Some places in the world welcome you with open arms. Others take time to reveal themselves. And then there’s Varanasi—the eternal city—a place that doesn’t care who you are, where you come from, or what you expect. It simply exists, and if you want to understand it, you have to slow down and listen.
Varanasi isn’t just a place you visit. It’s a place that happens to you. I had been traveling alone for years, but Varanasi holds a different place in my heart.
I arrived in the evening, traveling from Howrah, and stepping out of Varanasi Junction felt like entering controlled chaos. Rickshaws swerved through the streets, cows stood their ground as if they owned the roads (which, in a way, they did), and the air smelled of incense and something distinctly ancient. The city didn’t just look old—it felt old, like it had been here long before me and would remain long after.
I made my way toward Assi Ghats to have the darshan of Maa Ganga.
Encounter with the Lifeline
The Ganges isn’t just a river in Varanasi—it’s a presence, a witness to centuries of prayers, farewells, and silent conversations. Everyone talks about the Ganges, but you don’t truly understand its presence until you’re standing before it.
The river moved slowly, reflecting the flickering oil lamps from the ghats. People knelt at the water’s edge, whispering prayers, while others released tiny boats of marigolds and candles into the current. Nearby, an elderly man scooped water into his hands and let it trickle back, murmuring softly. Was he making a wish? Remembering someone? Saying goodbye?
I had no idea, but in Varanasi, it felt like the river listened.
At Assi Ghats, the Ganga Aarti was about to begin, with hundreds of people gathered in devotion. Priests in saffron robes lifted large brass lamps, their flames swaying in synchronized circles. The deep hum of chants filled the air, mixing with the steady clang of temple bells.
I stood in the crowd, watching. The energy of it—the movement, the sound, the devotion—was enough to make me feel like I was part of something bigger.
Dawn on the Water
The next morning, I woke early for a boat ride. The city was quieter at this hour, the chaos momentarily subdued.
My boatman was a middle-aged man with kind eyes and a weathered face. He rowed in silence, letting me take in the view. From the river, the ghats looked even more surreal—steep staircases leading up to ancient temples, palaces leaning toward the water as if eavesdropping on secrets.
As we passed Manikarnika Ghat, the main cremation site, a thin veil of smoke curled into the sky. The fires burned constantly, day and night. Families stood nearby, watching their loved ones return to ash. There was no wailing, no dramatic displays of grief—just quiet acceptance.
A Breakfast Worth Waking Up For
Varanasi wakes up hungry, and so did I. My first stop was Ram Bhandar, a legendary shop where locals gather every morning for kachori, sabzi, and jalebi. After waiting in a long queue, I finally got my plate—a fresh, flaky kachori, stuffed with spiced lentils and served with a ladle of potato curry. The first bite was everything—crispy, spicy, warm. I followed it with jalebi, still glistening with syrup, its sweetness cutting through the spicy heat of the kachori.
After breakfast, I strolled through the labyrinthine alleys of Varanasi, where every turn revealed something new—a centuries-old temple tucked between weathered homes, a shop displaying exquisite Benarasi sarees, an elderly man expertly folding Benarasi paan, and the chaotic yet harmonious dance of zooming scooties weaving past unbothered cows ambling along the narrow lanes.
I stopped at Shreeji Sweets, a tiny shop famous for its malaiyo—a winter delicacy so delicate it vanishes the moment it touches your tongue. Made from milk, saffron, and cardamom, it was like eating a cloud.
Manikarnika: The Ghat That Never Sleeps
By late afternoon, I found myself at Manikarnika Ghat. Smoke rose into the sky, blending with the fading sunlight. Here, bodies were burned without pause—the final step in a journey that ended at the river.
Unlike other funerals, there was no wailing, no overt displays of grief—just a quiet acceptance.
The Sacred Call of Kashi Vishwanath
The next day, before sunrise, I made my way to the Kashi Vishwanath Temple, one of the most sacred places in Hinduism. The temple, dedicated to Lord Shiva, has stood through centuries, rebuilt and restored after invasions, yet never losing its significance.
The queue was long, filled with devotees carrying brass pots of Gangajal or milk with Dhatura phal, along with offerings neatly arranged in prasad baskets sold outside the temple. Inside, the jyotirlinga (a revered form of Shiva) was barely visible beneath layers of offerings—milk, honey, and bilva leaves. The air was thick with chants of Har Har Mahadev!
Even as an outsider, I felt something in that moment—a weight, a presence, a connection to something far older than myself. It wasn’t about religion. It was about the pulse of the place, the devotion that had kept this temple alive through time.
I stepped back outside into the cool morning air, letting the chants fade behind me.
The Guardian of Varanasi: Kalbhairav Temple
One of the most intriguing places in Varanasi is Kalbhairav Temple, dedicated to the fierce, fearsome form of Shiva. Locals believe that Kalbhairav is the “Kotwal” (guardian) of the city and that even death must ask his permission before taking someone from Varanasi.
The temple was smaller than Kashi Vishwanath, but it carried a different kind of energy—darker, heavier, more intense. The idol of Kalbhairav, adorned with a silver mask and a garland of skulls, radiated an almost magnetic pull.
People brought bottles of alcohol as offerings—a unique tradition symbolizing surrender to the deity’s power.
Evenings at Assi Ghat
By the time I reached Assi Ghat, where I had booked my hotel, the sun was dipping into the horizon. A group of young men—perhaps students from Banaras Hindu University—played music with a guitar. A sadhu sat nearby, eyes half-closed, as if caught between this world and another.
I bought a cup of lemon tea and sat by the water, watching people release small candle-lit boats into the river. Some whispered wishes before letting them go. Others simply watched them drift away.
The river kept moving, carrying everything with it—prayers, memories, moments.
Leaving, but Not Really
The morning I left, Varanasi was exactly as I had found it. The rickshaws still honked, the cows still refused to move, and the air still carried the scent of incense and street food.
As my auto-rickshaw rattled toward the station, I realized something—Varanasi doesn’t try to impress you. It doesn’t change for visitors, nor does it ask for understanding. It simply is.
And if you listen—truly listen—you’ll hear a city that doesn’t just tell stories. It absorbs them. I had come alone. And yet, in a way, I had never felt less alone. Some places let you leave. Varanasi stays with you.
Varanasi: A City That Stays With You