26 ~ Varanasi, touching the sacred fire.

January 7

Mile and I walked to the Great Sacred Crematorium on the banks of the Ganges, the Manikarnika Ghat. This time, we headed to the Sacred Fire, the very same fire with which each family lights the piled logs that hold the body of their deceased loved one to begin the cremation. That fire which, according to Hindu tradition, was lit by Shiva 3,000 years ago and has remained burning ever since, with a caretaker by its side, turning Varanasi into one of the oldest continuously inhabited places in the world.

Its caretaker was a young man, around 20 years old, with whom we quickly became friends. He was the one who ensured its permanence.

We climbed a few stairs to reach him. We passed through a barbershop where the male relatives of the deceased have their heads shaved to begin the ceremony. There are no women in this place. Indian women are not allowed to enter the cremation grounds because it is said that crying holds back the soul of the deceased in this world. So, as you can imagine, only men are here, many, many men filling the narrow passages. Just this detail alone makes the energy and the gazes a bit heavy, like in many places in India, but intensified.

The Sacred Fire is in a small semi-open cubicle that rises over the Ganges on a first floor, right in front of the open-air crematorium on the riverbank. The view from there is immaculate: the Ganges in all its splendor, the funeral pyres burning, the smoke from the bonfires filling the air, the deceased’s relatives gathered around, and even people sitting on the steps simply meditating, absorbing the immense energy generated there. It is said that meditating in these spaces of transition between life and death carries an overwhelming power. When the soul detaches from the body, it emanates an energy of liberation, transmutation, dissolution of the ego—something otherworldly for those who can feel it. Contemplating death, in turn, gives life another meaning, and in a meditative state, all of this penetrates at unique levels. And among all that, of course, the free cows and goats enjoying the decorative flowers of the deceased as their lunch.

Yes, like a Dalí painting, where the heat of the flames penetrated your very soul.

We entered with respect and sat quietly on the floor, facing the Sacred Fire. In the background, the Ganges was fading into the sunset. The families came in with giant sticks, like torches, which they would use to ignite the funeral pyres, turning their loved ones' bodies into ashes. We were just a few centimeters from the fire. The smoke and heat were intense. Both of us closed our eyes, and without speaking, we began to meditate. We stayed like that for a few minutes.

Suddenly, I felt words. Something spoke.

"Everything is fine. Look around you. Can you grasp where you are?… You are fortunate. Just keep going, you're doing well. Just keep going…"

I took a breath, then smiled. It was a sign, one of those I had been pleading for night after night. It was also everything I needed to hear—or rather, everything I needed to feel: peace, security, and calm.

I opened my eyes to take in my surroundings. This was too much. It felt like a movie, but it was real.I was me, and I was there, in India, living everything that my eyes were seeing.

Who would have said, seven months ago, that I would be in India… India. For the first time in Asia, alone, taking on one of the biggest personal challenges of my life, making another sharp turn- this time epic- and jumping into the unknown—again. And now I was here… watching the sunset over the most sacred crematorium of the revered Ganges. Nothing seemed to make sense—or maybe it made too much sense, so much that it made me laugh.

Seven months ago, no one would have said that I would be meditating, dripping with sweat and covered in smoke, in front of the Sacred Fire in the city of legends… not even I would have said that.

The unfathomable paths of the universe.

I took that moment to put into perspective where I was. I could still see that hopeless woman in pajamas, smoking a cigarette at 1 a.m., sitting on the kitchen counter in the dark, putting one out just to light another. Staring through the back window of an apartment building in Copenhagen.A woman who seemed to be looking outside but was actually staring into nothingness, at her own frustration, at the impossibility of movement. At stillness.

But that woman had now moved, far and with great force. She had jumped, but at times, it felt more like flying.

So much had happened... I had no words. My past self didn’t understand what was happening, but she no longer needed to. She only needed to appreciate this madness unfolding around her.

I was meditating in one of the most sacred places in the world. All this magic—the smoke, the faces, the shapes, the thickness of the air.

It felt like a dream, like something unreal—but it was real.

My entire life appeared before me in flashes. How had I ended up here?

What had happened in the life of that freshly graduated psychologist, with her apartment in Buenos Aires and a normal life, to bring her to this moment, to this desperate situation?

Years of my journey flashed through my mind in a single second, like a short film. A few tears escaped—this time, tears of emotion. I could do nothing but feel grateful.

Or rather, I could do many things, but this time, among all the possible choices, I chose to be grateful for experiencing this.

Grateful for everything and every single thing that had brought me here today. For myself, for my courage. Even grateful for all the moments of unbearable pain and all the suffocating emotions that I thought would kill me but had only made me infinitely stronger.

Grateful with words so vast they could not fit in my chest.

Without a doubt, this was the most incredible place I had ever been in my entire life

I still had so many uncertainties, of course, but something was beginning to settle. Being able to push those thoughts away, like rain clouds, and choose to see the sun unfolding in front of me was a blessing. That sun that burned, that was nothing more than a sun, not answers, not truths, not resolutions, but that, for the instant in which I managed to inhabit the present, became certainty.

During those moments, everything stopped… The present was enough on its own.

