Prakash Tripathi
The Invitation
Raghav had spent most of his life chasing stories, following leads across cities, through crowded streets, quiet villages, and hidden corners of the world. But Banaras was different. Banaras had always fascinated him. The city’s name alone carried an aura of mysticism, an invitation to a deeper understanding of life, and death. Known as the City of Light, Banaras promised stories that were not written in books but lived in the very air, in the sacred flow of the Ganges, in the faces of the sadhus, in the temples that stood still while time passed by. The call of Banaras was a whisper that beckoned the soul, and Raghav felt that whisper in his heart every time he thought of it.
It wasn’t until an assignment from a well-known travel magazine landed in his lap that Raghav finally had the opportunity to visit. The editor, who was aware of Raghav’s reputation for uncovering stories that touched the very soul of a place, had instructed him to write an article about Banaras. This wasn’t just a tourist guide or a shallow feature; they wanted something deeper, something that captured the essence of Banaras.
As Raghav packed his bags in his apartment in Delhi, the excitement was palpable. His mind raced with possibilities—what would he discover in this ancient city? How would he capture the spirit of Banaras in words?
The train ride was long and filled with anticipation. Raghav watched the changing landscapes from his window, the vast fields turning into the cluttered, chaotic streets of Varanasi. The air began to feel different as they neared the city. It was thick with a strange mixture of sacred incense, burning wood, and the pungent smell of the Ganges River, which he could already hear from a distance. This city was alive in a way that few others were—its rhythm had been beating for centuries, unaffected by time.
When he arrived at the Varanasi train station, Raghav felt a deep sense of awe. The station was bustling with travelers, both locals and tourists, all making their way to different parts of the city. A sense of urgency filled the air, but there was also a calmness that seemed to come from the old structures and the spiritual history that hung heavy in the atmosphere. He took a taxi to his guesthouse, a modest yet charming establishment near the ghats. The building had seen better days, but there was something about it that felt inviting. The weathered stone walls and wooden windows gave it an old-world charm.
As Raghav entered the guesthouse, he was greeted by the innkeeper, an elderly man with a smile that seemed to stretch across his weathered face. The man’s deep-set eyes, however, held a certain mystery—like he knew things that no one else did.
“You are here for Banaras,” the man said, his voice low but welcoming. “But remember, Banaras is not a city for travelers. It is a city for seekers. Be ready to listen.”
Raghav was intrigued but didn’t ask any more questions. After a brief rest, he decided to head out. The Ganges was just a short walk away, and he knew he had to see it—had to feel it—before anything else.
Walking down the narrow lanes toward the ghats, Raghav was struck by how the city seemed to blend the sacred and the everyday in a way that was impossible to ignore. Children played on the streets, women in bright saris carried baskets of flowers, and men sat at small tea stalls, sipping chai and discussing matters that seemed both trivial and profound. The noise, the colors, the smells—it all wrapped around him like a blanket, enveloping him in its world.
And then, he saw it.
The Ganges stretched before him like a living entity, its surface reflecting the soft hues of the setting sun. Boats dotted the river, carrying people across from one ghat to another. The air was filled with the sound of chants, the fragrance of incense, and the occasional bell ringing from the temples. As Raghav stood at the edge of the river, he could feel the pull of the city on his soul, a tug that seemed to say, “Here, you are home.”
He had expected to feel awe, and he did. But what he didn’t expect was the overwhelming feeling that Banaras was watching him. It was as though the city had eyes—eyes that saw beyond the surface. Raghav couldn’t shake off the sense that there was something waiting for him here, something beyond the simple beauty of the river and the ghats.
Just then, he was approached by a young woman in a simple kurta and dupatta. She had a warm smile and a no-nonsense demeanor that immediately put Raghav at ease.
“You look lost,” she said, her voice soft but direct. “Are you new to Banaras?”
Raghav nodded, smiling sheepishly. “Yes. I’m here to write about the city. I’m looking for stories.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Stories? Banaras has too many stories. But no one comes here to find them. They come here to be found by them.”
Raghav was intrigued. “And you know where these stories are?”
She smiled again, this time a little more knowingly. “I know a few places. But it’s not the places you need to find. It’s the people. Banaras is a city of people. If you know how to listen, the stories will come to you.”
Her name was Priya, and she offered to show Raghav around. She wasn’t a guide, she explained, just someone who had lived by the ghats for her entire life. Her knowledge of the city was as deep as the river itself.
As they walked along the riverbank, Priya shared her views on Banaras, speaking of the legends, the temples, and the way the city had changed over the years. But she spoke with a quiet reverence, as though the city itself was sacred.
“Banaras does not give its secrets easily,” she said, as they passed a temple on the edge of the ghats. “It’s a city that demands patience. If you come with a clear heart, it will reveal its soul to you.”
