Dateline: 1 and 2 December 2025. History was never my favourite subject in school. Dates and dynasties went in one ear and out the other. I could barely remember who conquered whom. Yet one name stayed with me for reasons I cannot explain: Benares. Our teacher spoke of it in slightly hushed tones, as if it were older than everything else we were studying. Only much later did I realise that Benares was Varanasi, also called Kashi, the City of Light. Same place, different names.
We took electric rickshaws part of the way. The scooters buzzed through centuries-old narrow lanes, their small headlights barely pushing back the darkness. It felt slightly clandestine, as if we were peering into the private lives of residents in the older veins of the city. Shops were still open. We caught quick, unguarded glimpses of nightly routines.
But once we reached the area near PDR Mall along Godowliya–Luxa Road, where we dismounted and continued on foot, the scene changed abruptly. The roads there were wider and far more crowded. Locals in colourful attire, tourists in more subdued tones, street pedlars, beggars, scooters, even a wandering cow or two, all negotiating the same cramped space. It was a considerable walk to the river, close to a kilometre, and the human traffic only grew thicker as we moved forward.
Eventually we were led up to the top floor of a building overlooking the ghat. From there we had a clear view of the priests standing on raised platforms, swinging massive brass lamps in slow arcs. Flames circled against the dark sky. The chanting rolled across the river, amplified by loudspeakers. It was theatrical and ceremonial, but not hollow. The rhythm of it felt practised and old.
In the far distance, beyond the bright lights of Dashashwamedh, we could make out small, steadier fires. Those would have been Manikarnika Ghat, the cremation grounds. In Varanasi, life and death share the same riverbank without fuss. Funeral pyres are said to have burned there for centuries. We did not stay until the very end of the aarti; the crowds were swelling and we slipped away before the rush began.
Varanasi has a way of compressing time. Archaeological evidence suggests settlements there as early as the first millennium BC. By the sixth century BC it was already the capital of the Kingdom of Kashi. The Buddha walked nearby in Sarnath. Centuries later, invaders came and went. Temples were destroyed, rebuilt, replaced. Yet the city endured. Mark Twain once wrote that Benares is older than history, older than tradition, older even than legend. Standing on that balcony, watching fire offered to a river that has flowed through all of it, I began to see what he meant.
The next morning we were at the ghats again, from 6am for a one-and-a-half-hour river cruise from Rani Ghat. If the night before had been spectacle, the morning was unfiltered reality. The light was still soft, the air cool but slightly choking, the city only just stirring. Boats nudged against one another as pilgrims descended the stone steps to the Ganges.
The river had crept up during the night, leaving behind a thin film of mud and dampness. We found ourselves almost absurdly anxious about getting our sandals and shoes dirtied before the day had properly begun. Each step had to be judged lest we started the morning with wet, muddy feet. We moved carefully, trying to preserve both balance and footwear.
From the boat, the ghats revealed themselves one by one. There are said to be about 84 stretching along several kilometres of riverbank, forming a kind of stone amphitheatre rebuilt largely in the eighteenth century. Above them rose temples and old palaces, their facades weathered by sun and monsoon.At some steps, men in loincloths soaped themselves briskly. Women in bright saris dipped into the water, emerging with wet hair plastered to their backs. Priests conducted small rituals for families seated cross-legged on the platforms. Further along, smoke drifted upwards from the cremation ghats. The remains of funeral pyres smouldered quietly. Wood was stacked high, weighed and sold. Death here was not hidden behind hospital curtains. It was part of the same river traffic as bathing, prayer and laundry.
And the air was dirty. Not hazy, but simply dirty. A mix of smoke, exhaust fumes, damp river mud and perhaps something industrial that clung to the nostrils. Pollution. There is no other word for it. Whatever sanctity the Ganges carries in scripture, the lungs experience something far more earthly.
It is easy to call Varanasi chaotic. It is crowded, noisy and not particularly clean. Yet there is an order beneath the apparent disorder. Somewhere beyond the riverfront lies Banaras Hindu University, one of Asia’s largest residential universities. The city is famed for its silk weaving and for the Benares gharana of classical music. Sacredness and commerce, scholarship and smoke, all coexist without apology.
By 7.30am, our time at the Varanasi ghats was drawing to a close. We retreated to our hotel, visiting a silk merchant along the way. In the afternoon, we made our way to the railway station to catch the seven-hour Vande Bharat Express to Agra.
It is often described as the pride of Indian Railways, a modern semi high-speed electric train and among the fastest in regular service. Inside, the train was comfortable enough, clean and efficient. We were served some snacks and some time later, a full meal. Outside the window, we watched the plains rolled by in fading light.
Agra station, when we arrived, was unsurprisingly dark, grimy and smelt of burnt ash. Exiting, we picked our way carefully through the dirt on the ground towards the waiting coach. It was a different coach from the one that had carried us from Shravasti, though only a temporary arrangement. While we were on the train and later asleep at the hotel, our original coach was being driven from Varanasi with our bags. It would rejoin us the next morning in Agra.
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| Photobombed by the lady in the background |
We could not help but worry about the resilience and stamina of the drivers. After covering such a long distance overnight, would they still be fresh enough to continue the journey for the remaining few days?
By the time we reached the Holiday Inn Agra, it was close to midnight. We had left the City of Light behind and were now heading towards another monument, raised by another empire in another age.
History, which once bored me in a classroom, had followed us all the way from Benares to Varanasi and now onwards to Agra. Only this time, the information did not slip quietly out of the other ear. It clung to the smell of pollution, to the mud on the steps of the Ganges and to the sound of bells ringing into the night.
Next:
Nepal-India Day 16: Delhi and goodbye
Nepal-India Day 15: Jaipur to Delhi
Nepal-India Day 14: Jaipur
Nepal-India Day 13: Agra
And the air was dirty. Not hazy, but simply dirty. A mix of smoke, exhaust fumes, damp river mud and perhaps something industrial that clung to the nostrils. Pollution. There is no other word for it. Whatever sanctity the Ganges carries in scripture, the lungs experience something far more earthly.
It is easy to call Varanasi chaotic. It is crowded, noisy and not particularly clean. Yet there is an order beneath the apparent disorder. Somewhere beyond the riverfront lies Banaras Hindu University, one of Asia’s largest residential universities. The city is famed for its silk weaving and for the Benares gharana of classical music. Sacredness and commerce, scholarship and smoke, all coexist without apology. 
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