Banarasiyat is Fading Away...
By Vyomesh Chitravansh
There are two types of cities in this world. The first are those that appear on the global map merely through stones, cement, concrete, roads, and architectural designs—cities completely defined by geography. The second are those woven from the very fabric of human temperament, culture, and history; cities that even time cannot alter. They are living epics written upon the chest of time. Kashi is one such epic. In fact, Banaras has long been the crown jewel of this second category of living epics. It is the very city about which Mark Twain wrote that it is older than history, older than tradition, and older even than legend. Banaras is not just a geographical location, but a 'state of being,' a 'frame of mind'—an eternally living condition that the world recognizes by the name of 'Banarasiyat.' This Banarasiyat has traditionally breathed around the corners of narrow alleys, on the steps of the river ghats, in the velvet warmth of the morning sun, and within the carefree, non-conformist lifestyle (Fakkadpan) of its people.
Yet, it is equally true that when an ancient city alters its pace in the race for development and modernity, its soul often has to pay the price. Today, our Banaras stands at precisely this crossroad. The shift this eternal city has taken over the past years has brought us all to a point of serious introspection. Banaras stands at a crossroad where on one side lie the glittering heights of physical and economic progress, while on the other side reigns the quiet silence of a centuries-old cultural identity fracturing away. Today, walking through the alleys, ghats, and intersections of Banaras triggers a deep restlessness within the heart. The developmental turn this timeless city has experienced over the past twelve years has given birth to a profound ideological conflict within our minds. This conflict is the tug-of-war between the blinding glare of physical development and the scattering of cultural identity.
There are no two ways about the fact that Banaras has undergone a complete physical transformation over the last decade. From an economic and structural standpoint, the city has touched heights that would have been deemed impossible to imagine twenty years ago. There is no doubt that the physical overhaul of Banaras over the past decade has been unprecedented. On economic and infrastructural benchmarks, the city has taken a leap that was unthinkable two decades ago. The web of Ring Roads wrapping around the city, the modern network of six-lane and four-lane highways, and ambitious projects like the Phulwariya Four-Lane have significantly liberated Banaras from its ancient curse of gridlocks. The country's first urban ropeway project, taking shape between Cantt Railway Station and Godowlia, directly links this ancient city to the cutting-edge transit technology of the twenty-first century. This reinforcement of basic infrastructure has triggered an unprecedented boom in the tourism industry. The influx of capital into Banaras’s hotels, home-stays, boat-operating businesses, and handicraft industries has infused a lease of life into the local economy. The modern transit networks expanding across the city have given a new fluid accessibility to the traffic system, which is considered the very backbone of the city.
The grand blueprint of the Kashi Vishwanath Dham has captivated tourists from all corners of the globe. On physical and economic metrics, it paints the portrait of an exceptionally successful and developed city. However, today we must look beyond this glitter to confront the darkness and isolation that this city is paying as the ultimate price for this development.
The most prominent and symbolic epicenter of this physical transformation was the construction of the Kashi Vishwanath Dham Corridor. When the centuries-old, narrow, and winding—yet historically and emotionally vibrant—'Vishwanath Gali' was dismantled, it wasn't just concrete buildings and brick houses that were demolished. Along with them, the traditional sociology of Kashi, which had remained intact for generations, was buried under the rubble. The shops in that alley held more than just commercial value; those shopkeepers and the daily passersby were the living witnesses to each other’s joys and sorrows.
Previously, this alley possessed a distinct character. At these shops, acquaintances ran generations deep. The intimate closeness that devotees of Mahadeva experienced while navigating these narrow lanes has been entirely lost within this new, massive, stone-crafted, grand courtyard. A magnificent corridor has indeed risen for Sri Kashi Vishwanath Dham—no longer just for the Bhole Baba of the common local—but along with it, the traditional social fabric that was the true heartbeat of Kashi has unraveled.
Today, searching for those traditional 'Nemis' (devotees bound by a daily ritual), who would advance toward the court of Baba Vishwanath with the first ray of dawn after a dip in the Ganga, carrying a copper vessel of holy water while chanting "Har Har Mahadev Shambho, Kashi Vishwanath Gange," has become an impossible task. Amidst the overwhelming surge of tourists and an aggressive VIP culture, the effortless, spontaneous connection of Kashi's local devotees has been left far behind.
There are no two opinions that this project has bestowed global grandeur, cleanliness, and vastness upon Baba’s courtyard. Yet, the price paid to achieve this scale was a piece of Banaras's very soul. For a citizen of Kashi, this painful transition manifests most sharply as the displacement of their traditions. The morning of Banaras had an established code—bathing in the Ganga with the dawn's first light, taking a copper pot of Ganga water, flowers, and bael leaves, and walking barefoot toward the court of Baba Vishwanath. This pilgrimage was never dependent on a VIP pass or queue management systems; it was a spontaneous, informal, daily familial conversation between the devotee and the Divine.