Raghav listened intently, captivated by her words. The journey ahead was no longer just about writing an article—it was about uncovering the layers of a city that had seen the rise and fall of empires, witnessed countless lives come and go, and stood as a timeless witness to history.
The Mysterious Letter
The following morning, Raghav woke up early to catch the first rays of light over the Ganges. The sun had barely crept above the horizon, but the ghats were already alive. Sadhus, draped in saffron robes, were performing their morning rituals, and the scent of incense was thick in the air. The sky turned a soft orange, casting a gentle glow over the river that seemed to hum with an energy that was both calming and energizing.
Raghav walked along the ghats, his camera slung over his shoulder, but his mind distracted by the experiences of the day before. He felt the weight of Priya’s words lingering in his thoughts. “Banaras has too many stories. They don’t come to you, you must come to them.”
He had been to cities across the world, interviewing people, learning their tales, but Banaras felt different. There was something more here, something deeper. It wasn’t just the city or the river; it was as though the very air itself held stories, waiting to be heard.
As Raghav made his way to Manikarnika Ghat, the most sacred of all the ghats, something caught his eye. Tucked under a weathered stone slab was a small, crumpled piece of paper. Curiosity tugged at him, and he bent down to retrieve it.
The letter was old—faded and worn, as though it had been buried under centuries of dust. The handwriting was elegant but shaky, written in a flowing script that was almost indecipherable. Raghav carefully smoothed it out, his eyes scanning the words. The letter was addressed to someone named “Devika” and seemed to speak of something hidden, something sacred in Banaras.
The first few lines read:
“Devika, I have hidden it where the river meets the sky. Beneath the ancient stones of the city, the secret sleeps. I fear time is running out. Do not delay.”
Raghav’s heart skipped a beat. The letter was not just a message; it felt like a cry for help. And then, the letter signed off with a name that intrigued him even more: Arunachala.
He tucked the letter into his bag, a sense of unease settling in his chest. Who was Devika? Why had this letter been hidden here? And who was Arunachala? Raghav felt a strange pull to find answers. The mystery had begun, and he knew that he could not leave it unsolved.
Raghav showed the letter to Priya later that day, hoping she might shed some light on its significance. As he handed it to her, he noticed the sudden change in her demeanor. Her eyes widened, and her hand trembled slightly as she held the paper.
“I… I know this name,” she said softly, almost to herself.
“Who is Devika?” Raghav asked, his voice tinged with curiosity.
Priya’s face grew pale as she studied the letter, her brow furrowing. “Devika was… a musician, a legend of Banaras. She lived here more than a century ago. They say she was the last to play the lost raga—the one that could either heal or destroy a person’s soul.” Priya paused, looking at Raghav as if measuring her words carefully.
Raghav sat up straighter. “A lost raga? What do you mean?”
Priya glanced around, ensuring they weren’t overheard. “The raga was composed by Arunachala, a sage who lived in Banaras centuries ago. It is said that the raga was so powerful that it could bind a person’s soul to the city, for better or worse. Some say that Devika found it, and when she played it, she disappeared. No one ever saw her again.”
Raghav felt a chill run down his spine. “So you think this letter is… real? You think Devika really existed?”
Priya hesitated. “No one knows for sure. Over the years, the story of Devika and the raga has turned into a legend, a myth. But there are still those who believe in the power of the raga—and in Devika’s curse.”
Raghav looked at the letter again, his mind racing. If what Priya said was true, then the letter he had found wasn’t just a piece of forgotten history. It was a key—one that could lead him to the truth behind Devika’s disappearance and the mysterious raga.
He decided that he needed to learn more about this raga. Was it really lost? Was it hidden somewhere in the city? And most importantly—was Devika still alive in some form, her spirit tied to Banaras forever?
The next day, Raghav went to visit the Varanasi University’s music department. Priya had mentioned that there was a musician there, an old man by the name of Baba Shankar, who might know more about the raga. Baba was a historian of classical music and was said to have devoted his life to studying ancient ragas and melodies.
Raghav found Baba Shankar in a small, dimly lit room filled with dusty books and musical instruments. The elderly man, who had a long white beard and kind eyes, welcomed Raghav into his space.
“Ah, you seek the raga of Devika,” Baba Shankar said, without Raghav even mentioning it. “It is a powerful one, but be warned—there are many who have sought it and paid the price.”
Raghav’s heart raced. “You know about it? You know where it is?”
Baba Shankar nodded slowly, his hands trembling as he reached for an old manuscript on his desk. “The raga was hidden long ago by Arunachala. But over time, it became lost to the world—lost even to music itself. Only a few know of its true power.”
Raghav leaned forward. “And you know the raga’s secret? How do I find it?”
Baba Shankar’s gaze hardened. “Finding the raga is not like finding a song—it is a journey. The city itself holds the key. But remember, once you unlock the raga, there is no going back. It will change you.”
