Water World: A Trip to Puri and nearby Places: Part Two

As per our plan, on the third day of our Orissa trip we set out early in the morning for Barkula. On reaching the OTDC lodge Subha had booked, we inquired about the boats that ferry tourists to the islands of Chilika Lake, before settling down for a breakfast of puri and sabji. Since we could not avail any of the boats rented by the OTDC, we opted for a privately owned diesel motor boat.

The boat took us to a spot where huge, partly submerged rocks had come together to form an island. Subha and I alighted from the boat to get a better feel of the place. Tiptoeing over the pointy edges of rocks, we landed on the comparatively flat surfaces, amidst the other tourists who posed and clicked selfies. We got into the boat again and sped toward the island, taking in the unobstructed sky, the vast expanse of rippling water and the humming of the engine. Our destination appeared to us as a thin dark line at first and then as a swarm of green swirls. After stepping on Kalijai island, we offered our prayers at its temple and ambled along the path bordering a dense clump of trees. Sprawled on wide, cement steps, we spent some lovely moments near the water, listening to the chirping of the birds inhabiting the copiously leafed trees.

Back at the main land, we lunched at the well-known Chilika Dhaba. relishing the spiciness of the dry chilli prawn while two adorable cats mewed near our legs, demanding a share of the delicacies. We allowed ourselves only a half-an-hour rest in the lodge as we needed to reach Mangalajodi Wetlands before sunset.

At Mangalajodi, on either side of the road, there seemed to be unending fields interspersed with water. It was only later that I came to know the 'fields' were, in fact, stretches of water, covered by aquatic plants. I was thrilled when Subha told us we had come here for boating. Like many people, I had taken boat rides in rivers and lakes and a launch ride in the sea. But the prospect of tracing the blue ribbons of water that meshed with the greenery appeared more enticing. However, there was no one in sight and for a few frustrating minutes, it felt like we would have to return without exploring the wetlands. But luck favored and we spotted a man on a scooter. Following our request he sent for two boatmen and soon we were in a country boat, cutting through the swathes of green and tickling past dainty yellow and purple flowers.

The boat eased through the floating forest and traversed across the orange trails of the setting sun. At some places the water peeped out of the green like a small round hole and at other places it stretched into a long thin line, but by now I knew it was water everywhere, whether visible or disguised by a cloak of plants. And there were birds. Even though it was not the season for birds, there were many winged creatures, of varied types, perched on the reeds, wading through the water or fluttering near it. Among the two locals accompanying us, one man rowed while the other acquainted us with the birds. There were Indian pond heron, red wagtail, glossy ibis, blue tail beater and many more. The place seemed straight out of a fairy tale book with top-notch illustrations or a dream sequence in a movie with excellent production value. I dipped my hand in the water and stirred it to cook up a froth, soaking in the magic of undoubted reality. In a planet plagued by deforestation, poaching and pollution, it seemed a miracle to find myself amidst the unimpeded splendor of nature. Mangalajodi reminded us how overwhelming the company of nature can be. At the same time it surged up our responsibility to ensure that the future generations would not be deprived of a tryst of this kind.

The next day, on our way back to Kolkata we stopped at Udaigiri and then at Nandankanan. At Udaigiri, the caves carved by Jaina monks in the 2nd century BC stared at us like deep dark eyes that wanted to say hundreds of words from their hundreds of years of existence. We climbed the steps and trooped into the hollows in the hill, one after another and scanned the walls for etchings. The experience was akin to clicking on scratch cards as some of them had carvings and other not.

I had been to the Hyderabad zoo and to the one in Bannerghatta near Bangalore where tigers, lions and other carnivorous mammals are not confined within cages, but allowed to roam freely in different zones dedicated to them. Nandankanan is conceptualized in the same way. I recalled being extremely enthusiastic about coming to this zoo at the age of nine. The image of two hairy elephant calves remains imprinted in my mind. This time, with my spirits considerably dampened by Nirjhorini's continuous bawling over trivial matters, I trudged indifferently into the zoo premises. However, I regained my excitement as soon as I boarded the bus that would take us to the dwellings of the magnificent wild animals. Through the barred windows of the vehicle, we spotted two tigers, a bear and a limb of an almost concealed lion. Every time we chanced upon an animal, I lifted my daughter in my arms and took her close to the window so she could also find delight in observing it lolling on the grass or strolling among the bushes.

