I Didn’t Know I Needed Healing—Until I Missed My Train in Varanasi

It was a chilly February morning. I was supposed to board the 6:15 AM Vande Bharat Express. But between a slow Uber, an unexpected detour thanks to a local protest, and my overconfidence that “there’s always time,” I arrived just as the train was pulling out.

My first reaction? Pure meltdown. I was furious with myself. How could I mess this up?
But after pacing the platform a few times, I bought a kulhad chai and sat down. I looked around. No rush. No panic. Just a city that had already started its day in complete acceptance of whatever it brought.

And for the first time in months—I breathed. I really breathed.

Instead of checking into the same hotel, I decided to walk.

Past the temple bells and narrow alleys filled with incense, past cows blocking traffic and children playing cricket with bricks and sticks, past weavers dyeing silk and sadhus chanting under peepal trees—I wandered.

No Google Maps. No Yelp. No agenda.

And you know what? It was intoxicating.

I stumbled into a tiny ashram where an old man read Kabir ke dohe aloud to a circle of people. I didn’t understand all of it, but I sat anyway. Because his voice felt like meditation. And that moment—completely unplanned—felt more sacred than any monument.

That afternoon, I sat on the ghats alone. Watching the flow of the Ganga, I realized something unsettling: I hadn’t been alone with my own thoughts in months.

We often think peace is about silence. But real peace is being able to listen to the noise inside you—and not flinch.

The river didn’t ask me what I did for a living. Didn’t care how many Instagram followers I had. It just flowed. Steady. Patient. Eternal.

And maybe that’s what healing looks like.
Not dramatic transformation. Just… flow.

Manikarnika Ghat isn’t a tourist attraction. It’s a confrontation.

Bodies are burned here 24x7. The smell of sandalwood and smoke hangs heavy in the air. But what shocked me wasn’t the sight of death—it was how calmly it was held.

Locals passed by the pyres like one walks by a temple. Vendors sold marigolds nearby. A boy played the flute under a neem tree, completely unfazed.

And it struck me—in the West, death is hidden. In India, it is folded into life.

As I watched a family pour Ganga water over their loved one’s body, I cried. Not just for them. But for all the things I was grieving but never allowed myself to mourn—old versions of me, friendships lost, ambitions that once defined me.

That night, I took a boat ride with a local named Bhola. He must’ve been in his late 60s, with a voice like rain and eyes that smiled before his lips did.

We didn’t talk much at first. Then he started telling stories. Of kings who came to die in Kashi. Of lovers who met at the ghats every full moon. Of the time the Ganga had flooded so high, people prayed on rooftops.

Then he looked at me and said,

That line stayed with me. I didn’t know it then, but I was already changing.

The next morning, I skipped the temples and rituals. Instead, I sat with an old pandit who didn’t offer a puja—but a conversation.

He told me, “Bhagwan tumhare dimaag ke shor mein nahi milte, chup mein milte hain.”
(God isn’t found in the noise of your mind, but in the quiet.)

We talked about the Gita, about detachment, and how Krishna taught Arjuna not to escape life, but to engage with it fully—and still remain untouched by it.

I wasn’t looking for God in Varanasi.
But I found a version of myself that had been buried under ambition, perfection, and guilt.
And maybe that’s the same thing.

We plan our vacations like military operations. Timetables. Bookings. Instagram checklists. But when things fall apart—that’s when the magic happens.

Here’s what I learned in 24 accidental hours:

• Healing doesn’t come from control. It comes from surrender.
• Not all who wander are lost. Some are finally found.
• Getting lost in India is sometimes the best way to find yourself.
• Stillness isn’t boring—it’s sacred.

And sometimes, the best destination is simply you.

• I lit a diya at Tulsi Ghat and watched it float, feeling like I was releasing years of silent pain.
• I ate kachori at a stall run by a woman who called me “beta” and reminded me of my mother.
• I journaled under a tree while a monkey tried to steal my pen.
• I sat through an aarti without recording it. Just... watched.

Each moment was a ritual. Not religious. Human.
Reminding me that travel doesn’t always need souvenirs. Sometimes, it just needs your full attention.

I boarded a general coach on a later train. No seat. Just me, my backpack, and a mind quieter than ever before.

I sat by the door, wind in my face, a random song playing in my head, and for once—I felt okay not knowing what came next.

That train didn’t just take me home.
It took me back to myself.

It teaches you how to:

• Sit with discomfort.
• Embrace the sacred in the ordinary.
• See death not as an end, but a whisper: “Live while you’re here.”

We spend so much time chasing the perfect life, the perfect trip, the perfect outcome. But maybe life doesn’t want perfection from us. Maybe it just wants us to pause long enough to feel it.

Varanasi didn’t heal me with chants or temples.
It healed me with delays, chai stalls, conversations, and chaos.

So next time you miss a train, a flight, or a plan—don’t rush to fix it.

Sit. Breathe. Listen.

The moment might be trying to save you from something—and lead you to something much, much better.

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