In the present, there were no fears about the future nor guilt from the past. The present felt good, it felt alive, and in fact, it was the only thing I had been able to inhabit lately—both energetically and practically speaking. My mind was incapable of handling anything else without exploding or collapsing.The past was still too painful, and the future was far too uncertain.With the possibilities I had at that moment, this was the only thing I could be doing. And little by little, I was beginning to find peace in that gentle answer.

I was starting to let go of my own pressures, the detestable "shoulds," and in doing so, I had the clarity to perceive it."This" was truly the only thing that could have been."This" was the only thing that could exist now, and my body was beginning to accept it—amidst sacred smoke and sparks.

I had already let go of the idea of returning home after two long years—family gatherings, the celebrations of my country's first World Cup victory, my birthday, the images of myself in those moments. None of that was meant to happen. It simply wasn't possible anymore. And I was beginning to take responsibility for the present that was possible, leaving guilt behind. What a difficult task…

"Everything is fine for this minute that lasts the now.

This is the only thing I can inhabit for now."

Breath.

_________________

We walked along the riverbank, heading back to the city. The sunset marked the beginning of the Aarti, which here takes the form of one of the grandest and most imposing ceremonies in all of India.

The ceremony in Varanasi is so immense that it’s not only visible from land, where we usually stand, on those endless steps crowded with people stretching up to the sky… but it can also be seen from the water!

Almost a hundred little wooden boats held their places, floating on the river, waiting to witness the sacred flames. Dozens of boatmen shouting that, for 200 rupees, they would take you to see the Aarti from the beloved Ganga.

What more could one ask for?

I bargained for a better price and climbed aboard one of the boats.

I was a little surprised that we only moved a few meters across the water before settling behind several boats already positioned, waiting for the spectacle to begin. Like a game of Tetris, they all adjusted to make space, preparing for the ceremony, like floating seats, surrounded by kirtan, chants, and mantras.

Indian vendors walked from boat to boat, selling masala chai, poojas, painting bindis on foreheads, lighting incense, and carrying plates with fire for the triple purification.

The Aarti began. The fire-lit cobra candelabras swayed through the air in the hands of the orange-robed monks, tracing the shape of the Om (ॐ). This time, I watched from the water, suspended over the Ganges, while we all sang in our life jackets.

Hundreds of people in the boats and hundreds more on land, on the other side of the ceremony. Smoke, incense, and magic.Women prepared their little pooja baskets, lighting them on fire and gently placing them in the narrow gaps of the river left by the boats—almost millimetrically arranged.

My small Western mind imagined the risks of it all… floating paper and flower offerings set aflame, wooden boats, and a mass of vessels crammed so tightly together that there was barely any possibility of escape. A rather unsettling scenario.I simply entrusted myself to the gods, like they did. But once again, nothing happened. This is India…

When the Aarti ended, we all began sailing along the ghats, heading toward the main cremation site. Night had fallen, and the moon was full.

I sat alone, cross-legged at the very tip of a precarious little boat, wrapped in a life jacket that embraced me. I felt the immensity of it all, yet at the same time, the smallness of being just a tiny speck drifting along the river in a distant country, in the middle of the night, surrounded by Indian music and burning fires.

If something were to happen to me, few people would know.I felt insignificant, like an ant—naked and free at the same time.

Everything that was happening was both immense and insignificant at once. Beneath me, a sacred river filled with offerings, glowing like tiny flames swaying gently in the darkness. Above, a sky full of stars and a massive moon, on the verge of bursting. The rest was nothing but darkness.

From this place of solitude, I could take it all in: The families performing their rituals. The jokes shared between vendors. The silence of the night. The rhythmic sound of oars meeting the water as we drifted along, ever so slowly.

I closed my eyes, opened them, and closed them again. Yes, I was here.This, too, was real.

Everything I was experiencing—if this were my last night in the world—it would all be worth it. That’s what I felt.

No one knew where I was, and yet, I was floating on the Ganges, in the most sacred city in all of India, beneath a moon that bore witness to it all.

This was a gift. One I shared only with myself, one that no one else could grasp quite like I did.

I cried. I felt blessed.

It was too much beauty—and not because of a picturesque landscape, but because of the magic I saw in every corner. Because everything simply was, naturally, and I was there—awake enough to truly take it all in.

Both the internal and the external. My achievements, my courage and the encounter with the deepest part of myself.

That complete presence.

Awareness without tension—just presence.

My eyes still couldn’t believe what they were seeing. It was all too unimaginable for my heart, which had yet to fully understand why I was dressed like an Indian woman, feeling like one of them. But there I was—everything was coming to life, and I was beginning to feel that every night of desolation I had endured to get here had been worth it.

It wasn’t just the night, it wasn’t just Varanasi, it wasn’t just the river, nor was it simply overcoming my obstacles or allowing myself to be here… it was the magic of all of it together. A triumph for that little woman who, just months ago, was curled up like a ball of yarn beneath the sheets, begging for all the confusion and pain to end. It was a gift and a reward. A sign of encouragement to keep going. An inner embrace, offering answers in an ocean of uncertainty.

I was beginning to see doors open, starting to glimpse another dimension, other meanings.

Something was blessing me. Something was gifting me a feeling so unique I could never have imagined it. I didn’t know what it was, but I could feel it.

I felt proud of myself. I saw myself with a different expression.

I began to smile—with eyes full of peace.