Raghav was determined. He had come to Banaras for a story, but now, it seemed, he had stumbled upon something far bigger—a mystery that reached deep into the city’s soul.
The Music of the Past
The next few days in Banaras unfolded like a dream, a mixture of reality and myth, each moment carrying a sense of urgency. Raghav had come here to write about the city’s spiritual allure, its ancient rituals, and its bustling streets, but now, he was caught up in something that transcended mere storytelling. There was a pull, an invisible thread connecting him to a long-lost raga, and to Devika, a woman whose music had seemingly vanished into the city’s depths. Each time he thought about the letter he had found, its cryptic message about the river and the sky, his resolve to uncover the truth grew stronger.
Raghav met Priya again, and together, they visited places that held secrets only the city knew. They wandered through narrow alleyways filled with vendors selling incense and trinkets, passing by temples whose walls were covered with forgotten inscriptions. Banaras was alive in its own mysterious way, every corner hiding something—something ancient, something divine.
But it wasn’t until Raghav returned to Baba Shankar’s small room that he began to understand the weight of what he was seeking.
Baba Shankar had agreed to help him—reluctantly at first, but now with an intensity that surprised Raghav. The old man’s eyes glowed with a fire that betrayed his age. He led Raghav to a hidden corner of the music department, where old scrolls and manuscripts were stored, carefully preserved over centuries. Dust hung thick in the air, but Raghav couldn’t help but feel that the place was filled with the echoes of long-forgotten melodies.
Baba Shankar pulled out a weathered manuscript. “This is the one,” he said softly, as if speaking to the raga itself. “Arunachala composed it over two lifetimes—one in Banaras, and another in the Himalayas. They say that the raga is a bridge between the material and spiritual worlds. When played, it brings clarity, but it also reveals the deepest fears of the soul. It is said that only a pure heart can complete the raga, and those who are not ready will be consumed by it.”
Raghav’s heart pounded in his chest as Baba opened the manuscript. The music notes on the page were elegant, curling like the script of an ancient language. But they didn’t look like any music Raghav had ever seen. The notes were irregular, sometimes overlapping, with no conventional patterns. It was as if the music was alive, changing with every glance.
“Can you play it?” Raghav asked, his voice tinged with anticipation.
Baba Shankar’s hands trembled as he gently touched the edges of the manuscript. “No one has played it completely in over a century. Devika, the last to attempt it, disappeared without a trace the night she finished it. But the last note… it has been lost. Banaras, it seems, has hidden it from the world.”
“How can I complete it?” Raghav asked, his mind racing. “What’s the missing note? Where do I find it?”
Baba Shankar paused, his gaze fixed on Raghav. “You must find the note not with your mind, but with your soul. The raga is not something you simply play—it is something you live. Banaras is full of music. But it is also full of silence. The answer lies in the spaces between the notes. When you find that silence, the raga will be complete.”
Raghav tried to process Baba’s words. He had always thought of music as a sequence of notes, something logical, something measurable. But this… this was different. It was as if the raga was a living entity, one that could only be understood through experience, through immersion in Banaras itself.
“What do you mean by ‘the spaces between the notes’?” Raghav asked, still trying to grasp the idea.
Baba Shankar smiled faintly. “The answer is in the city, in its rhythms. It is in the quiet moments by the river when no one speaks, when the city is still. It is in the air of devotion that hangs thick in the temples, in the sound of the bell that tolls at dawn. Only when you are truly in tune with Banaras will you be able to hear the note you seek.”
Raghav felt a shift in his understanding. It wasn’t just about finding the missing piece of music—it was about understanding Banaras on a deeper level, immersing himself in its history, its sounds, its silences.
The next few days were spent in a haze of exploration. Raghav wandered the ghats at dawn, watching as devotees offered flowers to the Ganges, their voices barely a whisper as they prayed. He sat in temples, listening to the chants of priests as incense burned, curling up into the air like the lingering notes of a song. He spent hours at the river, the sound of the water lapping against the stones filling his ears, trying to understand the silence Baba had spoken of.
Priya joined him often, guiding him to hidden corners of Banaras that were less traveled. She introduced him to people—artists, priests, musicians, and sages—each of whom had their own story about the city. But none of these stories were about the past. They were about the present, about the way Banaras continued to live in the hearts of its people, in the rhythm of its streets, in the breath of its Ganges.
One evening, as the sun set over the river, Priya took Raghav to a small temple by the water. It was a quiet, secluded place, hidden behind a row of shops. No one seemed to be around, and the air felt heavier than usual, as though something ancient was stirring in the air.
Raghav sat by the temple, his eyes fixed on the river. The wind was still, and the only sound was the occasional murmur of a distant prayer. It was here, in this stillness, that Raghav first felt it—the missing note. It wasn’t a sound at all. It was a feeling, a presence that hovered just beyond the edges of his consciousness. For the first time, Raghav understood what Baba Shankar had meant. The raga wasn’t something to be played. It was something to be felt.
