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 have 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 swallows me whole, leaving me with lungs blackened and bones rattled by something too ancient to name. Death walks barefoot here, sits cross-legged on the ghats, drifts by in a half-burned shroud, and whispers through the alleys like a soft murmur from the other side. But life pulses just as fiercely. Children chase kites through narrow lanes, chai stalls bubble with gossip, temple bells shake the air awake, and the streets hum with colour, chaos, and devotion. The living and the dead brush shoulders in the marketplace, in temple queues, and in the relentless push toward liberation. I stand where time folds in on itself, where ash marks foreheads, and dogs feed on human skulls as if they were juicy bones. I watch the Ganga catch fire, and the night swells with voices that don’t care if I understand 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 is 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 remains within me. It carved a space in my heart and mind, and the energy of that place lingers. And each time I leave, I am never quite the same.