Relieved of Nirjhorini's tantrums, we entered the OTDC restaurant in Nandankanan to have our last lunch of the trip. Little did I know that it would be the best meal I ever had in my life so far. No chicken or mutton dishes are available in this restaurant. We took mouthfuls of rice with dal, crunched on the scrumptious alu bhaja, lapped up the spicy mushroom curry and let each fried prawn roll over and over our taste buds so we could savour the taste for as long as possible. After an eight-hours-long road journey from Nandankanan, including a break for a tasty dinner at New Bengal Dhaba in Kolaghat, we reached Kolkata at 11:30 PM, heady with the spell of the enchanting trip.

Sand Castles, Conchs and Temples: A Trip to Puri and nearby Places: Part One

     
Barring the exasperating traffic jam at Second Hugli Bridge, our thirteen hour long car journey
(including a break at a dhaba for lunch) was a pleasant one. My husband Subha drove us through Chennai highway that seamed the lush green farmlands lying on either side. The clouds hung tantalizingly low. Dense bunches of kaashphul forested the non agricultural fields. Ponds flaunted their glitter amidst the dominance of green. Canals trickled past crops and weeds, and silt laden rivers carried on with their slow gait under the bridges we crossed.

                                       

After a simple dinner at the hotel where we were staying, we trudged to the beach, our feet sinking in the sand, wet grains clinging to our toes. We brushed off the sand from our legs, settled on the chairs rented to tourists like us and turned our gaze to the sea. The waves rose, partitioning the darkness, as if they were climbing onto some seats of distinction, and bowed to accept laurels of foam before dismantling their thrones to fleece the shore with froth.

The next day, we needed to reach the Jagannath Temple by 10am. Since we had enough time in our hands, we decided to rendezvous with the sea again. I positioned myself where the sea could cast only a thin layer of foam on the sand. The water tickled my ankles as expected, but soon a new wave came shoving and encircled me till my knees. Though scared I ploughed through the water, beckoned by Subha, who was ahead of me, and had almost joined him when another giant wave came, knocking me down. I lost my footing and found myself lying spread-eagled in the water. While I was struggling to rise to my feet, the subsequent wave had arrived. It tossed me to such a degree that I fell face down, somersaulting in the sea. Only later did I learn that it had been the time of high tide. I finally got up and walked back to my daughter Nirjhorini, who was standing with my mother, away from the water. She was terrified that I would drown and it took some time to explain that there was nothing to fear as long as one didn't move any further into the sea.
                                                   

                                                                                                                                                                  A bumpy auto-rickshaw ride through a dingy lane took us to the Ghora Darwaja of Jagannath Temple. We kept our shoes at a designated shade and entered the gates. We rinsed our hands and feet from a couple of taps that were made to run without a stop, traversed a courtyard fringed with puja paraphernalia and found ourselves in a compound, surrounded by several shrines. Skirting the temples dedicated to different deities, we tried to figure out the depictions etched on their walls. Occasionally we paused to enter or take a peek and seek blessings from these deities. We passed by the pit where the idol of Sri Jagannath is buried every twelve years and ambled for a while near a fenced lotus pool dotted with blooms that floated the loveliness of autumn on their delicate pink petal tips. Inside the Jagannath Temple, devotees raised their hands and chanted the Lord’s name. Some of them pushed and shoved to make their way to the idol. With more and more devotees rushing in like seawater in a cracked ship, I wondered at one point whether at all I would be able to catch a glimpse of the Lord. We gripped each other, fearing we might get separated in the crowd. Tunnelling through the wall of humans, led by our paanda, we finally reached near enough to behold the Lord’s and his  

 .siblings' faces and lower our hands over the arati fire to imbibe the holy warmth

  

A few hours after leaving the temple, the prasad was delivered to us at our hotel room by the paanda. On removing the lid from the bamboo box, we found the different preparations of rice, pulses and vegetables in small barrel-shaped clay bowls. Other than these, there was another clay container brimming with deliciously floating rasomallai and several malpoas -sweet and crispy- ensheathed by sal leaves.

