The sun had just started to rise when I was gently floating on the holy Ganges River. It was early May, 2023, and Varanasi shone softly in the morning light—the old city spreading out along the river. The air smelled of incense, prayers, and the sounds of birds waking up. Around me, boats moved quietly like shadows; priests and pilgrims did their morning rituals while the water sparkled gold in the early sunlight.
I sat cross-legged in a small boat, my beard and hair grown messy—very different from the boy who once worked hard just to pass exams and get good grades. The cool breeze touched my clothes, but inside, I felt very heavy. My thoughts became confused, memories tangled, and a deep silence surrounded my heart.
The boat moved close to the river steps, and I climbed out, feeling the smooth, worn stones under my feet. I sat on the wide steps, looking at the flowing river and holding the cold stone beneath me. Around me, life was busy—the laughter of children playing, women collecting water, men getting ready for their day—but inside, a quiet emptiness took over me.
Hours passed without me noticing.
The sun climbed higher—morning turned into afternoon, and afternoon slowly became evening. At 7 pm, a cool breeze blew softly over the river steps. At 8, lamps started lighting up, spreading warm, golden light in the growing darkness. By 9, 10, and 11 o'clock, the world around me changed into shadows and quiet whispers. But I stayed still, like a statue made of pain and silence.
By 2 a.m., the river steps were empty, except for a few people still around and lamps flickering on the water. An old lady with a kind, wrinkled face came quietly. She held a small plate wrapped in cloth. She knelt beside me and softly offered me a samosa. I hesitated. Pride and sadness told me to say no. But my empty stomach growled loudly, asking for food.
Reluctantly, I took the samosa..
The warm taste of spices from the samosa stayed on my tongue. Suddenly, a strong memory broke through the fog in my mind. I saw faces from my past, heard sounds of laughter and pain, and remembered parts of my old life mixed with dreams I almost forgot. For a moment, everything around me became blurry, then quickly became clear again.
When I opened my eyes, I saw the old lady carefully closing her small stall nearby. The night was quiet and cool now, filled with soft sounds from Varanasi's narrow streets. She looked down at me with a worried expression as she picked up her plate
"Where are you from, beta?" Her voice was soft yet steady, brimming with the kindness that comes from a lifetime of hardships.
I forced a smile—a smile cracked by pain and the weight of too many yesterdays. "I will leave this place tomorrow," I said quietly, the words more hope than promise.
Without another question, she stood and gently took me by the arm. "You cannot sit here all night. Come, I will show you where you can rest for today."
I followed her quietly through the narrow, twisting streets and crowded neighborhoods. The air smelled of burning wood and faint spices, mixed with the soft glow of flickering lights. The busy, tangled streets of Varanasi were full of loud voices and moving shadows late at night. It was both overwhelming and somehow familiar at the same time.
At a corner, the old lady stopped and called to a boy about my age who was resting against a broken wall. She talked to him quietly for a moment, then turned to me with a gentle smile.
She said, "This boy will show you where to stay tonight. It's not a palace, but it's safe."
The boy nodded and walked with me a little further until we reached a small, dark place—an overcrowded, dirty shelter where beggars stays kind of begger hunt. The floor was covered in dirt, torn rags were scattered around, and soft whispers mixed with the distant noise of the city.
Even with all the dirt and disorder, I didn't feel ashamed—only a strange feeling of comfort. Here, with others who carried their own hidden struggles, I could finally stop fighting. Too tired to say anything, I curled up in a corner and let myself fall asleep, while the loud voices and smells slowly faded into a restless night.
When I woke up the next morning, the chaotic sounds of Varanasi's streets were already alive outside the shelter. Vendors shouting, chai cups clinking, rickshaws roaring, and the distant prayers from nearby temples filled the air. I rose stiff and dusty, my body aching but my resolve lingering.
I walked out of the shelter into the gentle morning sunlight. Near me was a small public bath. I washed myself carefully in the cold water, cleaning off the dirt and some of the bad memories. Then, I washed my dirty clothes by the river and hung them on a rail, hoping they would dry fast in the hot May sun.
After getting clean, I put on my one last neat set of clothes. I felt a little lighter, as if the washing had refreshed not just my body, but also my mind.