The next morning, Raghav returned to Baba Shankar’s room. He was ready. He had found the silence, the space between the notes. But he still had one question.
“How do I play it?” Raghav asked, his voice trembling with anticipation.
Baba Shankar gave him a knowing smile. “You don’t. The raga will play you.”
The Hidden Raga
Raghav’s days in Banaras were becoming a blur. He had come with a simple mission: to capture the spirit of the city, its colors, its sounds, its soul. But now, the city had taken hold of him in a way he hadn’t anticipated. He wasn’t just an observer anymore. He was part of the story, a small thread woven into the vast tapestry that stretched back thousands of years.
The raga was no longer just a melody—it was a living thing, a mystery that pulsed in the very air he breathed. It was in the rustling of the leaves by the Ganges, in the distant sound of temple bells, in the whispered prayers of the devotees who came to seek blessings from the river. Each of these elements was a note, part of the larger composition that defined Banaras itself.
Raghav woke up early on the fourth day of his search. The sun had barely risen, and the sky was a soft violet, the first rays of light barely brushing the surface of the river. He walked silently to the ghats, his footsteps echoing on the stone steps that led down to the water. There was something sacred about the early morning hours in Banaras, a quiet reverence that surrounded the river as it awaited the day.
At the edge of the Ganges, Raghav paused. The river, so vast and eternal, seemed to beckon him, as if inviting him to understand its depth, its power. It was here, at this moment, that he felt a strange sensation—a connection between himself and the raga. The stillness of the river was like a note suspended in time, waiting to be completed.
He closed his eyes, letting the sound of the water and the distant chants fill his mind. In the silence between the sounds, he heard it—a faint, almost imperceptible melody. It was the missing note, the one that Baba Shankar had spoken of. But it wasn’t something he could grasp with his mind. It was something deeper, something his soul had to recognize.
Raghav sat down by the river, the cold stone pressing against his legs, and he let himself drift into a trance-like state. He had no idea how long he sat there, but when he opened his eyes again, he felt a clarity that had eluded him for days. The raga was not just a piece of music—it was a map. Banaras was the key, and he was the one meant to unlock it.
Priya appeared beside him, her face calm but curious. “You look like you’ve seen something,” she said softly.
Raghav looked at her, his eyes wide with understanding. “It’s not about playing the raga. It’s about becoming the raga.”
Priya sat beside him, her gaze turning to the river. “Banaras has a way of revealing truths when you’re ready. Most people come here looking for answers, but the city doesn’t give them. It just asks more questions. You’ve found the answer, haven’t you?”
Raghav nodded. “It’s not in the music. It’s in the silence between the notes. It’s in the spaces where time doesn’t exist, where the past and future collide.”
Priya’s eyes sparkled. “That’s why Banaras has always been a city of eternal mystery. It’s not bound by time. And neither is the raga. It’s not meant to be completed. It’s meant to be experienced.”
The next day, Raghav went back to Baba Shankar. He didn’t need to ask if he was right. He knew. The answer had come to him, quietly, in the stillness by the Ganges.
Baba Shankar greeted him with a knowing smile. “You’ve heard it, haven’t you?”
Raghav nodded. “I think I’ve found the missing note. But I don’t know how to explain it.”
Baba Shankar gestured for Raghav to sit. “The raga isn’t meant to be explained. It’s meant to be felt. Music, true music, is not about playing an instrument—it’s about letting the music play you.”
Raghav sat down, absorbing the old man’s words. “But how do I experience it? How do I complete it?”
“You don’t,” Baba Shankar said simply. “You live it.”
Raghav was silent for a moment. The enormity of what Baba had said was sinking in. The raga wasn’t something he could finish—it was something he had to become. Banaras wasn’t just a city to observe; it was a city to inhabit, to live within. The music of the city, the ancient melodies, were all part of a larger composition. He wasn’t just a visitor in Banaras; he was a participant in its song.
Baba Shankar leaned forward. “You must go to the places that are hidden. The ones no one speaks about. There, you will find the true meaning of the raga.”
The old man’s words haunted Raghav as he made his way through the narrow, winding lanes of Banaras. He followed his instincts, letting his feet guide him through the city’s labyrinthine streets. There were no maps here—only the rhythm of the city, its heartbeat, which Raghav was slowly beginning to understand.
He found himself at a small, forgotten temple, tucked away behind a row of old buildings. The air here was thick with the scent of incense, and the sound of a distant bell echoed faintly in the background. There was no one around, just the quiet murmur of the river and the occasional rustle of leaves in the wind.
As he entered the temple, Raghav felt a shift. It was as though the world outside had faded away, leaving only the present moment. The air inside the temple was heavy with the weight of centuries. The walls were adorned with intricate carvings of deities, their eyes staring down at him. At the center of the temple was a stone altar, upon which rested a small, silver sitar.
