Banaras 2023 – A Journey Etched in Prayer and Poetry
- Anish Rao
- Jul 13, 2025
- 4 min read
Some places don't just stay on the map. They stay in your marrow, in the breath between thoughts, in the pause between two heartbeats. Banaras was never a destination for me. It was a calling.
In December 2023, I answered that call. What I found was not a city, but a soul woven into every ghat, every chant, every grain of morning mist rising from the sacred Ganga.
My journey began at Assi Ghat, where dawn does not break, it awakens. I had heard of Subah-e-Banaras from travelers, poets, seekers. But no retelling can prepare you for the softness of that morning. The air was cool, the light was tender, and music floated gently across the river. Flute notes curled around the mist, blending with the chants of priests and the hush of devotees. A group of yogis stretched into stillness by the river’s edge while I stood with a kulhad of chai warming my hands and heart.
At Assi, Banaras taught me that mornings can pray.
Later in the day, the rhythm shifted. The city does not slow, but it does pause to breathe. And the breath of Banaras can be found beating at Dashashwamedh Ghat. As the sun began to melt into the horizon, the ghat transformed into a stage. Shaam-e-Banaras is not an event. It is an experience.
I watched as the priests, robed in saffron, stood in symmetry with brass lamps in their hands. The Ganga Aarti began. Flames rose in circles, conch shells cried into the sky, and the air filled with an energy I can only call divine. My eyes welled up without reason. Or perhaps for every reason. In that one moment, time did not move. It bowed.
But Banaras does not flinch from the other side of life. Just a short walk away was Manikarnika Ghat — the ghat of liberation. Here, the sacred fire never sleeps. I saw cremations happen in quiet acceptance. Smoke curled into the sky with stories too old to name. Nothing about this place felt dark. If anything, it was light. Not the kind you see, but the kind you feel in your bones when you realize that endings here are really beginnings.
No journey to Varanasi is complete without witnessing the grandeur of the Kashi Vishwanath Temple, one of the twelve Jyotirlingas and the most sacred abode of Lord Shiva. Nestled on the western banks of the Ganga, the temple is not just a spiritual center but a symbol of eternal devotion and resilience. For centuries, pilgrims have thronged to this divine site seeking liberation—moksha, the final release. The air here vibrates with chanting, bells, and unwavering faith, as if time itself bows before the deity. It's said that a single visit to this temple can wash away the sins of a lifetime and bring peace to the soul. Standing in the sanctum, one doesn't just feel close to the divine—one feels part of it.
On the fourth day, I stepped into a personal chapter of this pilgrimage — Banaras Hindu University. My father had walked these grounds for five years, pursuing two postgraduate programmes in the very heart of this city. As I wandered through the wide boulevards, under ancient trees and among sandstone buildings, I felt a strange belonging. It was as if I was not just tracing my steps, but his too. There is something poetic about returning to a place you have never been to, and yet somehow remembering it through someone else’s eyes.
The Ganga, flowing beside, seemed to carry both our memories.
And then came the flavors of Banaras. You do not just eat here, you celebrate. I tasted the legendary Malaiyo — a winter miracle of air and saffron and sugar, dissolving on the tongue before the mind could even register its beauty. I wandered into narrow alleys where chaat vendors stood like guardians of spice and tang. Every plate was a burst of texture, every bite a story. From tamatar chaat to hot kachoris with sabzi,at Bengal sweets my taste buds danced in devotion.
But it wasn’t all traditional. One afternoon, I found myself at Pizzeria Vatika Café, a riverside gem. With a wood-fired pizza on my plate and the Ganga flowing beside me, I felt a different kind of peace. Sometimes, fusion brings clarity. The basil leaves reminded me that serenity can be simple, even in a city as layered as Banaras.
As I sat there watching boats float by, I realized this city had given me something I wasn’t looking for — stillness. Not the kind that comes from silence, but the kind that comes from being deeply present. Banaras doesn’t demand anything from you. It invites you to just be.
When I finally left, I didn’t feel like I was leaving a place. I felt like I was leaving a prayer that had lived itself fully. And maybe that’s what Banaras is. Not a city. Not a riverbank. Not just temples or rituals.
Banaras is a rhythm. A whisper. A mirror. A poem in every pause.
And now, a part of me lives there, forever floating in the waters of the Ganga, waiting for another sunrise on Assi Ghat.
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