In another hour, we got ready to travel to Konark. One could spend hours staring at the carvings on the walls of the sun temple, but Nirjhorini had other ideas. She went on pestering us to buy her a toy. It was fruitless to bring to her notice that the toy stalls were outside the temple complex and that we could take her to one only after she had allowed us to enjoy the beauty of the temple and it's premises as we could not re-enter without a ticket. My mother and I directed her attention to a sculpture with long, sharp teeth and claws, glaring at the back of the temple with large, round eyes. The creature seemed to amuse her for some time, but again she began harping on why I was not buying her a toy. My gaze was grabbed by a half human and half snake figurine. This was a recurrent motif among the temple carvings. I remembered making numerous drawings based on it after my previous visit to Konark at the age of nine. Carpeting the forgotten footfalls of the gifted, unsung masons who had build this temple about nine hundred years ago, spread a soothing green lawn. The sun dropped down rapidly as if it were gauging the height of the temple dedicated to it. As we hastened out of the gates, the Konark temple, the resolute castaway from the tides of history darkened against a glowing orange sky, its embossed sculptures still refusing to blend into the uniformity of night, the many Gods, Goddesses, humans and animals warring against the merciless sweep of time, jostling to retain its indented outline.
   

The road outside the gates was lined with vendors and their carts. The phrase 'mushroom pakoras' caught our ears. Subha and I watched with anticipation the batter dipped slices of mushroom acquiring golden coats in the sizzling oil. We couldn't wait to savour their crunchiness and the tanginess of the accompanying chutney. With a paper cone full of these delightful pakoras we set out for our journey back to Puri. We didn't wish to be late for dinner as there were more fascinating places to explore the next day and we needed to start early.

I will be reminiscing about my trips to the serene Chilka Lake and the fairy-tale like Mangaljodi wetlands in my next blog post.

Crested Waves and the Sand Specked Periwinkle: A Weekend Trip to Shankarpur

       

I crawled into the car after my daughter Nirjhorini, mentally checking whether all the necessities had been stowed inside the luggage bag. The bag seemed a bit bulgy for a single night's trip, but in a journey involving my five-year-old, drawing books, crayon sets, and dolls were a must in addition to the usual stuff like clothes, slippers, medicines, raincoats and umbrellas. Nirjhorini's breakfast, mid morning meal and lunch filled up their respective Tupperware or steel tiffin boxes and awaited in a cloth bag for their turn. My husband Subha drove steadily through the highway and village roads and succeeded in reaching Shankarpur by early noon.
       

On approaching the hotel, we got an expansive view of the sea swelling and soaring and pouncing on the whitish sand. Soon after lunch we settled on the cement seats grooving a certain stretch of the beach. Swooning us with their strength and timelessness, the waves rose, wrapped themselves with foam and blended with the white meshed water embracing  the sand.

       

At the onset of evening, we trotted through a clump of pines and eucalyptuses, the growing darkness swathing us and unnoticed pine cones arching our feet. Walking away from the shade of trees, we traced the foamy outline of the crashing waves, the water channeling between our toes and the deep roar of the sea sweeping over our senses. Unlike most beaches I had been too in recent years, the Shankarpur seashore was studded with seashells. Delighted at their variety, shapes and colors, Nirjhorini squatted down to pick them. I joined her too, reliving childhood memories, when any trip to the seaside meant a considerable addition to my container of shells back home. We stood in the sea, the advancing waves splashing against our legs and drenching our clothes. It sprayed at our eager eyes and leaped into our unconsciously wide smiles. Whenever the water receded, we felt a unique and slightly ticklish sensation under our feet as if the sand was shifting from where we stood. However, we had to take a few swift steps backwards as the thrust of the sea was scaring our daughter. As the darkness thickened, we returned to the hotel, a cool breeze messing up our hair and the seashells clattering in our packets. Nirjhorini craved to be with her crayons and me with the bottle of Vodka.

             

The next morning, me and Subha took turns to bathe in the sea as one of us had to stay away from the water with Nirjhorini. Subha had a whale of a time, frolicking in the sea. When my turn came, I tiptoed between the seashells, taking care not to crush them or prick my bare feet and waded slowly into the tumbling waves. I sprawled on the bed of wet sand, clinging to one of the scattered rocks to ensure that I am not washed away. Then I stared at the sky, layers after layers of foam flecked water enveloping me, relieving me of the heat and stress and the nag of unfulfilled wishes, ushering me into the realm of unchallenged bliss.