These traditional Nemis—the local citizens bound by this daily spiritual discipline—were the actual soul of this city. Today, caught between a rigid VIP culture, strict security cordons, an unprecedented and relentless tide of tourists, defensive security labyrinths, and corporate-managed queues, these locals find themselves feeling cursed and neglected in their own home.
Built upon the debris of destroyed heritage and the displacement of intimate human connection, this new 'event management' model of pilgrimage and faith has reduced Banaras's core spiritual solitude into a chaotic tourism hub. Today, laser shows illuminate the ghats, music echoes over the wakes of luxury cruises, and there is a blinding glare of illumination. Yet, amidst this grand spectacle, the traditional, spiritual stillness of 'Subah-e-Banaras' has completely vanished—the very stillness where Kabir once attacked orthodox dogmas, Tulsidas composed the verses of the Ramcharitmanas, Ustad Bismillah Khan surrendered the notes of his Shehnai to the ripples of the Ganga, and Ratnakar, singing the Ganga Lahari through his poetic Lavani, ultimately dissolved his physical existence into the holy river. It was here that Adi Shankaracharya perceived Shiva in the form of a Chandala (Dom) and recognized the cosmic reality of 'Shivoham Shivoham' (I am Shiva, I am Shiva).
Today's Banaras is turning into an expensive showpiece displayed in the showroom of 'Heritage Tourism'—something tourists can admire from a distance, but whose inner, fluid essence they can never truly touch. Under the weight of commercialization, a spiritual practice that was once an effortless, intimate part of a daily routine has now been reduced to a structured 'event.' This commercialization of faith deals a deep, wounding blow to the foundational religious character of Banaras.
Lately, this new terminology has gained significant traction—'Heritage Tourism' or 'Cultural Tourism.' Banaras has emerged as its grandest capital. However, we must critically realize that marketing culture and living culture are two completely different things.
Today, while the ghats feature laser shows, cruising ships, and a dazzling display of lights, the traditional peace of the riverbank has been lost in the middle of this theatrical spectacle. The spiritual solitude of Subah-e-Banaras, where Kabir, Tulsidas, and Bismillah Khan once anchored their deepest spiritual practices (Sadhana), has been commodified like a display object behind a showroom window. Tourists flock here to witness 'Banarasiyat,' but what is being served to them is not the authentic Banaras—it is merely a polished, high-gloss 'version' of it.
The original Banarasi—the one who could find the ultimate truth of life simply by sitting on the steps of the ghats for hours, quietly staring at the waves of the Ganga—is now being pushed away from the riverfront, displaced by the chaotic crowds and aggressive commercialization.
Banaras is not merely a name given to grand buildings and wide roads; it is a unique temperament, a distinct way of living. The true identity of Banaras lay far more in its social lifestyle than in its architecture. Its core traits—the lighthearted carefreeness (Almasti), the non-conformism (Fakkadpan), and the pure joy of living (Mauj)—remained a complete riddle to any modern city in the world. Today, however, the towering multi-story apartment buildings rising from the city's outskirts into its main core are steadily devouring this traditional social fabric.
In the older neighborhoods of Banaras, the temple precincts and the Chabutras (raised stone platforms outside houses) were not just places to sit—they functioned as open-air parliaments. This Chabutra system was not a mere architectural feature; it was a deeply democratic, public assembly. It served as a common stage where every section of society—be it a university professor, a government clerk, a local weaver, or a common rickshaw puller—sat together without a shred of formal hesitation or discrimination.
Here, the neighborhood priest, freshly bathed from the Ganga after his morning prayers, would share the space with the municipal sweeper who swept those very streets daily. Wrapped in simple gamchhas, rubbing raw tobacco (Khaini) in their palms, or taking a pinch of snuff, these Banarasis would sit in the classic pose of a relaxed observer (Gappaji) to dissect the universe. They passed such candid, unflinching, and pinpoint commentary on contemporary politics, religion, literature, and philosophy that would leave leading international thinkers and modern think-tanks utterly bewildered. That dialogue was entirely pure, free from any commercial or personal interest. This practice of Gappaji and effortless banter (Batkahni) functioned as a robust local information network—a daily platform to catch up on the health, prosperity, struggles, and general well-being of every family in the neighborhood. This platform system was the communicative nervous system of the community. It was a space defined by lightheartedness, spontaneous smiles, and an unhurried search for contentment (Sukh) across the ghats and alleys.
