20 ~ Arriving at the Sacred City.

January 5

From the moment we caught sight of the station a few meters away until we finally set foot on it, almost an hour had passed. The first thing we did when we got off the train was negotiate the price with the tuk-tuks, half in English, half in Hindi.

It was nighttime. The drivers hovered around us like fresh meat. Varanasi is a big city, and we had to cross it completely. The three of us and our bags squeezed into a tuk-tuk about a meter wide. The street was pure chaos, and saying "pure chaos" in India—where everything is already quite chaotic—is really saying a lot.

Motorcycles, cars, and tuk-tuks sped by in all directions. Bicycle taxis, free-roaming cows, masses of people, glowing signs, and the endless noise of horns filled every inch of space. And there was a beautiful picture: groups of people and animals gathered around bonfires in the middle of the street, stretching their hands toward the flames, reminding us that we were still in the heart of winter.

Once again, the famous obstacle-dodging game that can’t help but make you frown, forcing you to figure out how all of this manages to "function" together without at least causing a minor disaster. It's impossible not to crack a smile—a mix of conflicting feelings, like everything in India: adrenaline, slight concern for your life, and admiration all at once. These beings could control everything if they wanted to. This, too, is Indian magic—that ability to function in chaos. It's impressive.

We stayed at a guesthouse that my friend Ilo knew, half a block from the river. From the moment I saw the city on the banks of the Ganga, it was love at first sight.

We arrived at night. We were greeted by a friend of hers who had been staying in Varanasi for two months. There are no streams to bathe in here, no mountains, and no green spaces. Instead, there are crowds of people, immense spatial, visual, and atmospheric pollution, and of course, the river is no exception. You can't swim in it, and just dipping a foot in—as a non-Indian—would be considered an act of bravery that, for "newcomers," would border on recklessness.

"What have you been doing here for two months?" Ilo asked him.

"I'm writing a play. I don't have much money. I found a nice room, and the food is amazing—they make it themselves. The thali is incredible, and they have these chocolate balls you have to try; you'll go crazy for them. When I get bored, I go for a walk, grab a bhang lassi, and sit at the cremation grounds. I like the smaller one—Harishchandra Ghat—it's more underground and less conservative. It's for those who can't afford the main cremation ground or for the most marginalized groups in society: the lower castes, the dalits, the 'untouchables.' I sit on the benches and spend my time there."

Bhang lassi is a yogurt drink with Indian cannabis sold at small street stalls.

Somehow, marijuana, spirituality, and Shiva are connected here. It is said that Shiva used marijuana for spiritual rituals and consciousness expansion—ways of accessing powers to go beyond bodily limits and open other connections. Evidently, over the years, this evolved into yogurt form.

It is often consumed during Indian festivals honoring the god, but this is Shiva's city, and by extension, the city of bhang lassi par excellence. So, it doesn't matter what day it is—bhang here is an everyday currency. The devotions happen daily.

There are several street vendors selling it "legally," offering different flavors and potency levels. Honestly, it hits quite hard and has become popular among young and curious tourists.

The Great Varanasi has room for every kind of traveler.

We wandered through the narrow, zig-zagging alleys where no more than two people can walk side by side. Their curved shapes and designs are as irregular as labyrinths, and every three houses or so, there's a mini-shrine. I'm not exaggerating.

Most of them are like a square embedded in the wall, almost always painted entirely red, housing a statue of some deity, a little bell to ring—like in every Hindu temple—incense smoke that saturates the air with magic, and a space for offerings from passersby: money, food, cigarettes, or flowers.

Many of them are the well-known gods. Others are simply spaces or formless shapes that represent forms. India, you’d never understand it, a friend would say.

They aren’t faces or bodies—sometimes they’re just shapes, like clay molded to evoke countless representations. So, it’s not about what it is, but what it represents. Clearly, they understood everything: the infinity of possibilities.

I’ve never seen a place with so many temples packed together. Here, spirituality is unavoidable, even if you wanted to avoid it. I think that’s what I like. Everything, everything reminds you of it at every step.

Every little street is filled with street vendors. Street food, local cuisine, vegetables, spices, the famous Indian sweets—the most gleaming stalls where many would want to stay—coconut sellers, chai stands, shops selling Indian clothing and natural-fiber garments, and incense vendors. Bhang lassi, Hindu statuettes, sadhus with metal lunchboxes for offerings, children selling poojas—all of this is wrapped in the brightest colors you could imagine.

Meanwhile, somewhere in the background, you can hear mantras or Vedic chants drifting from an unseen source. So, as you might imagine, walking through here is one of the most authentic experiences you can have in India.

Many of the stalls are so small that the vendors can only sit cross-legged, surrounded by their goods. Others simply occupy spots on the ground or wooden carts with wheels.

Seasonal fruits and vegetables, ancient pan-scale balances representing justice, and newspaper bags used to wrap everything you purchase. Bidis—Indian cigarettes rolled in natural leaves—are hand-crafted here, along with colorful dough snacks wrapped in a leaf and folded into a little package ready for the customer.

Time artisans...

Ilo’s friend gave us a tour I preferred to forget. I didn’t drink bhang lassi, nor did I want to connect with the city in that way, so that’s exactly what I did—I forgot it. And the next day, I decided to wake up early to see the city my own way.

After weaving through the labyrinthine alleys, we went down to the cremation grounds.

We walked along the ghats, following the edge of the Ganga.

Suddenly, in the distance, as if turning a corner, the fires on the riverbank began to appear. You could see the flames like bonfires painting the night orange, making you feel their warmth even though we were still far away.

I will never forget that first approach or how I felt.

It was late. The middle of winter. Everything was empty enough to resemble a zombie movie or the arrival of the apocalypse.

I tried to connect with what I was seeing: the famous Ganges cremation grounds I had heard so much about—both good and bad. The place of legends.

Places like this evoke very different impressions in each person. I had a lot of respect for it. I still didn't know how it would affect me, but I had tried to prepare myself mentally—if that's even possible.

I walked slowly, both outwardly and inwardly, with the calmness needed to open my soul, to let myself be pierced by the experience, to perceive my sensations, and to become aware that what lay beneath the flames were human bodies.

I closed my eyes. I visualized it. I constructed an image, a mental representation, but no matter how much I tried, I did not feel sadness, nor pain. It was more like feeling nothing—a neutral sensation. Without color.

Like a kind of calm, an absence of stimuli.

What is this sensation? Peace? Is this what death feels like here?