I came to Varanasi thinking I'd spend my days exploring temples, ghats, and the "spiritual energy" everyone talks about. But honestly? The city had very different plans for me.

It started with a simple plate of kachori-sabzi near Assi Ghat. I took one bite and actually said, "Okay… wait… what is THIS?" The flavours were so bold and comforting, it felt like the city grabbed me by the hand and said, "Forget the itinerary, taste this first."

Then someone told me about malaiyo. One spoon… and I swear, it felt like eating a sweet winter cloud. For a moment, I forgot I was here for "self-discovery" and not dessert. And the kulhad chai? Let's just say sitting by the Ganga with that warm, earthy cup in my hands felt more spiritual than anything on my list.

I came to Varanasi for peace, but I found it in the most unexpected place — on a plate.

I thought I knew what to expect — temples, crowds, selfies. Instead I got hit by the Aarti like a real tidal wave. Flames, chants, people with hands raised, and I actually got goosebumps. I'm not a sentimental dude, but on the boat at dusk, watching the city melt into reflections, I couldn't help it. Felt like some heavy stuff I didn't realize I'd been lugging slid right off.

Food carts, bargaining, old men with stories — I soaked it all in and fell asleep smiling. First time in Varanasi? Overwhelming. Worth it? Absolutely.

I cried in morning at sunrise, and I don't even know if it was the sky or something inside me. The river blushed pink and people moved like they were part of a carefully choreographed secret. A little girl sold marigolds and pressed a bunch into my hand before I could say anything. Her smile made me feel like a thief who'd stolen back a bit of childhood.

The lanes are narrow, and sometimes my shoulders brushed a stranger's sari and I felt oddly safe. At Manikarnika, life and endings sat side by side — and strangely, it made me less afraid of saying goodbye to a few small, tired things in my life. I bought a notebook from a bookstall that smelled of dust and spice and promised myself I'd write every morning.

Varanasi didn't shout. It whispered — in bells, in steam rising from cups, in the hush before the first prayer. I'm taking that hush home with me.

I didn't come to Varanasi for sightseeing. I came because I needed to breathe again. Life felt too heavy for a while — too many endings, too many unanswered questions. I thought changing my city for a few days might change my head too.

The first two days, nothing happened. I still felt the same. But then I sat at Manikarnika Ghat — not to watch the rituals, but to understand the strange strength of people who accept life fully, even when it's painful. Something inside me cracked open. Not in a bad way… more like releasing air from a balloon that's too full.

The next morning, I watched the sun rise over Ganga. Slow. Gentle. Patient. And something inside me rose with it. Varanasi didn't heal me completely. But it gave me a place to start again — and that's more than enough.

It felt unreal. I sat by the Ganga at Assi Ghat, and the water looked like liquid gold under the sunset. A pandit ji passed by chanting, "Har Har Mahadev," and suddenly I felt this warmth in my chest, like someone hugged my soul.

I wrote a line in my diary — "Kabhi kabhi sheher bhi insaan ban jaate hain… aur Varanasi aaj mujhe samajh gaya." I don't know why… but walking back through the gullies, with chai in my hand and that typical temple bell echoing, I felt more alive than I have in months.

The romance here isn't cinematic glam — it's quiet: two strangers sharing an umbrella, an old couple feeding pigeons in synchronized motion, lamps lit in tiny flames that reflect like freckles across the water. I watched people say prayers like letters sent into the sky, and somewhere between their wishes and my own, I felt an intimacy form with place itself.

If love is patience and attention, I learned both from Varanasi. I didn't leave with a possession or a souvenir. I left with the kind of memory that hums when I'm doing dishes, the kind that makes an ordinary afternoon feel possible.