By Anyafulugochukwu Chukwurah from Nigeria – Class of 2026
As the wispy cobwebs floating in my brain thread together to form a coherent ball of consciousness, I blink away the haze of sleep and take in my surroundings. I’m on a train, arriving in Varanasi, and the light filtering in through the dusty windows has the golden glow of early afternoon. My muscles ache slightly from the awkward angle I’ve slept in, cramped into a corner seat by the window. Outside, fragments of the city blur by, stitched together with glimpses of narrow streets, people moving about, and scooters darting like fish through the currents of humanity. I stretch, but the air here is hot and heavy, thick with humidity and a palpable sense of urgency.
As the train screeches to a halt, I brace myself for the task of navigating the packed train. Pushing through the throng of bodies in the humid, airless cabin, I finally step out onto the station platform. An immediate wave of heat slams into me, like an embrace from the post-monsoon sun, searing and relentless. The air is so dense it feels as though it has weight, pressing down on me and carrying the pungent aroma of the city: smoky incense layered over dust and damp earth. I can feel beads of sweat form at my brow and begin their slow descent, winding paths down my face.
The scene around me is chaotic, yet in that chaos, there’s an audible melody. People call out to one another in hurried, lyrical Hindi, dragging heavy colourful bags behind them. Vendors line the platform, their voices blending with the din of train whistles and the rumble of engines, each trying to catch the attention of weary travellers with chai, samosas, and garlands of bright marigold flowers. Monkeys leap effortlessly from one electrical wire to another, mischief in their eyes as they clutch stolen biscuit packets. They chatter and swing like acrobats, some even stopping to munch on their spoils as they survey the scene below with casual indifference.
But beyond the novelty and the noise, I am struck by something deeper, the realisation of the grounds on which I stand. This is Varanasi—the spiritual heart of India.
As I make my way toward the ghats, my mind drifts back to Varanasi’s history. Said to be one of the oldest continuously inhabited cities in the world, Varanasi has been a place of pilgrimage for millennia, drawing saints, scholars, and seekers of enlightenment from across the globe. The city is revered as the gateway to moksha, or liberation. Dying here, in Hindu belief, breaks the cycle of rebirth, and so many Hindus come to this city in their final days, hoping for salvation. I had always known Varanasi was a religious epicentre, but it wasn’t until a quiet afternoon at Assi Ghat that I began to understand what this really meant.
After navigating the tight cobbled streets, I reached Assi Ghat, where I settled on the steps overlooking the Ganga. The steps were still damp from the river’s rise during the recent monsoon season, and a faint earthy scent rose up from the sediment left behind. As I was gazing out at the river, a man approached me—a young Nepalese man, maybe around 28 years old, with long hair tied up in a bun. His name was Bapu, fittingly the Hindu word for “father,” and he was studying Ayurveda here in Varanasi. He began our conversation with the familiar questions any traveler in India comes to expect: “What’s your name? Where are you from?”
After my responses seemed to satisfy him, I asked him what he loved most about the city. His face lit up, and he replied with fervor, “The closeness to God.” He went on to tell me that he comes to the ghats every evening for the aarti, the ceremony held by Brahmin priests to mark the setting of the sun. This is followed by a visit to the temple, and then, he explained with a grin, he smokes marijuana. “It brings me closer to God,” he said, quickly clarifying, “no alcohol,” as if to dispel any impression that he was a mere hedonist. This city, he explained, was the holiest of holy places. “People here live to die,” he said matter-of-factly, emphasising that death here was the greatest wish of any Hindu. “There’s no better place for anyone to live.”
Intrigued by the passion behind Bapu’s statements, I asked him if there was anything he disliked about Varanasi. His face grew serious, and the crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes seemed to deepen with a touch of sadness. He described the phenomenon of foreign tourists who come to gawk at the local rituals without truly understanding their sacredness, turning the deeply personal farewell into a public spectacle. “No respect,” he said, his voice heavy with disappointment. “Take pictures of cremation, very wrong.”
His words echoed in my mind as I continued to explore Varanasi. Foreigners weren’t the only ones to blame, I realised. The reality of modern tourism means even the holiest cities have economic needs, and Varanasi is no exception. Every year, the city receives over 63 million tourists, and it cannot ignore the influx of people that brings revenue. This has led to a gentrification of the ancient city, a commercialisation of its sacred spaces. Tradition and modernity clash here in uneasy harmony, each fighting for space.
This tension became painfully apparent during my visit to the Shri Kashi Vishwanath Temple, one of Varanasi’s holiest sites. To accommodate the growing crowds, the temple has installed stanchions that guide visitors through in a steady flow, each person allowed no more than a fleeting five seconds in front of the idol. Stern-faced guards stand at every post, ushering worshipers forward with quiet but unyielding efficiency. The spiritual experience seemed almost procedural, mechanical. Exceptions, of course, were made for the visitors who are able to pay for the services of unofficial “guides” at 200 rupees, who could arrange for an extra few minutes in front of the idol.
Directly adjacent to the Shri Kashi Vishwanath Temple lies the Gyanvapi Mosque, a dilapidated and somewhat neglected structure. Built in the 17th century after the Mughal ruler Aurangzeb destroyed the Hindu temple that once stood there, the mosque’s once pristine white paint now peels and fades under the sun. Its proximity to the bustling temple displays Varanasi’s complex history and the uneasy coexistence of faiths here.
Just beyond Varanasi’s boundaries also lies Sarnath, a city devoted to Buddhism, where followers come from across the world to seek spiritual closeness. Buddhist temples with architectural designs from as far as Japan and Thailand have been built there, each dedicated to honoring the Buddha’s teachings. These places, although representing very different faiths showed me that the reverence of and love for the city stays the same within all its communities.
From everything I saw in Varanasi, despite the pains of modernisation, it was clear to me that Varanasi is truly the most unique city I had ever experienced. Walking through its sloping streets feels almost like stepping into a half-baked time machine, one where the past leaks into the present. Here, majestic castles built hundreds or even thousands of years ago stand repurposed as “heritage hotels,” draped in strings of fairy lights that cast an odd modern glow. Meanwhile, fluorescent billboards advertising chewing tobacco hang on walls of 200-year-old temples, jarring reminders of the city’s tug-of-war between old and new.
Sitting on the steps of the Durga Temple as the day drew to a close, I watched as a young girl, no more than six years old, wriggled free from her mother’s grasp and dashed up to the priest to receive his blessing. Her little hands pressed together in prayer, her face shining with joy, she embodied the ageless spirit of this city. I couldn’t help but feel awe at the power of religion to hold together a community through centuries, shaping it, grounding it, and pushing it forward despite all the forces of change and differences .
In Varanasi, I had found more than an old city. I had glimpsed a world where life and death are celebrated as two sides of the same coin, where ancient temples and modern commerce coexist, all glued together by faith. My time here revealed to me that there’s more than one way to experience God. I witnessed it in the face of the Tibetan monks as they meditated peacefully under the sweltering afternoon sun and heard it in the ancient Sanskrit chants of the morning aarti. Overwhelming, however, it taught me that the divine is not something to be sought out – it’s already here, waiting to be seen.
