When you wander the world alone with death as your compass, the universe seems to conspire in whispers- you draw in the curious, the bold, the brave, and the kind. Strangers lean closer, offering stories they’ve never dared to tell. You’re welcomed into haunting chant circles beneath ancient caves and swept into elaborate rituals that pulse for days. I’ve sat for hours at the burning ghats, watched bodies wreathed in marigolds dissolve into flame, and seen families sit in quiet acceptance as the river carries away the last traces of a life. Here, death is part of the landscape. There’s no hushed avoidance, no shutting it away. It’s witnessed, acknowledged, and, in many ways, embraced.

Varanasi is a wild beast, its mouth wide open, exhaling the thick scent of burnt flesh, river rot, and incense. It swallowed me whole, leaving me with lungs blackened and bones rattled by something too ancient to name. Death walked barefoot there, sat cross-legged on the ghats, drifted by in a half-burned shroud, and whispered through the alleys like a soft murmur from the other side. But life pulsed just as fiercely. Children chased kites through narrow lanes, chai stalls bubbled with gossip, temple bells shook the air awake, and the streets hummed with colour, chaos, and devotion. The living and the dead brushed shoulders in the marketplace, in temple queues, and in the relentless push toward liberation.

I stood where time folded in on itself, where ash marked foreheads, and dogs fed on human skulls as if they were juicy bones. I watched the Ganga catch fire, and the night swelled with voices that didn’t care if I understood them. Varanasi never softens for me. It doesn’t offer comfort. It doesn’t bend to make room for me. It demands an all-encompassing awareness, pulling every fibre of my being — body, mind, and soul — into its relentless rhythm, urging me to rise, lean in, and listen.

Varanasi always greets me like an old lover: intense, unpredictable, and utterly intoxicating. It’s an assault on the senses, immersing me in vibrant chaos — the scent of marigolds mixed with woodsmoke, cremation ash softly falling on my skin, the deafening roar of rickshaw horns, and the constant ringing of temple bells, street vendors, and chanting pilgrims. The splash of saris against the earthy hues of the ghats, and the ceaseless rhythm of life and death intertwined at every turn. Overwhelming, alive, humbling — Varanasi’s pulse remained within me. It carved a space in my heart and mind, and the energy of that place lingered. And each time I leave, I’m never quite the same.

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