Amidst the enigmatic ambiance of Mukti Bhawan, a young traveler grapples with existential questions, finding solace in the wisdom of an elderly caretaker.

Travel Writing

By Vishwa Parmar / Matthew staff | Edited by Sofia Espinosa

My high school organizes Educational Tours for seniors every year. Every year, we visit places around India with cultural, socio-economic, and historical importance. Last year, my school took our seniors to Sundarbans, a national animal sanctuary in West Bengal. The students learned about endangered Asiatic tigers, and the rumor is that they also saw a rare white tiger. However, there was no proof of the white tiger’s sighting.  

This year, they decided to go to Banaras, Uttar Pradesh but refused to disclose the information about our accommodation. We traveled from Vadodara to Banaras and crossed the river Ganga at midnight, where our hotel was. This building was no less than a historical landmark. I strode towards the main door of the building. My teachers and classmates are behind me. On both sides, there was a garden with thin flower beds. Tall, undernourished trees made their boundaries and hid the hotel’s wall. All I could see was the light from the spaces between closed doors and windows. I sat down on my trolley bag. I stared blankly at the signboard above the main entrance. There was very little light; I could barely read the heading. After a moment, someone opens the main door. Light comes out, embracing me. But I closed my eyes; they were still adapting to this sudden exposure. Somehow, I opened them partially. I cannot see his face, the person standing at the door. I blinked my eyes, and he was gone. Because of the light, I could see the board now. I kept looking at the heading till the watchman came to me, breaking the spell. 

“Welcome to Muktidham …the Salvation Resort.” He said before taking my luggage and disappearing inside.  

A breeze caressed my face. Since the door was now open, I could see a few people moving inside. A few significantly older people move very terribly slowly. I must go in, but I am reluctant. My feet freeze. I become a cold statue who breathes. My eyes are fixed on the board, which reads ‘MUKTIDHAM,’ written in Hindi. The paint looks old and chipped. I check around in the garden, and the compound is visible from where I stand. The entire place is so clean. It reminds me of my grandparents’ house in Ahmedabad. My grandmother lives there now and cleans it every morning by herself. It has become part of her daily routine, even not dirty. The scent of river and incense strangely attracts me, pulling me towards it. At the same time, a part of my heart wants to turn around and run. Just run to the Ghats, get a boat, and disappear. 

I needed some time for myself, and that was because I knew where I was standing. I knew what this place was like. I knew what happened here and why this hotel was built in the first place. I didn’t know all this till that night. I had just read about it on the train to Varanasi. Apart from the home of 2000 temples, Lord Shiva’s Golden Temple, Kashi Vishwanath Temple, and the enormous Holy Ghats of Ganga. The article that grabbed my attention was “The Salvation Resort–The Way to Heaven.” The title raised my curiosity naturally. I turned the pages and started reading. I remembered a few things from the article….’ It is a resort built for the people who want to die in Banaras, which opens the gates for them to Heaven. It is like a Station in the journey of the Afterlife.’ For that very reason, Death in Varanasi is celebrated rather than mourned. This hotel is called Muktidham Ashram, famous for only catering to the old and infirm, waiting to die and attain salvation. I had no idea that I would get to visit this place so early in my life. Because significantly older people are allowed to check in. Or people with a terminal illness. I am not that old. And as far as my health is concerned, I am doing well. But now I have started feeling very sick in my stomach. I couldn’t stop wondering what was going to happen there.  

“Can you please step in,” Mrs. Reddy, our teacher in charge, asked impatiently. I gained my breath and exhaled. I am exhausted beyond my imagination because of all the traveling. And the weight of Muktidham Ashram is making my head heavy. Yet, without moving a muscle, I replied with utmost sincerity. “I was waiting for everyone, ma’am.” Gradually, everybody started walking in, and it was confirmed. This was going to be our hotel for the rest of the trip. Some of me still wanted to believe this was a temporary arrangement. I wanted to leave immediately and was hopeful that would be the case.

My groupmates looked drained and upset, probably because we climbed the hill. Mrs. Reddy is escorting me inside for some reason. I must get going with her; otherwise, she would suspect something wrong with me. I was the first to climb the hill and reach this place. But now I am the last to enter.

Meanwhile, my mild headache had become worse. When we entered the compound, a man with a petite frame shut the door behind me. As we moved in, I smelled the aroma of Agarbattis and Diyas and food from the kitchen nearby. My olfactory lobes are not used to such strong fragrances. It is peak time after Puja.  

My classmates are sitting down wherever they find bare ground. Some sat on their trolleys, chairs, and tables, and some on the floor. But I was still a cold sculpture who breathed and somehow walked. We gathered in a large rectangular compound. The building has no roof. And there is a large tree, I don’t remember which kind, in the compound’s corner. That tree was majestic, and its branches crawled to the second floor. Which tree is it, I wondered. Mrs. Reddy stood on a chair since she was at most 4′ 1 or 2. Our helper uncle from college who came with us gestured to keep quiet by putting his finger on his lips and dilating his big round eyes. But it is not needed at all, as no one is speaking in the first place. Mrs. Reddy finally begins. I am standing in the corner, hardly listening to her.  

