In 1987, I cleared the JEE and secured a seat at IIT Madras. To be honest, I'm not the type to get excited about exam results; I find more joy in nature, family, and friends. My excitement truly peaked when the admission letter arrived, describing the campus: hostels were "stationary rivers," and buses were "moving mountains." This was far more thrilling than the results day. The best part? I was assigned to Godavari Hostel.
As soon as we arrived at Madras Central, a help desk directed new students to a campus bus named Kanchenjunga. I also remember other buses on campus named Mt Everest, Vindhyas, and Aravali. When we arrived at the campus, we learned that IIT Madras had twelve hostels, all named after major rivers: Godavari, Ganga, Jamuna, Saraswati, Alakananda, Mandakini, Narmada, Sarayu, Krishna, Cauvery, Brahmaputra, and Tapti.
My four years at IIT Madras were wonderful, but that's a story for another time. The river-themed hostels instantly gave me a goal: to visit all twelve rivers and explore areas near the mountains represented on campus. Luckily, I had already seen many of the rivers before I even joined.
Godavari
My relationship with the Godavari river began at birth (1970). The hospital where I arrived was just two kilometers from the river, and the home I lived in for my first few months (my maternal grandmother's) was only 300 meters away. The region itself is called West Godavari. My ancestry, the specific Telugu dialect I speak, and my core food habits are all tied to this river.
The Godavari, India’s second-largest river, originates in Maharashtra's Western Ghats, flows through Telangana and Andhra, and empties into the Bay of Bengal. Near Rajahmundry, it splits into distributaries like the Vashishta and Gautami. My grandmother's town, Narasapuram, lies near the Vashishta. The construction of the Dhavaleswaram barrage by Arthur Cotton was crucial, helping farmers move past yearly floods and single monsoon crops. The coastal location also means my grandmother's village faces annual cyclones.
Despite only visiting for summer vacations after infancy, I crossed the Vashishta at least fifty times. Before the modern bridge (built 20 years ago), we used small boats propelled manually with long bamboo poles pushing the riverbed. The current was always strong, especially with high tides or floods, even though the depth was only about ten feet. The water here is quite salty due to its proximity to the ocean. As a child, this led me to mistakenly believe all rivers were salty.
That early exposure to the river, the ocean, and the surrounding greenery explains my enduring passion for nature. The sight of coconut trees lining a riverbank or a beach remains my favorite view. I often saw dolphins at the river mouth, a place locally known as "anna chellilla gattu" (brother-sister’s bank). This spot is extremely dangerous and claims the lives of many unsuspecting tourists.
For sheer beauty, one must see the Godavari flowing through the Papi Hills between Rajahmundry and the holy town of Bhadrachalam—a boat ride is highly recommended.
It should be clear now why I was so thrilled to be assigned to the Godavari Hostel and be forever called a "Godavite." Although my life is now geographically elsewhere, my deep affection for the region has never faded. Interestingly, I've never taken a full dip in the Godavari itself due to the powerful currents near Narasapuram, though I did swim in the Manjeera tributary.
Krishna
My paternal grandparents’ small patch of land in the Godavari region was insufficient to support their four children. Consequently, in his mid-thirties, my grandfather decided to move the family to present-day Karnataka. Their new home always remained close to the Tungabhadra River (the largest tributary of the Krishna) or its irrigation canals. I lived on their family farmhouse from eight months old until I was three and a half years old, an idyllic time I describe elsewhere.
While traveling to Karnataka, I must have crossed the Krishna River many times near Vijayawada or within Karnataka, but my first distinct memory of it was at age six (1976). My grandparents were living in Raichur district at the time, and the bus from Hyderabad crossed the mighty river about sixteen kilometers from Raichur. As children, crossing that bridge was a huge thrill, as my only prior experience was crossing rivers by boat.
