Sometimes a missed train is not just a travel mishap but a quiet invitation to pause. One traveller’s delay at Varanasi Junction turned into a deeply personal discovery of stillness, surrender, and unexpected healing.
It was supposed to be a rushed morning. The 6:15 AM Vande Bharat was scheduled to leave, and like most tightly planned itineraries, everything was running late. A slow cab, a local protest, and a false sense of timing led to a quiet heartbreak on the platform as the train left without its passenger. The first emotion was anger. The second was confusion. But then came stillness. Not the passive kind that makes you restless, but the kind that gives your lungs space to breathe for the first time in a long while.
A kulhad of chai and the silence of the early morning platform revealed something the clock never does. That in the heart of chaos, there is room to pause. And in a city like Varanasi, missing a train might just be the beginning.
With no bookings and no plans, the day unfolded like a handwritten letter. Wandering without Google Maps, no social media agenda, no hotel to return to. The alleys led to ashrams, the scent of incense, cows idling in narrow lanes, silk weavers, and the unmistakable energy of a city that holds centuries in its breath. In one such corner, an elderly man recited Kabir’s verses to a quiet circle. Even without knowing every word, the experience felt like being folded into something timeless.
Later, by the Ganga, watching its endless flow, a strange kind of honesty surfaced. No expectations, no judgments, just the calm rhythm of water moving forward, always. That river does not care what you wear or what you do for a living. It just flows. And in that flow is the wisdom most of us are too busy to hear.
Manikarnika Ghat, often spoken of with hushed reverence, was not shocking. It was grounding. The smell of burning wood, the quiet mourning, the routine of it all it made death feel less like a tragedy and more like a part of life. In that space between grief and acceptance, something broke open. Grief that had gone unspoken found its shape. Not for a lost loved one but for dreams that faded, friendships that disappeared quietly, and versions of oneself that no longer fit.
As night fell, a boatman named Bhola offered a ride. His stories floated gently on the Ganga’s surface of kings, floods, old loves. And then a sentence that stayed like a tattoo: “Kashi calls everyone but never sends them back the same.” Maybe that was true. Maybe it was already happening.
The next morning did not bring temples or rituals. It brought a quiet conversation with an old pandit under a tree. No mantras, just meaning. In that dialogue about detachment, purpose, and the inner silence where real clarity hides, something deeper shifted. For the first time in months, there was no urge to document, no pressure to perform. Just stillness.
Travel is usually measured in places seen. But sometimes, the most important journeys are the ones that lead inward. The rituals were simple a diya let go at the ghat, a plate of kachori from a woman who smiled like someone’s mother, a quiet moment scribbling thoughts while a monkey tried to steal a pen.
Eventually, another train came. No reservations, just a general coach and a quiet heart. The wind hit the face like a reminder. There is no way to schedule healing. It sneaks in when plans fall apart. And that return train did not just take someone home. It returned them to themselves.
Varanasi does not promise perfection. It offers presence. And sometimes, that is all it takes to remember how to live again.
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