It wasn’t born from one of those impulsive evening conversations over tea—the kind where wanderlust strikes and you’re on the road by dawn. No, this journey had quietly taken shape in the minds of my brother-in-law and his wife, a young couple with an itch for the hills. And me? I was the designated driver, lately bitten by the bug of spirited adventure behind the wheel. How could I resist being part of this westbound escape to Ayodhya Hills?
The city barely slept that night. Kolkata’s autumn festival fever was still humming in the streets when we set off in the early hours, three cars from three corners of the city, converging at a rendezvous point on the National Highway. I navigated through the festive chaos and onto the cable-stayed bridge over the Hooghly River—a marvel of engineering and, at the time of its construction, one of India’s longest cable-stayed bridges. Thanks to FASTag, the toll plaza was a breeze; no waiting, no fumbling for change as I descended from the Second Hooghly Bridge.
Then came the minor hiccup: three cars, three self-appointed navigators (mine being my wife), and three conflicting route suggestions. We surrendered to Google Maps, trusting its algorithmic wisdom to find the shortest path—road conditions be damned. The app’s calm, robotic voice guided us turn by turn, but the roads had other plans, especially for my wife’s aging 2012 Hyundai Santro Xing and my still-developing finesse at the wheel. Let’s just say the backseat passengers got more of an adventure than they bargained for.
The Road Unfolds: From Chaos to Serenity
Everything changed as we entered Jaypur Forest, Bankura. The road smoothed out like butter beneath our tires. We were leaving behind Kolkata’s festive frenzy, and with every mile westward, the landscape shifted—lush green plains swaying in wild gusts gave way to arid, rugged hills dotting the horizon. Tall kans grass swayed in the breeze, a telltale sign that autumn had arrived in Bengal.
We hummed along, mile after mile, slipping past small and big settlements—picturesque marketplaces, huts with quirky rural architecture, granaries, and roadside hawkers peddling everything under the sun. These were the living, breathing manifestations of my country, little pockets of life thriving in their own rhythm.
My wife and I took turns driving, guided relentlessly by Google Maps. When I wasn’t behind the wheel, I’d roll down the back window and let the country wind rush in—earthy, raw, tinged with the smell of intermittent autumn showers. The scent of wet soil was intoxicating, a fragrance that defined the entire getaway. I watched solitary figures standing by the roadside, unimpressive umbrellas in hand, watching us speed by. Each one carried a story, waiting to be told.
It reminded me of my old bus journeys to North Bengal—those long, nocturnal rides where I’d stare out at the truck layoff shops and dhabas that never slept. I was always curious about the lives lived along those highways, the rhythms of people who existed in the perpetual hum of transit.
Into the Arms of Time: 2.5 Billion Years in the Making
The terrain began to shift again. The soil turned rocky, reddish—laterite—and then came the boulders. Massive, ancient, scattered like forgotten giants. These rocks belong to one of the oldest landmasses on Earth, dating back 2.5 billion years. They existed before multicellular life, silent witnesses to the birth and death of stars, to countless extinctions, to the slow, patient rise of civilization itself.
It’s difficult to think geologically, to wrap your mind around mountains that once stood tall and proud, now worn down by wind and water into hills, plateaus, and valleys. Time and the universe have danced together here, reshaping matter, reshaping meaning. And we drove through this treasure trove, climbing gradually toward the summit of Ayodhya Hills.
The ascent wasn’t brutal—nothing like the Himalayas—but it tested this novice driver. I managed the stretches of uneven terrain, each one a small victory that enriched my driving repertoire.
Niharika Lodge: Comfort with Caveats
Our destination was Niharika Lodge, nestled in a landscaped garden with plenty of greenery. But I’ll be honest—if you’re expecting five-star hospitality, temper those expectations. The service is lacklustre. There’s no proper room service; you fetch your own drinking water from a communal filter. Meals are served in the dining hall or open sheds in the garden—which, frankly, I didn’t mind. Dinner under the stars was a pleasant surprise.
Important tip for future travelers: If you’re booking Niharika Lodge, explicitly ask whether the bathrooms are attached to your room. Don’t assume. Confirm it over the phone during booking. Trust me on this.
If comfort and amenities rank high on your list, there are other hotels, lodges, and resorts in Ayodhya Hills offering premium services. Niharika is fine if you’re willing to trade comfort for the embrace of greenery.
Sightseeing on a Shoestring Timeline
We had only one full day sandwiched between travel, which meant trimming our itinerary significantly. With the help of AI-powered planning tools (bless modern technology), we mapped out a feasible route and chose the Baghmundi stretch, roughly 14 km away from Ayodhya Hills.
Why Baghmundi? We were running low on petrol. And here’s the kicker—there’s no petrol pump within a 14 km radius of Ayodhya Hills. Local hawkers sell emergency fuel in bottles of various sizes, but we were skeptical of quality. My Santro already struggles with ethanol-mixed fuel, and I wasn’t about to risk further adulteration. So Baghmundi it was. According to the West Bengal Comprehensive Area Development Corporation (WBCADC) website, there are 15 tourist attractions in and around Ayodhya Hills. We managed three.
1. Marble Lake
Our first stop on the descent to Baghmundi was Marble Lake, a man-made reservoir that’s gained popularity over the last couple of decades. It was dug centuries ago by local tribal laborers under British colonial rule, excavated for shining marble stones. One can’t help but wonder how many tears were shed by those laborers, their stories now mingling with the water that once irrigated the surrounding crops.
2. Bamni Falls.
Parking was a nightmare—tourists were pouring in, and finding a spot on the narrow hill road felt like a competitive sport.
To truly soak in the beauty, you have to trek down hundreds of feet via long, crooked flights of staircases. But once you reach the heart of the falls, it’s worth every step. The water leaps from the plateau like an agile teenager in a game of hide-and-seek. Bamni Falls, perched at the eastern fringe of the Chota Nagpur Plateau, plunges from a height of approximately 164 feet, fed by mineral-rich plateau streams. Visit during monsoon or autumn for the most spectacular display.
Our final stop was Charida, also known as Mukhosh Gram (Mask Village). This village is the beating heart of Chhau Dance mask-making, a tradition carried forward for generations by artisans known as Sutradhars. The main road is lined with shops selling Chhau masks in a riot of colors, shapes, and sizes—each depicting mythical characters from Hindu epics.
The Chhau Dance itself traces back to the 18th century, nurtured by princely states across West Bengal, Jharkhand, and Odisha. It’s a martial art-based dance form with roots possibly connected to army life—the word “Chhau” may derive from “chauni,” meaning military barracks. Visiting Charida added a vital cultural dimension to our getaway, a reminder that travel is as much about heritage as it is about landscapes.
The Road Home, and Beyond
The next morning, my wife and I left ahead of the others. We’d decided to visit Amarkanon in Bankura, where Prabhuji resides in his hermitage—a place of devotion and selfless service. We descended once more through those prehistoric rocks, past villages and hamlets, carrying the stillness of the hills with us.
But that’s another story. For now, this is enough. The clock strikes midnight, and the hills have given me all they could—memories carved in ancient stone, laughter echoing through valleys, and the quiet satisfaction of a journey well-driven.
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