Over the years, I crossed the Krishna at many other spots, including Srisailam, Nagarjuna Sagar, and Vijayawada. I took my first dip in the river next to a temple in Vijayawada when I was about fifteen. I never imagined that three decades later, I would live next to the river for nearly two years. During my twenty months in Mangalagiri (2018-2020), I crossed the Prakasam Barrage in Vijayawada and a parallel bridge literally hundreds of times. This allowed me to visit many places near the river, extending all the way to its mouth near Machilipatnam. Key temples like Amaravati, Srikakulam, and Bezawada Kanaka Durga are all located on Krishna's banks. I even owned farmland for years that relied on its canal water.
The Krishna is comparable to the Godavari in length and also originates in the Western Ghats of Maharashtra, though it flows through Karnataka before reaching Telangana and Andhra. Its major tributary, the Tungabhadra, holds immense historical importance, hosting the ancient city of Hampi on its banks. Unlike the Godavari, the Krishna was historically navigable, enabling trade and access inland from the Bay of Bengal. This is evident from the numerous historical sites along its course, such as Vijayapuri (now Nagarjuna Konda), Bhattiprolu, Ghantasala, Amaravati, and Vijayawada. Sadly, the Nagarjunasagar Dam (the world's longest masonry dam) submerged Vijayapuri, one of ancient India's most fascinating sites.
My knowledge and connection to the remaining rivers are much smaller, and their descriptions will be brief.
Cauvery
My first clear memory of the Cauvery River dates back to age eight (1978) during a comprehensive tour of South India and Bombay. We saw the river near the Brindavan Gardens, where the renowned engineer Mokshagundam Visvesvaraya built the Krishna Raja Sagar (KRS) Dam. Although I don't recall it, we must have also seen the Cauvery near the temple town of Thanjavur. I remember my great-grandmother was on the tour with us, carrying handfuls of coins specifically to toss into every river we crossed for good luck.
Later, while I was a student in Madras, I visited the river a few times, mainly to see the beautiful Hogenakkal Falls. Much later, I returned to visit its source in Coorg and the famous Sivasamudra waterfalls. The Cauvery is the third-largest river in the South and is crucial for Tamil Nadu. Historically, it was the lifeline that supported the growth of the ancient Chola capital, Thanjavur.
Narmada
At age twelve (1982), four years after our Southern tour, my father took our family on a tour of North India. This time, instead of the Indian Railways we used for the South, we traveled by luxury bus with four other families. Perhaps because I was older and had the company of other families, I have much fonder memories of the North tour.
Our first stop was Jabalpur, where we rested at a choultry right next to the Narmada River. My grandfather, an expert swimmer, helped us take a dip. That experience remains a beautiful memory for me. Years later, trying to relive that trip, I toured Madhya Pradesh with friends (2023), including a stop in Jabalpur. I highly recommend visiting the Dhuandhar waterfalls and the Bhedaghat marble rocks to any traveler in India.
The Narmada is unique: it’s one of only two major Indian rivers that flows west to empty into the Arabian Sea. The other is the Tapti (which I have yet to visit); all other major rivers flow into the Bay of Bengal.
Ganga
My first encounter (1982) with the Ganga River was at the Triveni Sangam in what is now Prayagraj (then Allahabad/Prayag) during the North India tour I mentioned previously. Beyond the mythological stories of its divine birth—involving Sage Bhagiratha of the Ramayana and Devavrat (Bhishma) of the Mahabharata—the Ganga was a colorful figure in my mind, often described in movie songs as Lord Shiva’s spirited "second wife" competing with Parvati.
The idea of three major rivers—Ganga, Yamuna, and the mythical Saraswati—merging at the Sangam was thrilling. The adults debated whether they could see three distinct colors, settling on only two. All I saw was a shallow, muddy river, and I couldn't clearly spot the two separate rivers. The water wasn't deep enough for a satisfying dip. Technically, though, I covered the Yamuna and Saraswati that day alongside the holy Ganga.
My subsequent three meetings with the Ganga during that trip were varied. At Varanasi, the river was so polluted that everyone refused to swim except my grandmother, who filled her special jug with holy water. My mother joked that a dip there would guarantee moksha (salvation) because we’d surely catch a disease from the dirt.
