Varanasi had captured my imagination even before I ever visited. It is now inconceivable to imagine a time when I didn’t know her. The ceaseless, serene, and sight-rich walks in the ghats across temples and pyres, saints and sinners, locals and visitors had cast a powerful charm and left lasting graffiti on my memory walls.
I created and destroyed until I destroyed to recreate; I walked and sat until I sat to sprint again; I left and returned until I returned to bid bye.
Constantly, like a perpetual rhythm, you
draw souls, near and distant,
echoing in zestful bells, you narrate
fables with spirited chants.
Ganga rushes in sublime sways,
her stola flickering million rays.
Imagining her journeys in time,
journaling, countless literary gems.
Kashi, Benaras, or Varanasi, the
lavish stories you bear beneath.
mists of past and mirages along,
not a trifle, yet it’s all.
‘Oh!’ the moon whispers,
‘part now, but do not forget’,
queues of time, arrested in memoir,
recall them. Don’t flip away.
A destination remains a destination, and a journey remains a journey until they come together to create a pilgrimage.