Aghori Wisdom: Embrace the Discipline of Discomfort
✍️ Spiritual fire requires discomfort: lessons from Varanasi.
I must have the soul of an Aghori, then, I concluded.
It was a cold night in January 2010 in Varanasi. I sat silently at Manikarnika Ghat, one of the holiest and oldest cremation grounds in the world. The Aghori—ascetics who meditate on death and chaos—are known to frequent these sacred grounds, confronting the rawest truths of existence. They do not seek to avoid suffering but to transcend it, embracing discomfort as a path to liberation.
The cold seeped into my bones, a relentless force that refused to be ignored. Despite the many fires burning all around me, I shivered uncontrollably. The humidity from the Ganges seemed to creep into every pore, making the night feel colder still. The contrast was striking—surrounded by flames, yet trembling, cold to my very core. I was motionless, my body frozen but my mind aflame with the raw truth of what lay before me.
Enveloped in the acrid smoke of burning pyres, I sat in a corner, vulnerable, aware that I was a guest here—allowed only because I was willing to bare my naked soul to the truths of this place. There was no escape from the rawness of existence. The air hung heavy with the mingling scents of sandalwood, camphor, ghee, and burning flesh. The chant of *“Ram Nam Satya Hai”—The name of Ram is truth—*rose into the smoky air, signaling the arrival of another body. Bells and mantras clashed in chaotic harmony with the crackling of fire. It was a space where life and death dissolved into one another, where flames had burned ceaselessly for over two thousand years, perhaps longer.
Earlier, I had sat in the small room where the eternal fire is kept. This fire, used to ignite all the pyres, has burned for as long as memory stretches. The Dom caste, whose sole duty is to kindle this sacred flame, guards it vigilantly. Legend holds that the fire was started by Lord Shiva himself, a gift from the god of destruction and transformation.
For one of the many pyres outside, the fire had been burning for hours. Family members stood by, their presence quiet yet heavy with grief. A stern young man, his head shaved and his white clothes marking him as the chief mourner, stepped forward. He circled the pyre three times, then stopped by the head of the corpse. With deliberate steps, he turned his back to the flames and smashed a clay pot filled with water over his shoulder. He did not look back. His movements, precise and solemn, were more than ritual—they were a profound symbol, a declaration that his attachment to the form of the departed had been severed. The soul was free, and so must he be. Still without looking back, he walked away, leaving behind the last ties to earthly connection.
Watching him, I felt the weight of the ritual echo through my own spirit. Manikarnika is not just a place of endings but also of beginnings. The fire consumes, but in doing so, it clears the space for something new to emerge. It is a cremation ground not only for bodies but for attachments, illusions, and identities.
I thought of another fire: the one lit during the initiation of a swami. When a seeker steps into monastic life, they perform their own symbolic cremation. This ritual declares the death of their former self—the self tethered to family, wealth, and worldly concerns. It is not a rejection of life or love but an act of radical surrender. By severing those ties, the swami is reborn into freedom, able to love and serve unconditionally. They rise from the ashes of their past, unburdened and fully present.
At this stage of my journey, I had been fully committed to the yogic path for years. Becoming a swami had been a consideration, one that brought me to the threshold of profound inner inquiry. How deep did I want this journey to go? Could I sever my attachments so completely, as the swami does, or was my path different—one that honored love and connection while still seeking transcendence? The fire at Manikarnika mirrored my inner fire, revealing the depth of my inquiry and the intensity of my longing for clarity.
These rituals—one steeped in physical fire, the other in symbolic death—are a mirror to the path of the Aghori. The Aghori does not shy away from flames. He meditates in the cremation grounds, not to glorify death but to transcend it. He sees through the smoke of illusion and finds the unvarnished truth. Pain is not an enemy to him but a teacher. Discomfort is a discipline. Fire a purification from the illusions.
This truth has revealed itself in my own life. When the fire event came to Los Angeles, chaos engulfed me. But instead of feeding the flames with my own fears, I chose to lean into care and nurturance. I let go of my attachment to how the story should unfold and stood still amidst the pyres, allowing the fire to burn away all that was unnecessary. Like the son who breaks the pot and walks away, I left behind the weight of expectation and found the freedom to move forward.
Suffering, discomfort, and chaos are not obstacles to be avoided (and not to be invited lightly!); they are forces to be embraced and transformed. They are the fires that refine us, the waters that cleanse us, the rites that break us free. Even the Dalai Lama, the apostle of compassion, once said in a lecture I attended, the West needed “more suffering” to evolve—not suffering for its own sake, but the kind that awakens us, forcing us to transcend complacency and numbness.
This is the Aghori’s way. To stand in the fire, to accept the chaos, to burn away all that is false and emerge whole.
Aghori once. Aghori forever.