All my earlier disappointment vanished in the holy city of Haridwar. We stayed at an ashram right on the riverbank. It was a cold November afternoon, and while waiting for food, my expert swimmer grandfather urged my brother and me to jump in. The current in Haridwar was so strong that we had to hold onto the iron chains to avoid being washed away. Despite the cold, my grandfather gently immersed us three times. The excitement erased the chill, and dipping into the beautiful Ganga with him remains one of my fondest childhood memories. That evening, we released boat-shaped leaf lamps into the water. Unlike the crowds of Varanasi or Prayag, the pleasant, less-crowded evening in Haridwar etched itself permanently in my mind. We filled a new container with the cleanest Ganga water for my grandmother to take home.
The next day, in Rishikesh, the current was even fiercer. We enjoyed the view from the legendary Lakshman Jhula and, being from the South, we bought and wore identical kurtas for the first time. The view of the Ganga made up for the exhausting rounds of the various ashrams.
It took over forty years (2024-2025) for me to return. While living in Dehradun for a year, I revisited Haridwar and Rishikesh several times. The experience was vastly different: the current commercialization has made both places crowded and noisy, robbing them of their peaceful aura unless one seeks refuge in an ashram during the early morning or night. These trips too remain memorable because of the friends who accompanied me.
To find cleaner, less crowded water, one must head further upstream. It was here that I experienced the infamous white-water rafting on the Ganga. I had rafted before, but nothing compared to this. The intensity of the rapids was thrilling, even knowing that accidents and loss of life are not uncommon. It’s an experience I would gladly repeat.
Further upstream still lies Devprayag, the holy confluence where the two main tributaries, Alaknanda and Bhagirathi, meet to officially form the Ganga. I have visited Devprayag in different seasons, noting the mesmerizing difference in color and speed between the two rivers, and watching the powerful vortices where they merge.
Though Devprayag is stunning, the sight of two relatively small streams combining to become the massive river that sustains millions across multiple states is simply unimaginable. This starting point's spiritual significance, known since ancient times, is impressive. Whether you view the Ganga as divine or not, its spiritual influence on every visitor is undeniable.
My travels along the Alaknanda and other major tributaries continue below.
Jamuna
While the Ganga was a legendary figure for me, the Yamuna (or Jamuna) was equally famous, revered as the setting for Krishna’s romance with Radha and as the backdrop for the Taj Mahal built by Shah Jahan. I pictured the Yamuna as the most romantic place on Earth: Krishna playing his flute while Radha watched, moonlight reflecting off the graceful waves, and a pleasant evening breeze. I imagined Shah Jahan strolling its banks with Mumtaz and spending his final years gazing at the Taj Mahal's reflection in its water.
The Yamuna is the largest tributary of the Ganga, almost matching the lengths of the Godavari and Krishna rivers. It merges with the Ganga at the Triveni Sangam in Prayagraj, where I first saw it (along with the Ganga and Saraswati) during my childhood North India tour (1982).
I saw the river again on that trip near Vrindavan, Mathura, Delhi, and Agra (at the Taj Mahal). At all these places, the Yamuna was surprisingly unimposing. I concluded that it must have once been a great river that had lost much of its former glory.
However, during my stay in Dehradun, I finally visited (2025) the river just after the monsoon. I was relieved and delighted to see its full might and beauty, finally experiencing the imposing river that so beautifully and lyrically inspired the stories of Radha and Krishna’s love.
Brahmaputra
The Brahmaputra stands apart from the other rivers mentioned because of its vast, trans-boundary scope. Originating in Tibet (where it's known as the Yarlung Tsangpo), it cuts through multiple countries before entering India and eventually joining the Ganga River in Bangladesh to form the mighty Padma.
This is a river defined by sheer scale. At its widest points, the Brahmaputra can reach ten kilometers across, and its tremendous flow causes massive annual floods throughout its course.