Before heading for Kolkata, we took a peek at Digha. The waves were much smaller and the crowded sea beach lacked the serenity of Shankarpur. However, we fulfilled the purpose of our visit by treating ourselves to delicious fish curries in Purbasha restaurant. The pomfret fish curry Subha had ordered, won our taste buds with just the right amount of sweetness, spiciness and salt. After being polished off from the plate, the thick gravy continued to garnish our thoughts concerning food and happiness and remained as the perfect coating to the memories of the trip.

         

Darkness Rises: Persecution of the 'Other'

A popular trend in our society and politics is to demonize and then persecute those labelled as the 'other'. In most cases the 'other' happens to be someone from a minority religious community or a so-called lower caste or someone who speaks a language not native to the region. Sometimes the 'other' tag might even rest on an individual or a group for differing in age, educational qualification or lifestyle. In the worst cases, the viciousness towards the 'other' results in murders. In less horrifying but nevertheless inhuman scenarios, the hatred manifests in isolating the 'other'; depriving him/her from the opportunities for education, livelihood, even companionship and parenthood. The hatred and its expressions are always justified in the name of culture (as if culture has been static since the dawn of civilization or any culture is above the tenets of humanity), tradition (as if there had never been any toxic traditions that were rejected with the progress of time and declared as illegal) and religion (although no religions encourage deceit or cruelty or mindless ostentation over kindness and empathy). Not too long ago in my past, I had been a target of insurmountable hatred. I could never comprehend why I got identified as the 'other' as there were no differences concerning religion, caste and mother tongue between me and my tormentors. Although I managed to escape, by luck or divine providence, from the virulent outcomes of this hatred, the scars refused to heal. It made me realize that if someone like me - educated,  salaried and more priviledged than many of my countrymen - can be at the receiving end of such senseless atrocities, what sort of injustices have to be borne by the marginalized on a daily basis. Another positive takeaway from my experience is, perhaps, a greater sensitization against all forms of oppression, narrow-mindedness and unconstitutional behavior directed at the 'other' even if the reason for his/her categorization is not connected to mine.

                                                                                                                                                 

                    

Flow of the Breeze to the Flight down the Falls: My Trip to Jhargram and Ajodhya Pahar

The tepid sun of winter tracked the weed free spots of ponds to gauge its sheen. Our car growled over the many bridges across the endless rivers. My arms itched to cuddle the droopy-eyed puppies snugging quietly by the sequestered road corners. My husband, Subha was at the wheels. I fed our daughter Nirjhorini from time to time during the long journey - first rice, dal and boiled potato, then juice, after that bananas and finally biscuits. Accompanying us were my father and maternal uncle.

The tourist accommodation we had booked for our stay in Jhargram was named Jhargramer Rajbari although it was not the residence of any former kings, but a brand new complex situated beside the actual palace. After the procedures at the reception, we passed through a spacious dining room, crossed a short bridge over a narrow blue pool and spotted the cottage allotted to us. The two-roomed blocks overlooked a large square pond surrounded by evenly spaced trees. There were swings, slides and see-saws on a stretch of green next to the pond. Nirjhorini sprinted to the swing, and after several ascents towards the boughs of trees, with her shadow playfully cloaking and uncloaking the grass flowers, she leaped out to explore the slide and the see-saw. It was a Herculean task to coax her away from these delights to get her ready for lunch and then confine her to the dining chair through the lengthy meal of rice, dal, alu bhaja, vegetable curry and majher jhol.                                                             

In the evening we visited the palace of Chilkigar, a sprawling dilapidated building. I had visited this mansion when I was four years old - same age as Nirjhorini. I remember lunching with the former Maharaja's son, who is now no more. A royal scion, who was playing cricket with other young men in a barren expanse adjoining the palace, informed us that some of his family members still inhabited the building. However, only pockets of darkness greeted us when we let out gaze sweep across the doors and the windows. I looked helplessly at the plastic packets and cups littered at many places against the walls and even inside the deserted, cobwebbed rooms on the ground floor, wishing this splendid mansion was better maintained. Nirjhorini was of course determined to barge into the palace and take a look at all the ruined artifacts lying about. She refused to believe that none of us had the keys. The palace temple, though, was spic and span. Our visit coincided with the beginning of arati. The interiors of the stone temple glowed mysteriously in the dim light of bulb and the flickering flames of lamps. The old walls resounded with the zestful tinkling of prayer bells and the clanging of cymbals.

