I still remember the first time I travelled from Lucknow to Varanasi Taxi. It wasn't a grand plan or some carefully designed itinerary. Honestly, I just wanted to skip the chaos of train stations and bus depots. I called a local cab guy the night before, confirmed the fare half-asleep, and told him, “Bhaiya, subah 6 baje aa jana.”

And that's how my journey began.

Leaving Lucknow

Morning in Lucknow has a calmness to it. By six, the city is just stretching awake. The tea stalls are opening, people are already arguing over politics in hushed tones, and the smell of hot samosas drifts in from somewhere. My cab pulled up outside my gate—a white Dzire with a driver who looked like he'd been awake since 4.

We rolled out of the city slowly, passing Hazratganj's colonial buildings and eventually hitting the highway. I leaned back, stretched my legs, and thought to myself, This is why a taxi makes sense. No pushing through crowds, no missing trains, no sweaty bus seats. Just me, the driver, and the open road.

On the Road

The distance from Lucknow to Varanasi is around 315 kilometers. You don't really feel the weight of that number when you're actually driving. The Purvanchal Expressway makes it almost too easy—smooth asphalt, barely any bumps, and an endless stretch of green fields.

But here's the thing: highways are fast, but they're also a little soulless. The old route, the one through Sultanpur and Jaunpur, is slower but alive. You see buffalo carts ambling by, little kids running after their bicycles, roadside vendors frying pakoras in blackened kadais. I've done both, and honestly, if you're not in a hurry, the old road has a charm the expressway can't match.

We stopped once for tea. Not at a shiny food court, but at a small dhaba where the benches are wobbly, and the tea comes in clay cups. The driver insisted on ordering parathas dripping with butter, and I didn't argue. Maybe it was the hunger or maybe it was just the setting, but it felt like the best breakfast I'd had in weeks.

The Cost of Comfort

Now, let's talk money because, let's face it, it matters. My one-way fare in a sedan was ₹3,800. Fair enough for six hours of peace. An SUV would've cost a little more—close to five grand. If you're traveling with family, the extra space is worth it. And yes, there are luxury options too, but honestly, unless you're heading to a wedding and need to make an entrance, a simple cab does the job.

People often ask me why I don't just take the train. Sure, tickets are cheaper. But try getting a confirmed seat last minute, or try standing with your luggage at Mughalsarai junction waiting for a connecting train. Suddenly, that taxi fare doesn't look so bad.

Arriving in Varanasi

There's no way to prepare yourself for the shift when you roll into Varanasi. One minute you're gliding down a smooth highway, and the next you're plunged into narrow lanes where cows, scooters, rickshaws, and pedestrians all seem to follow rules only they understand. The driver looked unfazed—clearly, he'd done this a hundred times before. I, on the other hand, pressed my face to the window, wide-eyed at the organized chaos.

And then, the Ganga. We reached Dashashwamedh Ghat just as the afternoon sun was beginning to dip. I stepped out of the cab, stretched my stiff legs, and walked straight toward the sound of temple bells. That first glimpse of the river, with boats bobbing gently and priests chanting on the steps, erased every bit of road fatigue.

What I Learned

If you're thinking of doing this trip, here's my two cents, learned the hard way:

  • Leave early. Lucknow traffic can be merciless if you start late.



  • Keep small cash handy. Not every dhaba takes UPI, and trust me, you don't want to argue with a guy ladling dal fry at 8 in the morning.



  • Confirm the fare before you leave. Toll charges, driver allowance—get it all clear so there are no surprises later.



  • Carry water. Always.



The Best Time to Travel

Winter, without a doubt. The air is crisp, the drive is pleasant, and Varanasi's ghats look magical in the mist. Summers are brutal, even with AC. Monsoons are beautiful, but the roads can get tricky.

The Food Stops That Made the Journey

I honestly believe half the fun of any Indian road trip lies in the food you stumble upon. Forget five-star restaurants—nothing beats the taste of a paratha cooked on a greasy iron tawa at a roadside dhaba.

On my Lucknow to Varanasi trip, we pulled over at a small shack somewhere after Sultanpur. You wouldn't even call it a restaurant—just a tin roof, a couple of wooden benches, and a man with a white gamcha tied around his head, flipping parathas with his bare hands like a magician. My driver ordered without even asking me, “Do plate aloo paratha, makkhan zyada rakhna.”

When the food arrived, each paratha was thick, golden, and oozing butter. Alongside came a bowl of tangy pickle and a glass of sweet, frothy chai in a kulhad. It wasn't fancy, it wasn't hygienic by city standards, but God, it was delicious. Sitting there, wiping my hands on a crumpled tissue, I thought—this is why I love road journeys. Trains don't stop for parathas. Flights don't slow down for chai in earthen cups. But a taxi lets you live these little moments.

The Chaos of Entering Varanasi

If you've never entered Varanasi by road, let me warn you: it's not for the faint-hearted. One moment, you're cruising smoothly on wide highways, and then, as if someone flipped a switch, you find yourself in lanes narrower than your car. The rules of traffic? They don't exist here.

Rickshaws dart in front of you, scooters somehow squeeze into impossible gaps, cows stand unbothered in the middle of the road like they own it, and pedestrians walk diagonally across as if daring you to stop. My driver didn't flinch once—he honked, swerved, smiled at a fellow driver, and kept going like it was second nature. Meanwhile, I sat in the backseat clutching my bag like I was on a rollercoaster.

But here's the funny thing. After about 15 minutes, you stop fighting it. The chaos grows on you. You start noticing the rhythm—how somehow, no one actually crashes, how traffic moves like water finding its way, how life in Varanasi thrives in this madness. By the time we reached Dashashwamedh Ghat, I wasn't even nervous anymore. I was grinning. Because this—this sheer unpredictable energy—is what makes Varanasi, Varanasi.

The Driver's Stories

A road trip is as much about the driver as it is about the destination. On this trip, my cab driver was a middle-aged man named Ramesh. He had this calm way of talking, like nothing in the world could stress him out. Somewhere between Sultanpur and Jaunpur, when the traffic thinned, he started sharing stories.

He told me about his village, how his kids were studying in Lucknow, how he sometimes did two trips a day between Lucknow and Varanasi just to make ends meet. Then he switched to politics, then cricket, then back to how the Purvanchal Expressway had made his job easier. I mostly listened, nodding, throwing in the occasional “achha?”

What struck me was how these conversations become part of the journey. You won't remember the kilometer markers or the toll gates, but you'll remember the driver who shared his life with you for six hours. By the time we reached Varanasi, I didn't feel like I had just hired a driver. It felt like I had traveled with a guide, a storyteller, maybe even a friend for the day.

Final Thoughts

When I look back, what stays with me isn't just Varanasi itself—it's the journey. The rolling fields, the hot chai at a roadside stall, the driver's stories about his village, the sudden burst of chaos as you enter the city.

A taxi from Lucknow to Varanasi isn't just transport. It's six hours of Uttar Pradesh packed into one ride. It costs a little more than a train ticket, yes, but what you get is freedom: the freedom to stop when you want, to eat where you like, to travel on your own terms.

If you ask me, that's worth every rupee.