Raghav approached the altar and gently touched the sitar. As his fingers brushed the strings, a deep resonance filled the air—a sound unlike anything he had ever heard. It wasn’t music, exactly, but something between sound and silence. It was the raga, incomplete yet whole, a melody that had no beginning or end.
For the first time, Raghav understood. The raga wasn’t a song to be played. It was a force, a current that flowed through the city, through its people, through time itself. It was the heart of Banaras, the rhythm that pulsed beneath everything.
Raghav closed his eyes, letting the sound wash over him, and for a moment, he felt at peace. The raga had found him.
The Encounter
The days in Banaras passed with a strange, almost surreal quality. Raghav no longer felt like an outsider, wandering the streets in search of answers. Instead, he felt like part of the city, like a note in a song that was being played in real time, surrounded by sounds and silences that spoke directly to his soul. The raga, the missing piece of the puzzle, was no longer an abstract idea—it was something he could almost taste, feel, and hear in every quiet moment by the Ganges, in the spaces between the bells of distant temples, and in the murmur of prayers that filled the air at dusk.
Raghav’s mornings were spent by the river, his feet dipped in the sacred waters, trying to absorb everything Banaras had to offer. Priya continued to accompany him, her insights guiding him through the layers of the city’s history and spirituality. Yet, something was still missing—an intangible connection that he couldn’t quite place.
It wasn’t until one evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, that Raghav felt the presence he had been unknowingly searching for. It was a sound at first, faint but distinct. It was the deep resonance of a sitar, its strings trembling with an energy that felt ancient, alive, and full of sorrow. The melody was neither joyful nor sad—it was a mixture of both, an endless loop of emotion that seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere at once.
Raghav followed the sound, his heart quickening with each step, as if drawn by an invisible thread. The sound led him through narrow streets and winding alleyways, far from the well-worn tourist paths. The city seemed to change as he ventured deeper—becoming quieter, more intimate. The bustling market sounds faded, replaced by the soft, delicate strings of the sitar.
Finally, he arrived at a small courtyard, tucked behind a crumbling building. In the center of the courtyard sat a woman, her back turned to him. She was playing the sitar with a grace and ease that suggested she had been playing for lifetimes, as though the instrument itself had become a part of her. Raghav stopped dead in his tracks, unable to take his eyes off her. There was something about the way she played, something so hauntingly familiar.
The woman was dressed in simple clothes, her hair loosely tied back, her face illuminated by the soft light of a lantern. As she played, her fingers danced over the strings with an effortless fluidity that made the music feel like it was flowing from the very air around them. Raghav couldn’t help but feel that the melody was speaking directly to him, its haunting notes stirring something deep within him.
He stepped forward, but his foot caught on a loose stone. The woman’s head turned sharply, and for a moment, their eyes met. Raghav felt as though time itself had stopped. Her gaze was piercing, yet soft, like she had known him for years. There was something in her eyes—something ancient, something profound. It was as if the woman had been waiting for him all along.
She didn’t speak at first. Instead, she set the sitar down gently beside her and stood up. Her presence was both powerful and serene, like a force of nature that could neither be contained nor ignored.
“You’ve been listening,” she said softly, her voice low and melodic, matching the rhythm of the music she had just played. “But now, it’s time to play.”
Raghav’s heart skipped a beat. He felt an overwhelming sense of recognition, as though he had met this woman before in another life. “Who are you?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper.
The woman smiled, a smile that was both knowing and kind. “My name is Devika,” she said, her gaze never leaving his. “And you are Raghav, the one who was destined to hear the raga.”
The world seemed to fall away as Raghav absorbed her words. Devika. The name was the same as the woman mentioned in the letter, the one who had disappeared after playing the lost raga. But this was impossible. Devika had vanished over a century ago, wasn’t she supposed to be a legend, a myth?
“I… I don’t understand,” Raghav stammered. “How is this possible? How are you—”
Devika raised a hand, silencing him gently. “You’re not the first to seek the raga, Raghav,” she said. “Many have come before you, but none have understood. Banaras is a city of secrets, of truths buried beneath centuries of dust. The raga is not something to be played—it is something to be experienced. I was the last to understand that, and that’s why I disappeared.”
Raghav took a cautious step closer. “You were the one who played it? The one who completed it?”
Devika nodded slowly. “Yes. But completing the raga doesn’t mean finishing it. It means becoming it. The raga has no end, no resolution. It is eternal, just like Banaras itself. I played it, and in doing so, I became part of it. But that doesn’t mean I’m gone. The raga still plays, through the city, through the people. And now, it’s playing through you.”
Raghav felt a cold shiver run down his spine. He had come here to understand Banaras, to uncover its secrets, but now he was being told that he was part of something far bigger than he could have ever imagined. The raga wasn’t just a melody; it was a force, a current that ran through the veins of the city, through its history, and through his own soul.