I have encountered this colossal river twice (2010-2013) while visiting Guwahati (ancient Pragjyotishpura), as it flows close to the IIT campus there. If you visit the area, two spiritual sites along its banks are essential viewing: the ancient Kamakhya Temple and the Umananda Temple situated on an island right next to the IIT campus. These landmarks highlight the river's cultural and spiritual significance in Assam, underscoring its dual nature as both a force of nature and a sacred waterway.
Alakananda
The Alaknanda is a major tributary of the Ganga; it starts at the Satopant glacier, near the holy town of Badrinath, and merges with the Bhagirathi at Devprayag to form the main river.
Its journey is marked by a series of holy confluences known as the Panchprayag (five confluences). Just upstream of Badrinath, the tiny Saraswati river merges in Mana village. The Alaknanda then meets the Dhauliganga at Vishnuprayag, the Nandakini at Nandprayag, the Pindari at Karnprayag, and the Mandakini at Rudraprayag, before its final merger at Devprayag.
Holy pilgrimage or not, the road trip from Rishikesh all the way to Mana is a must-do for any traveler. Each prayag and its merging river has a unique character. As you travel upstream, the rivers grow smaller, but their flow becomes progressively wilder. The natural beauty of this region is truly beyond description. The sight of the Badrinath Temple, with the Alaknanda flowing directly in front and Himalayan peaks towering behind, is among the most spectacular views one can witness. Himalayan river journeys are essential for any nature lover.
I was fortunate to live in Dehradun for a year (2024-2025), allowing me to take several of these trips multiple times.
When I joined IIT Madras, the hostel name Mandakini meant only one thing: a beautiful Hindi actress famous for a controversial film. I later learned the film was often interpreted as an allegory for the Ganga, which begins in the Himalayas but grows increasingly polluted as it flows downstream to places like Prayagraj and Varanasi. It is fitting that the actress symbolizing the Ganga was named after one of its key tributaries, the Mandakini.
As noted, the Mandakini joins the Alaknanda at Rudraprayag. During my time in Dehradun (2024-2025), I visited the hill station of Chopta thrice in different seasons, traveling along the Mandakini river from Rudraprayag each time.
It is impossible not to fall in love with these rivers as you trace their beautiful, winding paths. I often wish I had the luxury to simply walk along their banks without the worry of time, allowing me to fully absorb their incredible beauty.
Saraswati
The Saraswati is perhaps the most intriguing river among the IIT Madras hostel names. Today, the Saraswati is a very minor river that flows for a couple of kilometers from a small cave near Mana village before merging suddenly into the Alaknanda near Badrinath. However, geographical studies suggest this small river actually originates much further back in the Himalayan glaciers before reaching Mana.
Despite this minor river, the IIT Madras hostel (which was the closest neighbor to the Godavari Hostel) was certainly named after the great, historical Saraswati mentioned in later Vedic and ancient texts. Historians long struggled to pinpoint this river's identity, as no current major river fits the description. Research now strongly suggests that the Saraswati was once a mighty river that flowed alongside the Indus (Sindhu) over 2,000 years ago.
This evidence has led researchers to rename the Indus Valley Civilization as the Sindhu-Saraswati Civilization, although much remains to be understood about the continuity between these two ancient river valley cultures. Thanks to its identity as the consort of Brahma, the name Saraswati—representing knowledge—remains permanently significant in Hindu culture.
Sarayu and Tapti
The Sarayu is another river known primarily through ancient texts, specifically the Ramayana, as it flows near Ayodhya. I have not yet had the opportunity to visit it.
Interestingly, credible research suggests that variations of the names Saraswati and Sarayu were used for rivers in the ancient Afghanistan region. The connection between these rivers and the Indian civilization remains unclear and may never be fully clarified by historians.
The Tapti is one of the smaller rivers that shares the unique distinction with the Narmada of flowing westward to empty into the Arabian Sea. Like the Sarayu, the Tapti remains on my travel list.
Perhaps one day, I will be fortunate enough to visit these remaining rivers, including the Sarayu and Tapti, and finally complete this personal documentation of the IIT Madras hostel names.