“I know you all must have questions…… we have someone who can answer them.” And with that, she comes down from her temporary podium. An older man appears right after. He stood straight. He is an unshaven, stern face with deep lines and almost unblinking eyes. He is framed by Gray cropped hair and ironed Dhoti and Kurta. He takes his time to accommodate the audience. But it seems like he is giving us time to adjust for whatever might come next! “Namaskar,” 

He won’t get Namaskar in return, but he looks like he was not expecting it from us either. He continues after a moment. For some reason, he is not disappointed by our level of enthusiasm. He looks cool. Everything is happening the way he had expected. What would it be like if everything went as you had predicted? Life would be infinitely more boring than it already is. 

“Everything changes when you check into Muktidham and yet remains the same when you don’t check out…alive,” The old man says. “I am Naresh Pandit. I take care of this humble abode. We help people to spend their last days here in the Ashram in peace. Every year, lakhs and lakhs of people from all over the world come to Banaras. And hundreds of them come to live in Muktidham Ashram. Because we truly believe that people who lose their consciousness in Banaras… near the Holy Ghats of Maa Gang, attain a higher existence and go to Heaven. This is beyond this material world that we live in… their souls travel directly to Heaven, and they are never reborn on the earth in any form. We particularly take care of those people and give them final retirement”.  

He looked at everybody, probably busy capturing their facial expressions and reactions to his every word. He was trying to figure out what was going on with them in their young minds. I looked at everybody, too. He gives us time to process his words. His speech gave me goosebumps. For the first time, my group mates put their cell phones aside and paid attention because something significant was happening. We had never heard anything like that before. I have read about it, but this was different. This was real. And it was happening. “Our guests live here and wait for their soul to lose their body and attain freedom…. then we complete all the necessary cremation ceremonies”. 

My heart almost stopped working when I realized that the other guests were going to die. The very thought is aggravating. My eyes were searching for someone, no one in particular. But the older man didn’t wait for me. He kept talking. It is hard for me to concentrate now. The old man said, “This resort is just a junction before the Gates of Heaven. If you have served humanity, your family, and God… you will end up in Heaven in your…” I looked at the older man, still speaking. “Sometimes people misunderstand our concept of a journey to Heaven… you are the young generation. You have the power to change that notion. At least you can try. I could not expect more. Spend time with your parents… stay away from bad company. And improve yourself. Take upon good habits and stay healthy for you and upcoming generations: your future, your children. I just want you all to have faith in yourself. Be true to yourself, and God will always be with you.” 

It seems like he is not finished yet. His thoughts need more space. Mrs. Reddy ascended her throne when he finished talking. “Students, as you know, we cannot live here. I mean, it’s too early for us to check- in.” She chuckles. Does she think this is humorous? “We have got a few days from now. I will assign you your tasks today. You must record the experiences and lives of the gussets and make a report. This should be a learning experience for you. These are sagacious and older adults. Talk to them, learn about the meaning of life, and establish a connection within the community. “You will have to make a report and submit it to me,” she says before leaving. Everybody disperses as soon as she steps down from her temporary podium. But I am still standing here. 

Listless… lifeless. 

Those Grandmas and Grandpas are going to die. They are on ‘The Death Countdown.’ It feels so weird. Suddenly, everything I have learned floats in my head. Everything becomes questionable. What is the meaning of life? What is Death? What is Salvation? Is it a real thing? Mrs. Reddy starts calling our names. Everybody is assigned their gussets. Then, my class disperses itself and goes to their assigned rooms. While I looked around for the caretaker and somehow made my way to his study room, it had no doors. The wall is full of books and registers. All piled up behind him. The caretaker of Muktidham is sitting in the candlelight without any fan; cold wind from the door is enough. His posture is as firm as ever. His gray hair is combed back, and his Yellow Tilak is still unmatched by his pressed Dhoti and Kurta. He gazes up at us from his register, which looks so fragile that it can turn into ashes and float in the air. An awkward silence settles between us. We keep looking at each other. And then the old man said, “Sit down.” I follow almost immediately. I am glad. 

“What is the meaning of life?” I asked. And the old caretaker’s smiles.  

“What do you need meaning for, life is a celebration, and you should celebrate It while you still can.”  

Years later, I am studying abroad in Rome, thousands of miles away from home, From my family, friends, and everything I have ever known. When I struggle to live independently and feel lost, seconds away from giving up, I reminisce about my trip to Varanasi and how young and innocent I was when an older man taught me what a celebration life is. Ultimately, it’s not the years in your life that count. It’s the life in your years.”