“Why me?” Raghav asked. “Why am I the one who can hear it? The one who’s chosen?”
Devika’s eyes softened. “Because you came with an open heart, because you were willing to listen, to feel. Banaras does not reveal its truths to those who seek it out for their own gain. It only reveals itself to those who are ready to become part of it.”
Raghav stood still, trying to grasp the enormity of what Devika was telling him. He had come to Banaras to write an article, to capture its essence. But now, he understood. He had come here not just to observe, but to become part of its living, breathing story.
“You’ve heard the raga, Raghav,” Devika continued, her voice barely a whisper. “And now, it’s time for you to play it.”
Raghav closed his eyes and took a deep breath, his mind racing. The raga had always been elusive, a melody that haunted him but never quite revealed itself. But now, in this moment, he understood. The raga wasn’t something to be played—it was something to live. Banaras had found him, and he had found Banaras.
He opened his eyes, and when he spoke, his voice was steady, filled with purpose. “I’m ready.”
Unveiling the Past
Raghav sat in the quiet courtyard with Devika, the world around them seeming to fade as her words settled into his mind. The evening sun cast long shadows across the stone, and the soft hum of the city seemed distant, as if everything had slowed down to allow this moment of revelation. He had come to Banaras expecting to uncover the city’s secrets, but what he had found was something far more personal—something that resonated deep within him.
Devika’s presence was magnetic. She seemed to radiate a calmness that made him feel both vulnerable and whole at the same time. But beneath that calmness, Raghav could sense the weight of something ancient—something that tied her to the city in ways he couldn’t yet fully comprehend.
“Tell me about the raga,” Raghav said, his voice steady but laced with an urgent curiosity. “How did you come to play it? And why did it change you?”
Devika regarded him for a long moment before speaking. “The raga was never meant to be played by anyone. It wasn’t a composition for a single person to finish; it was a song for Banaras itself, for the river, for time itself. Arunachala, the sage who composed it, understood that. He knew that music was not just sound—it was a bridge between the world of the living and the dead, between the past and the future.”
Raghav leaned forward, his eyes fixed on her. “You were the last to attempt it, weren’t you? What happened when you played it?”
Devika’s eyes grew distant, as though she were looking into a time long past. “I was young when I first heard the story of the raga. I had been studying music in Banaras, learning from the great masters, and I thought I knew everything there was to know. But when I first heard the legend of the lost raga, I became obsessed. It called to me like nothing ever had before.”
Her voice trembled slightly, and Raghav felt the weight of her words. “I spent years searching for the raga, trying to understand it. I visited the temples, I studied ancient manuscripts, and I practiced day and night. But the raga was incomplete—it had no notation, no written form. It was a melody that had been lost to time, waiting for someone who could hear it, feel it, become it.”
Raghav was silent, absorbing her story. “And you found it?”
Devika nodded slowly. “Yes. I found it in the silence between the notes. The raga revealed itself to me when I let go of everything I thought I knew about music. It wasn’t something I could control—it was something I had to become a part of. When I played it, I became one with Banaras, with the river, with the city’s timeless pulse. And in that moment, I understood why no one had completed the raga before me.”
Raghav could feel the weight of her words. He understood now that the raga wasn’t just a melody—it was an experience, a way of being. It was a connection to something greater, something that transcended time, space, and the self.
“But you disappeared after that,” Raghav said quietly. “You played the raga, and then you were gone. What happened?”
Devika’s gaze softened. “The raga took me, Raghav. It didn’t consume me, but it did change me in ways I can’t explain. Banaras is a city that holds the past and the present in a delicate balance, and the raga is tied to that balance. When I completed it, I became part of the city’s rhythm, part of its story. I didn’t disappear in the way people think. I simply… became.”
Raghav took a deep breath, trying to wrap his mind around the idea. “So, you’re not… dead?”
Devika smiled gently. “No, I’m not dead. I’m here—part of Banaras, part of the raga. But I am not the same as I was before. And neither are you, Raghav.”
Raghav felt a strange sense of peace in her words. It was as though everything he had been searching for was right in front of him, yet it wasn’t something to be found in books or in the world outside. It was something within him—a deeper connection to the city, to its soul, to the music that flowed through it.
“I understand now,” Raghav said slowly, the realization dawning on him. “The raga isn’t meant to be completed. It’s meant to be felt.”
Devika’s smile widened. “Yes, exactly. Banaras doesn’t give answers, Raghav. It gives experiences. And the raga, like the city itself, is an experience. It will never be finished, because it is eternal.”
A silence settled between them, and for a long while, neither of them spoke. The only sound was the faint hum of the sitar, as if it were still playing in the distance. Raghav could feel the raga vibrating within him, its echoes settling deep in his chest.
