Tour and travel are so very different. I have always wanted my life to be a tour, well-arranged, planned and decided upon at the very beginning. At the end of which I would be satisfied at having been everywhere with every target in the list ticked.

But then, over the years, life has turned out to be more of a travel — the uncertain passage that takes us to places, which we had never wanted to be in, leave alone planned, changing one by one the destinations of childhood.

So I thought that to travel, to not decide upon destinations as I pack my rucksack, at least this time, should do justice to my quest for life and people, for their stories and travels. And in this quest I have heard that the road has seldom failed anyone.

To travel, to be free of the weights that make you immobile, letting the waves of humanity take you along, one needs to be really free. I was not that free. I had just got some holidays and was spending it philosophising.

But then nothing stops us from making the most of what we have and to get going would definitely stop this philosophising, which was getting too annoying, even for me.

So I booked a ticket to Purulia for the next day.

Why?

Perhaps because I have heard the name several times or because nobody has ever asked me to go to Purulia or perhaps because I have never have aspired to go to Purulia. Or just because no one aspires to go to Purulia, I had to go.

A mask maker at Purulia

Clothes were packed, the parents smuggled enough medicine into my bag for me to live on even sewer water for the next few days and there I was, strutting across the platform at Howrah station.

Now, on a second-class compartment of a train that takes you to Ranchi, not many people carry rucksacks.

So, after a brief effort of trying to look like a nonchalant hippie, I got rid of the sack. I shoved it onto the luggage rack, almost dissociating myself from it but keeping a wary eye.

It was only then that I noticed the other person occupying the seat near the window. He was a frail man with silver hair, wearing a crumpled and faded white dhoti and kurta and carrying a plastic bag. He had only a few teeth left.

“Are you going to Ranchi?” he asked.

A view of Ayodhya hills

I told him my destination and the usual questions of why and where followed. When I told him about my plan there was a glint of happiness in his eyes.

He looked out of the window for a while. When he looked at me again I realised the pause was for a narration of a life in travels.

I came to know that he, Arup Roy, was a commercial artist who seldom works now because he is 77 years old. He has made the covers of books of some of my favourite writers.

I also came to know that he has travelled the length and breadth of the country. What still drew him were the wilderness and the mountains. “I go trekking every year,” he said, almost startling me, but I controlled my expression lest he felt insulted.

“But the best trek would definitely be Valley of Flowers, which is now in Uttarakhand,” he said. I informed him that it is now no more after the floods.

Slowly, as I heard his stories — about places where he had slept on his journeys and the little money that he would have on him — I decided that I would not visit just Purulia.

Sunset at Ayodhya hills. Pictures by author

“Oh! By the way, do go to Ayodhya hills from Purulia. You will only know how beautiful it is once you have been there for a night,” he said as he wrapped his shawl around himself to get down at Jamshedpur. The wind had grown chilly by then and Ayodhya hills kept ringing in my ears like the chugging train till Purulia arrived.

In mid-November, it was winter in Purulia. I was still sweating when I got on the train but now after a mere five hours I had to zip up my jacket.

The town was preparing to sleep as I got out of the station around 10pm. People had mostly returned home. Some seemed to have finished their dinner and some had even come out to sit on benches near shops, sharing the latest gossip on politics and pretties of the town.

I was headed to my hotel beside Saheb Bandh, a huge lake, around which the town had grown in a mix of the old and the new.

Some houses and odd temples were evidently centuries old and some still being constructed. Nothing is tall enough yet to cover the sky. No hoardings, no skyscrapers.

The next day was spent searching for the CADC office, the government centre from where accommodation in Ayodhya hills is arranged.

I have mentioned earlier that I am not that free and definitely not free enough to visit what was till recently a Maoist stronghold without arranging for a place to stay.

One can easily cover the length of Purulia walking. But in the market area, near the stadium, a little football skill would help if you mind crashing onto a cycle or a rickshaw or even at times a Tata Sumo.

And there is so much dust. From where did all this dust come? Before you get an answer it engulfs you and stays with you in a layer till you are out of the town.

But before leaving, do try out a sweet, which they call long there. The fried sweet dipped in sugar syrup is displayed in heaps in front of shops, in Calcutta it is called lobongolotika. When asked about this variation in name a man gave a toothy smile and said, “shorte long.” (In short, we call it long).

Also do not miss out on the park along Saheb Bandh which gives you the best view of the waterbody, just be a sport and don’t sit inside, the lovers anyway are jostling for space in what seemed their only escape from vigil.

A gushing waterfall

And there I was the next morning on the bus to Ayodhya hills. The journey is of nearly three hours and the ticket priced at Rs 25. The bus is rickety and tosses like an empty tin box on the fractured narrow road uphill.

My legs were cramped and a man who had barely any clothes on him in the cold and was carrying a baby in his arms was sitting beside me. It is not that I don’t like babies or that I snigger at poverty but I still desperately prayed that what was rolling down the little boy’s nose did not land on me.

But then this is what I had come out for, to feel life beyond my protected imagination.

It got colder as we moved up. The windows could not be closed.

The wilderness would often force itself into the bus as we moved higher, in the form of thick leaves and branches and leaves of trees often almost rubbing my face. What trees were they? I have heard these forests are thick with mahua and palash trees.

All I could know then was how green it was, how dense and overpowering, giving out in all senses the aura of an impenetrable wilderness.

When I had reached the CADC guesthouse I was completely worn out, but the place was cushy. Huge rooms, gardens and spaces to stroll about.

Canopies to have lunch and breakfast under, a beautiful place to stay. And they had postor bora (an opium seed delicacy) with a lunch of fish curry. It seemed better than freedom.

Rejuvenated, I went out to explore Ayodhya hills. By evening I had seen it all. The serene sights that Tunga dam has formed with huge stretches of tranquil water nestled among hills, all the way into the forest to get the closest view of Bamni waterfalls and walked around the quaint villages.

But I was yet to see the night, the Ayodhya pahaar of Arup Roy, that he claimed could only be felt. I could hear faint beating of drums faraway. The tune was magical.

I had been advised to not venture out after dark. But then Bola, who works at the kitchen in the guesthouse, agreed to take me to the source of drumbeat. I got to know that today was their version of Kali Puja.

And it was not all that dark. How could it be with so much light, the moon in all its glory, in its complete avatar gently showing you the path ahead.

Not scorching you with heat like the overwhelming sun nor lifting the mystic darkness or unwrapping the mysterious beauty of the forests. The light was there just to lead you ahead towards the intoxicating beat of drums.

I entered the villages one after the other. I could perceive dark, strong bodies coming out of mud houses, gently swaying to the beats, charmed, completely unhindered by the presence of a stranger.

But I was afraid. Because everything I had on me, my clothes, my camera seemed an insult to their existence. What seemed modest to me could be their dream. And such juxtapositions have always made me angry. What if they shared my emotions?

A woman perhaps was able to make out my relative affluence. She barely had clothes on her to protect her from the cold. Slowly she walked upto me and asked, “Kolikata theke eli babu? Dosh taka dibi? (Have you come from Calcutta? Will you give me Rs 10?)” I was very nervous and stared at her blankly for a few seconds. What if the rest come now? Where did Bola go? Oh, the fellow was dancing!

I don’t know what transpired.

She laughed and said, “Dibi na, na dibi (No need to give)” and walked away and merged into the procession of dancing men and women with their hands lifted, singing what seemed like an incomprehensible murmur as the moon shone on them.

Perhaps it is the moon that keeps them going. Draws out their pain and anger and the light like a balm heals wounds centuries old. And they can laugh at my uncontrollable fears, my reluctant disrespect and my utter ignorance!