The air felt heavy that night, as if it carried the weight of my unspoken grief. For over a year, I had been drowning in the wreckage of my marriage, clinging to a fading hope that my wife would return to me. I had poured everything into her—love, trust, patience—only to be met with pain, insults, and a hatred that cut deeper than I could have imagined.
The discovery of her illicit relationship had shattered me, leaving me teetering on the edge of a breakdown. My heart was a battlefield, scarred and weary, and my mind was a storm of questions with no answers.I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, when something inexplicable happened. It was as if a voice—soft, urgent, otherworldly—whispered in the darkness, urging me to leave, to seek solace in a place I had never known. “Book tickets to Varanasi,” it said. Without hesitation, without logic, I grabbed my phone and booked a flight.
The decision felt reckless, almost absurd, but it was the first time in months I felt a flicker of purpose. Varanasi. The holy city. A place I knew nothing about, yet something within me believed it held the answers to my emotional trauma.In the days leading up to the trip, I threw myself into research. I read about Varanasi’s ancient ghats, its labyrinthine alleys, its sacred rituals along the Ganges.
I learned of its spiritual weight, a city where life and death danced in harmony, where pilgrims sought liberation and sinners sought redemption. The more I read, the more I felt drawn to it, as if Varanasi was calling me to unravel the knots of my pain.
When I arrived, the city hit me like a wave. The chaos of honking rickshaws, the scent of incense and marigolds, the vibrant hum of life—it was overwhelming yet strangely comforting. I wandered aimlessly at first, letting the city guide me. My heart was raw, my mind a tangle of questions: Why had she betrayed me? Could I ever heal? What was I even searching for?Then, I saw him.
On the steps of Assi Ghat, amidst the throng of pilgrims and priests, sat a man who seemed to belong to another world. He was a whirlwind of contradictions—wild yet serene, chaotic yet centered. His cap was tilted at an odd angle, his jacket patched and worn, and a black tote bag rested beside him, a small black cloth batwa tied to it like an extension of his soul.
He puffed on a chillam, the sharp scent of weed mingling with the river’s damp air. In his hands, he held a King Cobra, its sleek body coiling around his fingers as if it were a pet. I watched, mesmerized, as he spoke effortlessly in a dozen languages—Gujarati, Marathi, Tamil, Telugu, Bengali, Japanese, English, and more—each word laced with an uncanny wisdom.I don’t know what compelled me to sit beside him. Maybe it was desperation, maybe curiosity. “Who are you?” I asked, my voice barely audible over the Ganges’ gentle lapping.He turned to me, his eyes piercing yet kind, and grinned. “Raju Aghori,” he said simply, as if that explained everything. I didn’t know what is real Aghor and Aghori , but I felt the weight of his presence. Without prompting, he began to speak about me—my pain, my betrayal, the affair that had torn my world apart.
It was as if he had peered into my soul and seen every fracture. “Woh tujhe chhod ke chali jayegi,” he said, his voice low but certain. She will leave you and go. The words hit me like a thunderbolt, not because they were a revelation, but because they confirmed what I had been too afraid to accept.
I sat there, stunned, as he puffed on his chillam and stroked the cobra’s head. Raju spoke of life, of impermanence, of the Ganges that carried both ashes and prayers. He told me that pain was not my enemy but my teacher, that betrayal had cracked me open to find something deeper within. I didn’t understand half of what he said—his words were a blend of philosophy, mysticism, and riddles—but they soothed me in a way I hadn’t expected. For the first time in months, I felt seen, not as a broken man, but as someone capable of rising from his ruins.
Varanasi became my refuge in those days. I walked its ghats at dawn, watching the sun paint the river gold. I sat through aartis, letting the chants and flames wash over me. I wandered its narrow lanes, where cows and sadhus shared space with chai sellers and tourists. The city didn’t erase my pain, but it gave me a place to hold it, to examine it without fear. Raju’s words echoed in my mind, not as a prophecy of doom, but as a strange kind of liberation. She might leave, but I would survive. I would find my answers, not in her, but in myself.
Looking back, I realize Varanasi didn’t fix me. It didn’t need to. It gave me something far greater—a chance to sit with my wounds, to breathe through the chaos, to glimpse a strength I didn’t know I had. Raju Aghori, with his wild energy and cryptic wisdom, was the spark that lit the way. And the Ganges, eternal and unyielding, carried my questions downstream, leaving me lighter, if not whole.
My Varanasi – My Salvation.