“I’ve been searching for a story,” Raghav said after a while, his voice barely above a whisper. “But what I found here is something far bigger. Something that’s not meant to be captured in words.”
Devika nodded. “Some stories are meant to be lived, not told. And sometimes, the story finds you, rather than the other way around.”
Raghav stood up slowly, his mind swirling with the magnitude of what he had just learned. He had come to Banaras thinking he was writing about the city’s spiritual history, its rituals, and its beauty. But now, he knew that the city had written him into its story, just as it had written Devika. Banaras was not a place—it was a living, breathing entity that captured the hearts of those who were willing to listen.
“I think I’m ready,” Raghav said softly, turning to Devika.
“Ready for what?” she asked, her gaze gentle.
“Ready to let the raga play me,” Raghav replied, a quiet resolve settling in his heart.
Devika smiled, her eyes shining with understanding. “Then you are truly ready.”
As Raghav stepped away from the courtyard, the weight of the city’s rhythm pulsing through his veins, he knew that he had found something far more profound than he had ever imagined. He was no longer just a visitor in Banaras. He had become part of its eternal song.
The Final Note
Raghav spent the next few days in a haze, the music of Banaras lingering in his mind like an undying echo. It wasn’t just the raga anymore; it was everything. The city’s rhythm pulsed through him, its ancient soul flowing beneath his skin. The streets, the ghats, the river, and even the sky—everything had become part of the music, part of the melody that had been playing long before he arrived and would continue long after he was gone.
Priya noticed the change in him, the way he no longer seemed like an outsider but rather someone who had woven himself into the fabric of Banaras. His eyes were no longer filled with questions. They were filled with understanding, as if he had unlocked a door that had always been closed. The city had accepted him, just as it had accepted Devika and countless others before him. He was no longer a visitor; he was a part of its eternal rhythm.
But still, something gnawed at him. Despite everything he had experienced, the silence between the notes, the way the raga had revealed itself to him, there was still one question that lingered: what was the final note? The raga had no end, but there was something incomplete, something that seemed just out of reach. He could feel it, a tremor in the air, like the last piece of a puzzle that had yet to fall into place.
One evening, after the sun had set and the city was bathed in the soft glow of twilight, Raghav made his way to the Ganges. He needed to be alone, away from the noise of the world, to find the stillness he had been seeking. The river was calm tonight, its surface a mirror that reflected the stars above, and the faint sounds of the city echoed from a distance.
He walked to a quiet spot near the water, the same place he had sat all those days ago, when the first flicker of the raga had entered his soul. The air was cool, and the only sounds were the occasional rustling of leaves and the soft lapping of the water. It was in this silence that Raghav felt the presence of the city more strongly than ever.
He sat down cross-legged on the stones, his eyes closed, and let the city’s rhythm surround him. The raga had always been there, in the wind, in the water, in the footsteps of those who passed by, in the bells of the temples. He could feel it now, in the depths of his being.
And then, as if the city had answered his unspoken question, he heard it.
It was not a sound, exactly—not a note that could be played on a sitar or a flute. It was something deeper, something that resonated in his bones. It was the silence between the notes, but it was full. It was the very essence of Banaras, the pulse of the river, the beating heart of the city.
Raghav felt the final note, not with his ears, but with his soul. It wasn’t an ending—it was a beginning. The raga didn’t have a conclusion, because it was never meant to. It was eternal, like Banaras itself. The city had no end. It was a song without a finish, a rhythm that lived on, transcending time and space.
He opened his eyes, the realization settling within him like a stone in still water. Banaras had revealed its final secret to him—not through words, not through the raga, but through the experience of simply being here. The music was not something to be understood; it was something to be felt, something to be lived. It was the city’s heartbeat, the river’s flow, the air’s silence.
Raghav stood up slowly, feeling the weight of the moment. He had come to Banaras seeking a story, and he had found something far more profound. He hadn’t just uncovered the city’s mysteries; he had uncovered his own. The raga wasn’t something he could finish—it was something he would carry with him for the rest of his life, a part of him now, just as it had become a part of Banaras.
The sound of footsteps behind him interrupted his thoughts, and he turned to see Priya approaching. She looked at him with a quiet understanding, as though she had been waiting for him to reach this moment.
“Did you hear it?” she asked, her voice soft but filled with meaning.
Raghav nodded slowly, his gaze fixed on the river. “Yes. I think I understand now. The raga isn’t something to finish—it’s something to live.”
Priya smiled, a smile that held both sadness and serenity. “Banaras doesn’t give you answers, Raghav. It just gives you the experience of its rhythm. And once you understand that rhythm, you become part of it.”
They stood together in silence, the only sound the soft murmur of the river. Raghav felt a strange peace, knowing that his journey in Banaras had come to an end—but that this was not the end. The raga would continue, just as the city continued, and he would carry it with him, wherever he went.