A five minutes car ride took us to Kanak Durga temple. The presence of a designated parking space, drinking water, toilets and lights along the road leading to the temple indicated at efforts to develop it into a proper tourist attraction. We followed the road, walled by the forest on both sides and passed by a children's park, now shrouded in darkness, before arriving at the clearing where the temple stood. There was a sand covered platform in front of the shrine. We took off our shoes and stepped inside the abode of the Goddess, as the priest conducted the arati, swaying a burning lamp in front of the deity with the rhythmic twists of his hand. Unlike the previous temple, here the sound was not produced by bells and cymbals, but it emanated from a box like device. Somehow, the tune sounded more war-like than devotional. When asked how such a device came into the temple, the priest's assistant replied that it had been gifted by someone, whose identity he was not sure of. We suspected the music box had been donated by one of these recently spawned fundamentalist groups intent on creating divisive sentiments.                                           

When we returned to the tourist complex, blue and violet lights twinkled along the edge of the pond and intensified the shimmer of the water, and it seemed as if we had walked into a fairyland.

The next morning, before setting out for
Purulia, we took a stroll in the Jhargram Palace premises, admiring the flowers dotting the well-maintained garden and watching the birds fly off from the tops of the towering trees. A defunct fountain, encircled by potted plants, and two old temples (they were locked at the time of our visit) in the camaraderie of trees also caught our interest.
   

The trip to the top of the Ajodhya Pahar in Purulia took the greater part of our day. Reaching the hotel (Akash Hotel) when the birds were swooping down to their nests, we looked out of the wide windows of our room. The hills were in full regalia - draped in greenery, veiled by mist, and crowned by the setting sun.

Subha, Nirjhorini and myself were staying in one room while my father and uncle shared the adjacent one. Both had an adjoining balcony. Soft moonlight seeped into the fibers of our woolen as we stepped in our balcony at the time of sunrise. For the next few minutes, we shuttled between the two balconies to gaze at the full moon from one and watch the spreading red glow of a-soon-to-emerge sun from the other. Finally a dazzling red crest appeared behind the trees and revealed more and more of itself with each passing moment, transforming the deep valleys into receptacles of its colors, which in turn, pricked by the sharp edges of hills, leaked the light down to the trees and all over the landscape. Ambling to the other balcony, we were surprised to see the moon afloat in the sea of sunlight, though only for a few more seconds.

The next couple of hours were a whirl of activities that included bathing Nirjhorini and myself, feeding her omelette and toasts and finally settling down for my own breakfast. Nirjhorini's meal was interrupted several times by her frequent leaps from the chair. While chasing her round and round the dining room with the plate, I was aided by an aquarium, which at least prevented her from dashing to the swings outside.

After packing Nirjhorini's mid-morning and late afternoon meals in small steel containers, we set out to explore Ajodhya Pahar. Our first stop was Bamni Falls. We climbed down a steep rock cut stairway to reach the waterfall that scraped its way down the rugged hills and threaded through the greenery below. The place was thronging with tourists, who clicked photographs and drenched themselves in the frenzied sprays.

                                                             

Our ascent up the stairs was a little exhausting. We gulped down cold drinks, bought from the vendors who had built makeshift stalls on a comparatively gentle stretch of the slope. Their wares included bamboo and wooden ornaments, hair clips, vases and showpieces. Our next stop was at a road bend that presented us a captivating view of a sparkling reservoir several feet below. As we descended down to the edge of the water body to luxuriate in its beauty from close proximity, we spotted the stream that was flowing into it and decided to trail the curly strip of water. Nirjhorini demanded to know where the quicksand was. She wished to step in it first and then be hauled up by us. Treading on sand and wet rocks, skirting gnarled branches of dead plants, we reached the source of the stream - the voluminous Turga Falls. The water roared down, sparking off white streaks of current and lashing at the boulders in the course of its strides.

                                      

                                       

The village named Charida is famous for its Chhau dance masks. It was a pleasure watching the villagers at work: one drawing an eye on a clay face with a perfect sweep of his finely pointed brush and another needling shiny embellishments to the crown.

