The ancient city of Varanasi holds within its walls many secrets….
Pilgrimage to Varanasi
Inspired by Chapter 33 of Autobiography of a Yogi
Come, beloved seeker—
There is a city where the veil grows thin,
Where dawn spills gold upon the Ganga
And saints still walk in subtle wind.
Varanasi waits, older than time,
A sacred hum beneath her stones—
A city where souls remember themselves,
Where the Infinite softly calls you home.
It was here, at Dasaswamedh Ghat,
That Ram Gopal was sent by the deathless Babaji—
A summons no devotee could ignore,
A whisper of destiny carried on divine breath.
He came trembling through the ancient lanes,
And there—
Upon the river’s edge of worlds—
He saw the impossible made real:
Lahiri Mahasaya, radiant as a hidden sun,
Babaji materializing in a blaze of living light,
And Mataji, his sister, descending like a lotus fragrance—
All three levitating, untouched by earth,
Held by the power that moves the stars.
O pilgrim, such wonders cannot be confined to scripture.
These ghats remember.
The stones still carry the imprint
Of the Masters’ luminous feet.
When you stand where Ram Gopal stood,
The air itself stirs with ancient blessings—
A tremor of grace, a quiet thunder
That awakens what your soul has long known.
Here, the Ganga becomes a mirror of the Infinite.
Here, the Masters walk without form
And touch the hearts of those who call with love.
Here, devotion ripens into realization.
So come—
Walk the path sanctified by the Great Ones.
Let Varanasi whisper to your spirit
What words can only try to tell.
For in this city of light and dissolution,
Where Babaji revealed his timeless presence,
Your pilgrimage becomes a remembering—
And the Eternal steps once more
Into your waiting, seeking heart.
Varanasi: City of the Eternal Flame
Where dawn unrolls her saffron shawl
Across the quiet Ganga’s breast,
Varanasi wakes—ancient, alive,
The heartbeat of India at rest.
Ghats whisper tales of saints and kings,
Of seekers who walked these winding ways,
Each footstep softened by the hymns
Of countless souls in timeless praise.
Here, incense curls like silent prayers,
Rising through doors of crumbling stone;
Here, shadows dance with shafts of light,
Where the mortal meets the Great Unknown.
For those who’ve read the Yogi’s words—
Who’ve felt his voice within them rise—
This city glows with deeper hues,
A pilgrimage the heart implies.
Where Lahiri’s presence lingers still,
Where kriya breath once stirred the air,
Devotees find the Master’s path
Alive in every whispered prayer.
Varanasi holds the subtle threads
Of that divine, immortal story—
A place where yogis touched the veil
And stepped into their inner glory.
So come, dear seeker, walk these ghats;
Let Ganga’s waters cleanse and guide.
For here the truths that Yogananda
Revealed are felt, not merely read beside.
In Varanasi’s sacred hush,
Where time dissolves like drifting sand,
You’ll find the Spirit’s quiet call—
A pilgrimage your soul had planned.
At the Dasaswamedh Ghat
On ancient steps where dawn is born
And Ganga hums her ageless hymn,
Varanasi’s breath grows still—
A veil grows thin at the river’s rim.
Ram Gopal walks with trembling heart,
Babaji’s summons in his mind,
Through alleys steeped in sacred dust,
Toward the ghat the Masters find.
The morning glows with unseen fire,
A hush descends—no mortal sound—
For on the steps of timeless stone
The wondrous rises from the ground.
There stands Lahiri, calm and bright,
A moon of yogic stillness raised;
And by him Babaji appears,
In living light, by none appraised.
From subtle realms a presence moves—
A fragrance soft, a gentle sigh:
Mataji, sister of the Christlike sage,
Steps forth where earth meets open sky.
Levitating in quiet grace,
Three forms untouched by mortal weight,
They shine like dawn distilled to flesh—
A glimpse of heaven incarnate.
Ram Gopal’s breath forgets its course,
His heart dissolves in reverent tears;
For here the veil of maya parts,
Revealing truths of other spheres.
No scripture could have shown this sight,
No temple hymn, however sweet—
Only the Masters’ silent gaze
Could grant a soul such grace to meet.
Varanasi listens, ancient, still,
As if recalling ages past
When saints walked freely in her light
And time bowed low as they passed.
And in that moment on the ghat,
Where Ganga mirrors sky and sun,
The Pilgrim knows with blazing joy
The soul and Infinite are One.