“Will you leave Banaras now?” Priya asked, her voice laced with a quiet sadness.
Raghav turned to her, his heart full. “I don’t think I can leave, not really. Banaras has become part of me. I’ll carry it with me, but I think it will always be here, inside me, in the rhythm of my heart.”
Priya nodded, her eyes distant. “Banaras will always find its way back to you, Raghav. It finds everyone who is meant to be part of its story.”
They stood there for a long time, watching the river, the stars, and the city that had given them both its secrets. Raghav had come to Banaras seeking a story, but what he had found was far more than that. He had found a song—a melody that would never fade, a rhythm that would never cease.
The raga had played him, and in that, he had become part of it, part of Banaras, part of the eternal song that played on, through time and space, forever.
Leaving Banaras
The days after Raghav’s final realization passed in a blur. He had wandered the ghats at dawn, sat by the river, and visited the temples, but now, it felt like he was saying goodbye to everything that had become part of him. Banaras had worked its way into his soul in ways he hadn’t expected, like a raga that played beneath every breath, every thought.
As he walked through the narrow alleys for the last time, Raghav couldn’t shake the feeling that he was leaving behind something irreplaceable. The city had revealed its truths to him in the quietest of ways. It wasn’t in the grand temples or the loud crowds—it was in the silences, the moments when time seemed to stand still. Banaras had taught him that understanding wasn’t about knowing everything—it was about accepting what couldn’t be explained, embracing the mystery.
The Ganges, with its eternal flow, had become a part of him. He had arrived as an outsider, a writer looking for a story, but now, he was leaving as someone who understood the song of the city. The raga was no longer a distant, elusive melody; it was in his bones, in the pulse of his heart. It was in the river, in the wind, in the very air that surrounded him.
On the morning of his departure, Raghav made his way to the same quiet spot by the Ganges where it all began. The sun had just risen, casting a soft, golden glow over the water. He stood there, his hands resting on the stone railing, and let the cool breeze wash over him. He wasn’t sure if it was the city’s rhythm or his own heartbeats, but something inside him told him that Banaras would never truly let him go.
Priya found him there, standing silently by the river. She had come to see him off, but like always, she didn’t speak immediately. She simply stood beside him, looking out at the water, as if the river held the answers to things unsaid.
“I’m leaving today,” Raghav said quietly, his voice thick with emotion.
Priya nodded, her gaze still fixed on the Ganges. “Banaras never really lets anyone leave, you know. Not completely.”
Raghav looked at her, a hint of a smile on his lips. “I know. I’ll carry it with me, wherever I go. The raga, the city… it’s become a part of me.”
“You’ll always hear it, even when you’re far away,” Priya said, her voice soft but firm. “Banaras doesn’t belong to anyone—it belongs to everyone who’s ever walked its streets. Once you’ve been touched by it, it stays with you.”
The silence between them stretched out, comfortable and familiar. There was no need for words. The city had already spoken, and Raghav had listened. The Ganges, the raga, the people of Banaras—they had all played their parts in his journey, and now, as he prepared to leave, they had all become part of him. He would carry their rhythm wherever he went.
“Do you ever think about leaving?” Raghav asked suddenly, breaking the stillness.
Priya turned to him, her eyes meeting his with a steady, knowing gaze. “I have left Banaras, many times. But it always calls me back. You don’t leave Banaras because you want to—you leave because you have to. But it doesn’t let you go. Not really.”
Raghav understood now, in a way he hadn’t before. Banaras was not just a place—it was a force, a spirit that wrapped itself around you, weaving you into its fabric. It didn’t matter where you went or how far you traveled; Banaras would always find a way to bring you back.
The boat ride to the station was peaceful, the water calm, and the air thick with the scent of jasmine and incense. The city seemed to farewell him in its own quiet way, as if it knew the journey was not the end, but simply another chapter in the eternal song.
As Raghav stood on the platform, waiting for the train that would take him away, he felt the raga’s presence in his chest. He wasn’t sure when it had happened, but somewhere along the way, Banaras had become more than just a city—it had become a living memory, a part of him, an eternal rhythm that would always play in his heart.
The train slowly pulled into the station, and as Raghav climbed aboard, he turned one last time to look at the city he had come to love. Banaras was still there, bathed in the early morning light, with its ghats, its temples, its stories, and its silence. It would remain, untouched by time, a city that existed in the spaces between notes.
As the train began to move, Raghav settled into his seat, closing his eyes for a moment. He wasn’t sure when he would return—whether it would be weeks, months, or years. But one thing was certain: Banaras would always be with him. The raga would play through him, always, an endless melody that could never be silenced.
The train picked up speed, and as it left the station, Raghav took one final, long look at the city. The Ganges shimmered in the distance, its waters reflecting the fading light of the sun. It was beautiful, but more than that—it was alive.
And he was part of it.
END