                                         

Drawn by the tranquility of Matha Forest, we wandered about, crunching on the fallen sal leaves. Encircled by the saplings, we gazed up to watch their forebears reach the sky while enveloping us in an intricate communion of their shadows. We were determined to catch a glimpse of Pakhi Pahar before the sun disappeared summoning all its light within itself. Luck favored as we reached the spot on time and stepped out of our car to stare at the birds with outstretched wings, etched one after another by artist Chitto Deb on the steep surface of a hill.

                                             

Marble Lake, a deep pit born out of quarrying, was another visual delight with its glittering waters and semi-geometric shape. Back in the hotel room, we rejuvenated in the flow of conversations, in the clink of glasses and the gleam of Scotch(bought from Kolkata). We had ordered some snacks. The chicken pakoras, French fries and crispy mushroom were any foodie's wish fulfillment, thrilling our taste buds, enhancing the pleasure of the sips in between and living up to the splendid experiences of the day.
                                             

Carols floating in from a distance eased us into the misty dawn of Christmas Day. We rushed through our ablutions, breakfast and packing as we intended to spend the better part of the day in Gorgaburu, the final spot in our itinerary. About an hour long descent down the torturous roads of the hills took us to the eco-resort set up and maintained by a Kolkata based elderly couple and their daughter. We were led to a hut made of mud, topped by a roof of bamboo and straw. The plot was brocaded by a strip of flowerings shrubs - in full bloom. The reign of plants was interceded by a couple of benches and a tiny pool showcasing a mirror-work of water amidst tassels of aquatic weeds.

                                         


Black and white patched ducks waded in a square, muddy pond in front of the dining shed, which was a two-minutes walk from our hut. The fluttering of colorful flags stirred up a Carnival feel. Other holidaymakers stepped out of tents that also belonged to the resort and were lined up along the red path running by the pond. These tourists, too, sauntered to the dining shade and queued up at the long narrow table where the various items were arranged, like in a wedding buffet. After a delicious vegetarian meal(rui machher jhol was available too) comprising of rice, dal, alu bhaja, begun bhaja, ghee, paneer-r dalna, chutney and papad, we hurried to the river bank lest we missed the scenery, which would soon be swept under darkness.                       

Subha made the best of the last traces of sunlight by clambering up the boulders to explore a hill. In a matter of minutes, the dense bushes patching the slope blended into the approaching dusk. The river water rose in dark ripples in emulation of the dark curves of the hills. A couple of hours later in the evening we gathered in the dinning shed to sip tea and sink in the company of the other tourists. Their warmth and friendliness overruled the fact that we had just met. A surprise waited for us in the form of spicy alur chops with muri-makha. We were also treated to cakes as it was Christmas. To my delight, Nirjhorini, who is not too fond of cakes, gnawed up one fairly large slice without fuss.

Despite the breathtaking beauty, like in many regions of India and even parts of Kolkata, the poverty in these hilly villages is unsettling. Bare-bodied children roamed about in the cold, squabbling over a packet of plain biscuits. Here, unemployment and lack of education fosters alcoholism. Dearth of medical facilities lead to untimely deaths. Family planning, too, seems to have remained an alien concept. It is not uncommon to find six-seven siblings walloped by hunger and clawed by diseases, while both parents perished in alcohol.

The next day, on our way back to Kolkata, we took a detour to visit Gangani, a gorge carved out of the red soil by river Silabati and other natural forces. Popularly known as the Grand Canyon of Bengal(though I despise such an epithet and the general tendency to compare anything/anyone remarkable in India with something/someone in a developed nation), Gangani is located in the small town of Garbeta. The surface of the earth, resembling a series of giant waves, is tufted with sparse vegetation, sprinkled with wild flowers and furrowed by natural, shady pathways.

We returned home at 11 PM, hungry and tired, but buzzing with the vibes of the wondrous trip. Subha had driven all the way from Kolkata to Jhargram, Jhargram to Ajodhya Pahar and back to Kolkata. He had also taken us to all the marvelous places in the vicinity of the spots where we stayed, sometimes maneuvering through the constricted village roads and sometimes along the steep hilly paths. Our exhaustion sieved out all lurking stresses, letting us flow into a peaceful sleep, which in turn, molded us for our next day's challenges.