Strains of raag Bhairav drift upon the cool morning breeze, notes bending and unfurling like incense spirals that linger and dissolve into the pale horizon. Above, river terns cut effortless patterns through the sky, their wings flashing briefly against the dim light of dawn before vanishing again into distance. The sun, still tentative, strives against a shroud of thickly woven clouds, its golden rays struggling for release, as if yearning to proclaim the day. Somewhere beyond sight, a bell tolls, its solemn chime folding into the air; from many corners of the bow-shaped bend of the river, chants rise and echo softly, a gentle invocation carried by the waters of the Ganga.
To experience the morning upon this river, at Benaras, is to step outside ordinary time. We had the rare fortune to find ourselves here, on this ancient current, where the veil between the earthly and the eternal feels gossamer thin. The day began well before light. By four in the morning we were already awake, leaving our hotel — poised conveniently at Assi Ghat — to tread the short hundred-metre path down to the riverbank. There, the aarati awaited us: the ritual which seeks to awaken Mother Ganga, to thank her for her ceaseless flow or perhaps to ask her blessing for the day about to unfold. Whatever meaning one attributes, the ceremony is suffused with a profound sense of reverence and renewal.
At Assi Ghat, often spoken of as the first ghat of Benaras — geographically and spiritually the starting point for many pilgrims traversing the eighty or more ghats of this sacred city — a small crowd gathers in the semi-darkness. The chants commence: resonant syllables repeated in unison, the rhythm building like breath drawn from the chest of creation itself. Ritualised movements follow, a dance of flame, hand and offering to the mother-river. What lingers most strikingly is the sound of women’s voices lifted over loudspeakers, their intonations of shlokas resonating in a space that is so often dominated by male ritual. Here, there is a momentary suspension of hierarchy — an opening through which something older, freer, might be glimpsed. The river herself responds. The sky, until then guarded by clouds, suddenly gives way to shafts of sun that pierce the smoke and mist, pouring down as though in a rush to purify the morning and claim dominion over shadow.
Soon, we are led towards the boat that waits. Picking our way across narrow wooden planks, stepping over the edges of other moored vessels, we find our seats on the open-air craft. Safety jackets are distributed, but the atmosphere is anything but mundane. We begin to glide, first tracing the line of the ghats and then slowly steering further into the river’s heart, until the banks, with their temples, steps and awakening pilgrims, unfold in full panorama.
Several minutes pass and we are far enough into the river’s cradle to behold almost every ghat at once, each in its own state of becoming. Life stirs gradually: the birds taking wing in search of their first meal, the first colours of morning spilling upon the water. It is a scene so ripe with poetry that even silence becomes verse. Nature herself seems to conspire to summon the dormant romantic in us; and just when the stillness has grown thick with wonder, the musicians who travelled with us allow their instruments to speak.
The sitar begins, its notes curling with the gravity of centuries, answered by the tabla, a younger yet equally eloquent companion. Together they give voice to raag Bhairav once more, this time not as distant echo but as living pulse. In those moments the world recedes. Time dissolves. The music entwines with river and sky, carrying us into the soul of Kashi. An hour later we are gently summoned from this reverie. A cup of hot masala chai, offered in a kulhad, grounds us again in the body. The sweetness, the bite of spice, the comforting heat coursing through the throat: all remind us of being alive and yet simultaneously emphasise how altered we have become. What we have just lived through is more than spectacle; it is revelation. There is a magic here, a mystery one can feel and even believe in, yet scarcely articulate. Perhaps this is maya — the illusion and the truth, indivisible.
As our boat traces its way back towards Assi Ghat, time loses its grip entirely. The hosts murmur about the evening cruise, promising another ritual of fire and devotion when dusk enfolds the river. We nod, acknowledging the words, but inwardly we know that explanations are futile now. Something has shifted. The evening aarati may indeed be another once-in-a-lifetime experience — but that belongs to another story, for another time.
Stay at Justa Luxe Kashi Parampara; 700 metres away from Assi Ghat; INR 15,000 onwards. Book the morning cruise ahead with the property.
Email: romal@newindianexpress.com
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