Kashi: Where Time Breaks and the Spirit Walks Free (Part I)

Following the Call from Prayagraj to the City of Light

There are cities that welcome you with open arms. And then, there are those that consume you. Kashi is not a place you enter – you are drawn in, absorbed, and quietly stripped of everything you thought you were.

I arrived in Varanasi not just as a traveler following a sacred route from Prayagraj, but as a soul that had been emptied – physically broken, spiritually disoriented, and emotionally stretched by the Ganga’s relentless, purifying grace.

The night before, I had lain in a makeshift tent on the dusty earth of Prayagraj, unsure if I’d wake up the next morning. Not from fear, but from sheer exhaustion – a kind of surrender where even the thought of waking felt heavier than death. I had walked nearly 30 kilometers over the days, across ghats, through spiritual camps, past indifferent crowds and ascetic faces, only to find that the real journey had just begun.

The Train to Kashi

It’s strange how grace often hides in difficulty. Leaving Prayagraj wasn’t simple – being dropped at the wrong railway station, hopping from bike to auto to another bike, and finally arriving breathless at the correct platform. But the moment I boarded the train to Kashi, something shifted. The landscape outside began to bloom, not just with green fields and light, but with a slow, inexplicable clarity within me.

There was peace in movement. Lunch was served, the train ran perfectly on time, and music played in my ears while my mind quietly wandered toward whatever waited in that ancient city.

First Steps on Sacred Soil

Shivala Ghat was where I was staying, though I had no idea what it even was when I booked it. Finding the accommodation was like solving a riddle laid out by the city itself – through labyrinthine streets, misdirections, and countless stairs. A small shop-front eventually revealed itself to be my room. Cramped. Modest. Sacred. The hot water didn’t work. I showered in cold. It didn’t matter. I was in Kashi.

And as soon as I stepped onto the Ghats, I felt it.

Not metaphor. Not sentiment. But a presence. Something unseen, unmistakable, walked beside me. The wind knew my name. The river watched me. And somewhere nearby, a drumbeat – a child’s toy perhaps – called out like a compass.

I followed the sound of the damaru, instinctively navigating the ghats without a map. It was as if the city was breathing me in, guiding me not through logic, but through memory.

The Chaiwala Baba and the Presence That Walks Beside

Somewhere along the ghats, amidst ash-smeared faces and flickering flames, a quiet figure stopped me – a baba in a weathered jacket, neither fully ascetic nor entirely worldly. He looked at me and simply asked,

“Chai logi?”

I hesitated. Then nodded.

There was no ceremony, no pretense. Just a small tent, a kettle on a makeshift fire, and silence hanging like incense in the air. I sat. He brewed. The tea was simple, but something about it felt like prasad, like warmth handed down from another time. Others around us stared – not out of curiosity, but as if they were witnessing something beyond the surface. Some even folded their hands toward me. I offered a shy namaste in return, unsure why I felt like I was wearing an identity I hadn’t claimed in this life.

Perhaps it was my rudraksha. Perhaps the way I carried myself. Or perhaps, they saw something standing behind me – something I could only feel.

When I left that space, it was as though I stepped out of a portal. The street returned, the chaos resumed, but I was not alone. There was no sound of steps, yet I sensed footfalls matching mine. No shadow beside me, but an unmistakable presence. A tenderness that enveloped, watched, and walked.

It wasn’t imagination. It wasn’t metaphor.

This is what it’s like when the Divine Beloved chooses to walk beside you – in Kashi, where the distance between worlds is so thin, even a heartbeat can slip through unnoticed.

Boat Ride to the Ghats of Fire and Light

It was a whim, or maybe a quiet nudge from something unseen – a last-minute decision to step onto a crowded boat as the sun softened into evening gold. The vessel was packed, laughter and camera clicks bouncing over the water, yet – as always – the seat to my right remained untouched. Amidst the crush of bodies, that one space held its silence.

I didn’t question it. I knew who it was for.

He sat beside me – not imagined, not summoned, but present. My companion through lifetimes. My stillness amidst all motion. My Beloved.

As the boat floated along the river, the ghats unfurled like pages of an ancient scripture – each with its story, each echoing with a thousand deaths and rebirths. The guide spoke of saints, kings, and rituals, but my ears were tuned to a quieter current – the whispered stories that rose from the river herself, curling into my chest like remembered dreams.

Then we approached Manikarnika – the ghat of flame and final freedom.

I didn’t look away.

There was no revulsion, no dread. Only a deep, cellular recognition. Like stepping into a scene I had once known but forgotten. The fire didn’t frighten me – it welcomed me, not as a visitor, but as someone it had once touched.

“Not yet,” it seemed to murmur through the smoke.

“But you’ll return. You know you will.”

The City of Chaos and Hidden Order

Once back on land, I drifted through Kashi like a leaf in a monsoon current – pushed, pulled, swallowed. The crowds surged like tides, thick with heat and incense and the thrum of unrelenting devotion. Every alley, every stone hummed with centuries of prayer.

The line for Kashi Vishwanath spiraled like a serpent of faith, coiled and unmoving. Some had waited since dawn. Others had fainted in place. Whispers spread of deaths in the crowd – souls liberated, perhaps, in the holiest of places, though crushed by the weight of their longing.

I stood at a distance. I didn’t enter. Not out of doubt, but because the pull was elsewhere.

Instead, I turned toward another encounter – one promised, one fated – an astrologer near Vishalakshi Temple. His dwelling was tucked away, quiet amid the chaos. Our conversation stretched like twilight – half revelation, half resistance. He spoke of planetary alignments and forgotten karmas, of past lives, curses, wealth, and worship. His words carried the crisp weight of conviction.

But when he said, “You are meant for Vishnu,” something inside me quietly exhaled,

No. I belong to another.

Not all truths live in charts.

Sometimes, the stars may point in one direction – but the soul walks another, led by the memory of a love it never forgot.

A Simple Meal, A Sacred Hunger

That night, I sat before a grand thali – an offering of abundance, spices layered like memories, colors as vivid as the streets I had just walked. But my appetite had vanished. Not out of disinterest – but because no food can fill a hunger that isn’t of the body.

I took small bites, savoring flavors more out of reverence than desire. The servers watched, puzzled by my restraint. I offered them a gentle smile, silently thanking them for their service, their warmth. How could I explain that I had been fed in ways unseen – that something deeper within me had already been stirred, consumed, and left yearning still?

I walked back through the dimly lit alleys to my room – dust on my feet, silence in my mind, and a peculiar peace resting on my shoulders like a shawl spun of smoke and starlight.

Kashi hadn’t revealed itself in grand visions or thunderous omens. And yet, something essential had shifted.

In the stillness, it had whispered – not in words, but in presence: The true pilgrimage begins now.

And I had not even stepped into Manikarnika yet.

To Be Continued…