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राकेश त्रिपाठी भाग 1 – अस्सी घाट की पहली सुबह सुबह के पाँच बज रहे थे। नवंबर की हल्की ठंडी हवा में वाराणसी शहर अभी नींद से पूरी तरह जागा नहीं था, लेकिन अस्सी घाट पर चहल-पहल शुरू हो चुकी थी। मैंने अपने बैग को कंधे पर टाँगा और होटल से बाहर निकलते ही महसूस किया कि यह यात्रा बाकी यात्राओं से अलग होने वाली है। सड़कें अभी तक खाली थीं, पर जैसे-जैसे मैं घाट की ओर बढ़ा, गली-कूचों में चाय की दुकानों से उठती भाप, समोसे तले जाने की खुशबू और पुकारते हुए ठेलेवाले धीरे-धीरे जीवन का संगीत छेड़…
Anik Roy Chapter 1 – The Passenger List The call came just after midnight, when Delhi’s power grid seemed to hesitate in the humid air and the fan above Rhea Mukherjee’s desk spun on with a wheeze. She had been staring at the blinking cursor of a half-finished article, something forgettable about municipal corruption that her editor had already threatened to cut, when the unknown number appeared on her phone. The voice on the other end was muffled, unsteady, as though the caller was speaking from inside a tunnel. “You cover railways, don’t you?” the man asked. Rhea straightened in…
Nabin Tiwari The evening in Varanasi carried its usual symphony of life and death—the rhythmic chants of priests, the crackle of lamps along the ghats, and the ceaseless murmur of the Ganges beneath a dusky sky. Smoke from incense coils drifted lazily over the stone steps, curling around the heads of pilgrims and the cloaked figures of wandering ascetics. Arjun, whose heart carried the weight of a mother’s fading life, moved silently among the crowd, barely noticing the colors or sounds that so many others revered. His focus was on her pale face at home, the shallow breaths, and the…
प्रियांशु त्रिवेदी भाग 1 : पहली मुलाक़ात वाराणसी की संकरी गलियाँ हमेशा से एक रहस्य समेटे रहती हैं—कभी पान की लाली से सजी हंसी, तो कभी मंदिर की घंटियों में घुली प्रार्थना। सूरज जैसे ही गंगा के ऊपर लालिमा फैलाता, घाट की सीढ़ियाँ जीवन से भर जातीं। ठीक ऐसे ही एक सुबह, दशाश्वमेध घाट पर गंगा आरती की तैयारी हो रही थी। भीड़ जमा हो चुकी थी, पुजारियों के मंत्रोच्चार वातावरण में घुल रहे थे, और हवा में अगरबत्ती का धुआँ लहराते हुए अतीत और वर्तमान को जोड़ रहा था। इसी भीड़ में थी आर्या—सफेद सूती सलवार में, हाथ में…
Devika Ashwin 1 The sky above Varanasi was a dusky canvas streaked with saffron and indigo as the Ganga Mahotsav reached its crescendo. On the ghats, thousands had gathered—devotees, tourists, connoisseurs of music, all drawn by the promise of an unforgettable evening. Meera stood behind the thick curtain of the open-air stage, adjusting the pleats of her crimson costume. The scent of jasmine mingled with sandalwood as the sounds of a shehnai drifted from the main ghat. Tonight was supposed to be historic: Guru Radhika Sinha’s final public performance, a symbolic passing of the torch to Meera, her most devoted…
Vijoy Menon Part 1: Ashes That Speak The smoke rose like a slow, coiled prayer — grey and indifferent, curling against the dimming sky. At Manikarnika Ghat, the fires had no time to rest. One pyre faded, another was lit. Wood cracked, bones whispered, and the Ganges swallowed the silence of the dead with the same patience it gave the living. The priests moved like phantoms in ochre robes, their hands blackened with ghee and soot. No one cried here. Grief had long since turned into muscle memory. Devkant Mishra stood by the edge of the river, his white dhoti…
Chapter 1: Arrival at the Ghat Tarak Nath Tripathi stepped off the rickety auto-rickshaw with his backpack slung over one shoulder and his thesis notes clutched tightly in a cracked leather folder. The heat clung to his skin like a second garment, thick with smoke and the smell of burning sandalwood, flesh, and Ganges water. He stood at the edge of the Manikarnika Ghat, watching the sacred river flow as if it had no memory of the centuries it carried. Bodies wrapped in saffron cloth were being carried down the steps by chanting pallbearers, while others burned on pyres whose…
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.…
Priya Malhotra 1 The train rattled over the iron bridge, the wheels clattering like a mechanical mantra, carrying Priya back to a city she had almost forgotten. Varanasi. Benares. Kashi. The city of gods, the city of death and rebirth, the city of her childhood summers spent under the watchful gaze of the Ganges. As the train slowed, she caught sight of the river, a glint of silver under the pale dawn sky, snaking its way through ancient ghats and crumbling temples. She leaned her forehead against the cool glass, exhaling a sigh that fogged the window. Grief still weighed…