The old lady came back, her wrinkled face showing a kind smile. She held out another samosa, warm and smelling nice. I shook my head and told her that I had few money some money and that, I planned to use it to go back home.
But she waved away my protest with a softness that felt like a blessing. "It's okay, beta. Take this. Eat first."
She handed me a small package of food and pointed toward the narrow street. She said, "The bus stop is this way. You'll find your path."
Grateful beyond words, I swallowed the samosa and some curried rice she had packed. Our eyes met for a moment—no words were necessary. I turned and began walking toward the bus stop, watching her wave goodbye as I disappeared into the crowd.
The journey back home was long and full of different stops.
First, I boarded a crowded, noisy bus that left Varanasi in the early morning. People squeezed onto every seat, and I had to stand for a part of the ride as the bus bumped along the rough roads. The bus slowly moved past busy markets, horn-blaring rickshaws, and small tea stalls—each place buzzing with the start of a new day.
After an hour or so, the bus stopped at the main train station just outside the city. Here, travelers hurried across the platform, porters rushed with heavy bags, and the smell of chai mixed with the sound of engines and station announcements. I bought a simple ticket and found my way onto a waiting train, settling into a bench by the window.
As the train began to move, the city faded away. Fields and green farmland rushed by, sometimes broken by small villages and patches of trees. The train clacked and rattled, swaying side to side while vendors moved up and down the aisle selling snacks, tea, and cold water. Sometimes, the train would stop at tiny stations with only a small waiting shed, and new people would get in or out, each with their own story and excitement.
Hours went by as the train journeyed across the wide countryside. I watched the sky change from morning blue to a glowing afternoon gold. The whistle would blow as we passed bridges, rivers, and quiet, open land where cattle grazed and children waved at passing trains. Occasionally, another train would zip past outside the window, reminding me how many people were always on the move.
When the train reached a big station in Maharashtra, I got off, stretched my tired legs, and followed people out into the hot, busy station yard. Finding the bus stand nearby, I took another bus—this one was even more full, packed with travelers and families heading toward Pune.
This bus wound slowly through narrow country roads and thick traffic as we got closer to the city. The landscape slowly changed from farms to busy roads, tall buildings, colorful houses, and crowded markets as we moved into Pune's heart. Loud car horns, the smell of food stalls, and street sellers filled the streets as we entered the city.
Finally, after reaching Pune's main bus depot, I found a rickshaw in the crowd of vehicles outside. The driver weaved skillfully through the heavy traffic—past old schools, small shops, and busy intersections—until I reached the familiar streets of Chinchwad. The sights and sounds felt like home. Tired but relieved, I stepped out and looked around, knowing my journey had finally ended.
I was home.
The journey seemed to go by quickly for everyone else—the bus windows showed towns and fields rushing past, trains sped through the night under a sky full of stars, and rickshaws moved through the busy city streets. But inside, I felt like time was moving slowly for me. My heart was still heavy with many worries and fears that I couldn't say out loud.
Finally, I was back in my city—Pune. The familiar chaos welcomed me like an old friend, yet I didn't go home. Not yet.
My feet carried me instead toward the school near my house—the place that once framed my smallest victories and deepest defeats.
I stood before the tall iron gates, now weathered and distant through time. With a sudden pounding of the fist, I banged on the gate energetically, startling the watchman seated nearby.
He looked up, squinting through the dim afternoon light. "What do you want?"
I replied, "I... I want to come inside. To see the school."
He raised an eyebrow, suspicious but not hostile. "Is this about admission?"
"Yes." I nodded, my voice steady but the weight of years echoing behind it.
"For whom?" he asked, a hint of amusement. "Your daughter? Son? Niece? Nephew?"
I bit my lip, then answered simply: "Mine. For me."
The gate creaked open slowly, allowing me passage. I walked inside, breath catching as memories flooded—dusty classrooms, chalk-written blackboards, laughter echoing down corridors long silent to me. The walls seemed to breathe stories of my past. Wandering past familiar benches, my eyes caught the figure of the school principal standing in the courtyard. Our eyes met, but recognition didn't come immediately. She studied me with a curious glance, then the pieces began to fit—the years, the boy who left behind more questions than answers.