The Unseen in Varanasi

By Bineet Dwivedy

The alleyways of Varanasi are ancient.

Twisting labyrinths of stone and dust, carrying the whispers of those who have long since turned to ash. The city breathes history, the steps leading to the Ganges worn smooth by centuries of prayers, rituals, and silent offerings.

And yet, not everything that lingers here is meant to be seen.

Aarav always dismissed the stories.

He was a scientist, a man of reason. He didn’t believe in curses, in spirits, in shadowed figures waiting in dark corners. But that changed the night he first heard the chant.

Low, rhythmic, echoing through the alley behind his rented apartment.

It didn’t belong to this century.

It didn’t belong to this world.

"Jeevan chhod, par chhaya bane re..."

Aarav froze.

The words slithered through the humid air, unnaturally cold despite the suffocating heat. They weren’t Hindi. Not Sanskrit.

They were wrong.

And that’s when he saw it.

A shape.

Watching him.

Not a person. Not alive.

Aarav ran.

The next morning, the fingerprints appeared.

Not his.

Not human.

Smudged on his walls, stretching unnaturally long.

His landlord, an old man with cataract-clouded eyes, refused to enter the room.

"Leave," he muttered, voice hoarse. "That place remembers."

Aarav didn’t listen.

He should have.

On the third night, the lights flickered.

The power cut out.

And from the shadows, something moved.

Aarav grabbed his phone. No signal.

Then—a breath.

Not his own.

Not human.

Right behind him.

The Ganges is sacred. But it does not forget.

The water carries stories, prayers, and sometimes—something else.

Aarav thought running would help.

It didn’t.

Because now, Varanasi itself was watching.

And what once waited in the alley wasn’t just in the shadows anymore.

The next morning, Aarav’s apartment was empty.

He was gone.

The walls, however, still held his footprints.

Only they were too many.

And they weren’t his.

Varanasi stands eternal.

And some stories should never be spoken aloud.

Because sometimes, when the city listens—

It answers. 

By Bineet Dwivedy