in pure generosity and open-heartedness.

I think of the mountains that silence you with their majesty. Of the river rushing endlessly towards the sea.

I think of that feeling of trust that emerged while sitting beside the Ganges—trusting that what is meant for us will come to us. Trusting that we are, in some way, like pebbles in the river, allowing life to flow through us.

Perhaps spirituality is not about religion, or even about specific practices or labels.

Perhaps it is merely about surrender—surrender to joy, surrender to love. Having faith that love will prevail even in the darkest of times. Believing that nature can hold us.

And if we pause long enough to listen, we might begin to feel the quiet divinity that exists everywhere.

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