Today, these open platforms have been replaced by the towering, closed walls of multi-story buildings, the isolation of elevator cultures, and locked doors. Modern apartments have brought people physically closer together, but they have stretched the mental and social distances between them into infinity. The collective laughter and the natural tendency to smile without a specific reason are fast vanishing from the neighborhoods. Modern apartment life has snuffed out that vibrant, spontaneous dialogue. The collective roar of laughter is no longer heard on the porches. The frantic rush of modern life, the pressure of corporate jobs, and the crippling anxiety of EMIs have systematically drained the carefree attitude out of the Banarasi temperament—a trait that was once the undisputed trademark of this city.
Over the past twelve years, Kashi has witnessed unprecedented economic and physical growth. The vast network of Ring Roads, six-lane and four-lane highways, the Phulwariya four-lane, and modern transit systems like the sky-bound urban ropeway have dramatically accelerated the city's pace. Towering residential complexes have reshaped Varanasi's skyline. Yet, behind this glittering concrete jungle, the centuries-old identity that we proudly termed 'Banarasiyat' has been lost somewhere.
While the established metrics of economics celebrate this rapid progress, a massive void is emerging on the fronts of sociology and culture. The burning question arises: in this rapid expansion of our geography, is our history not shrinking? Parallel to our widening roads, are the narrow lanes of our hearts and social interactions not turning narrower? While the primary columns of development look dazzling, the price paid for them is profoundly severe. It is true that infrastructural growth has boosted employment, given wings to tourism, and smoothened transit. But is it right to trade our cultural heritage and raw human connection for material prosperity? Today’s Banaras has undoubtedly become highly attractive for tourists, but it has started feeling a bit alien to the original Banarasis themselves.
Our objective is absolutely not to oppose development. Roads must be widened, traffic must be made smooth, and modern health and educational facilities must reach every single citizen. It is the need of the hour, and this progress must be welcomed.
But the foundational question remains: Must development always come at the absolute cost of one's identity? Can we not build a modern city that remains firmly anchored to its roots?
European nations have equipped their historic cities (such as Rome or Venice, or Kyoto in Japan) with cutting-edge modern amenities without altering or tampering with their ancient, traditional architecture. They preserved their old settlements, historic alleys, and social character by steering new, modern developments completely outside the old city boundaries. In the context of Banaras, it is precisely this 'balance' that we desperately needed—and still need today.
If our coming generations possess wide expressways, luxury cars, and magnificent high-rise apartments, but lose that classic Banarasi temperament, that 'shared culture' (Sanjha Sanskriti), that beautiful rustic carefreeness, and that proud refusal to bow down to a superficial pop-culture, then mark my words—they will be living in a very rich city, but they will have lost 'Kashi' forever.
It is absolutely crucial that this message reaches the policymakers who are driving the pace of this modern development: make Banaras a 'Smart City' by all means, but not at the altar of its 'Banarasiyat.' Concrete structures can always be rebuilt, but if cultures born from centuries of experience and spiritual devotion die once, reviving them will be impossible. Protecting the soul of Banaras is synonymous with protecting the very existence of this city. Development is necessary, and moving with the times is mandatory. However, if in this storm of progress, the carefree bliss (Almasti) of Kashi, the sweetness of the Banarasi paan, the tranquility of the ghats, and that intimate banter (gapsap) among loved ones disappear, this city will be reduced to a mere hollow shell. We must realize that the strength of Banaras lies not in its concrete, but in its 'Banarasiyat.' If we fail to save it, future generations will inherit a wealthy city, but they will have lost the 'living, breathing Kashi.'
It is true that to meet modern requirements, roads must be widened, sewage systems must be updated, and ropeways and airports must be constructed; this is the demand of the times and essential to make citizens' lives smoother. But the ultimate riddle remains: is development always possible only by sacrificing one's historical and cultural identity? Many ancient nations across the world (such as Rome and Venice in Italy, or Kyoto in Japan) developed entirely new suburbs outside their city limits without touching their ancient settlements, narrow lanes, or social character—thereby preserving their ancient core city as a living museum. In the context of Kashi, it is precisely this balance and 'Sustainable Development' that we needed.
If our future generations possess wide roads, luxury vehicles, and grand apartments, but lack that signature Banarasi warmth, that shared culture, and that untamed carefreeness, they might breathe in a prosperous city, but they will have lost 'Kashi' entirely. Policymakers and the enlightened sections of society must reflect deeply so that in our race to turn Banaras into a 'Smart City,' we do not choke the very life out of its 'Banarasiyat.' Concrete structures and asphalt roads can be rebuilt in a matter of months, but if lifestyles born out of centuries of shared cultural experiences go extinct once, it will be impossible to resurrect them using any technology in the world.
Kashi,Sunday, August 23, 2026.
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