Snippets #2: Recollections

There are days such as today, when the floodgates of the old memories open up, reminding me of the the times when life tested my family members. These surging memories do not let me forget the 17 months when my father was recovering from a fracture and could not join his work resulting in this 17 month long period of 'without pay'. This was the time when my mother single handedly managed the house, our expensive studies and her workplace. Now, I shudder to think of the possibilities which could have happened if my mother did not have her job. Maybe we could not boast of our rich educational background then as we do now...................

Throughout their life as parents, my father and my mother, have always thought about investing on us, their children, rather than investing for their future lives. Whatever money they could manage to save at the end of their job lives (they could not serve till their usual retirement ages because they worked in a sick industry which closed down before they could complete their tenure) were chosen to spend on our higher education and better future prospects. No, they never complained. They only tried to make us realise the value of their hard earned money.

There was a time when we used to think about returning the money they spent for us. We used to calculate how much we had made them spent......now I realise how foolish were we. Though, both of us, my brother and I, manage to earn much more than they spent on our education, we can never return the time, the knowledge, the unconditional love they invested on us. How can we return the scorching heat or rainy evenings they had spend on sourcing second hand books from college street? How can we return the exhausting train journeys from Durgapur to Kolkata and back? How can we return the pain they took to carry the heavy loads of second hand books back to us? How can we return the smiles which radiated on their faces with our smallest of achievements? How can we return the days when they walked more and ate less to save every hard earned penny?

The only savings they have, are us. They did not judge us while investing diligently on us so that we turn into perfect human beings in the true sense of the term 'human'. I don't know whether their investments are successful. The sole regret I will be taking back with me to my grave is that by the time we could gift them some happy moments as a token of gratitude for all that they have done for us, they chose to leave us all alone to travel to the land of no return.

Guiding Light

Today, when I look back to my growing up days, I re-visualize some not-so-happy incidents which wrecked a havoc on my soul then.

My father helped me with my school homework till the day he met with a serious accident. He had to be hospitalized and underwent a surgery for compound fracture in one of his legs. Though the surgery went on to be successful, the recovery period was long, precisely 3 years. I was in class 2 then. In the midst of all other uncertainties about our household and my father's career, I decided to help myself with my school homework.

The results of this decision was not rosy. I started failing to cope up with the school lessons. Though I managed to see through classes 2 and 3 without anyone's help in my studies, I started giving up in class 4. I couldn't understand most of the lessons and started to avoid the tougher chapters. A few of my benevolent classmates gave their notebooks to me so that I could copy the daily homework. This arrangement failed to work during the terminal examinations and I started failing miserably. I remember, once, I couldn't submit homework notebooks for a week. My class teacher took me straight to our then principal. She called my mother and sternly told her that if I fail to cope up with the backlog in the coming months I would be thrown out of the school. The principal also remarked that I wasn't a 'Carmel' material. I can only imagine now how my mother must have felt then with an ailing husband recovering slowly in the hospital, a son studying his +2 and an obstinate daughter on the other hand.

On the other hand, the teachers who taught in my class started to judge me. I was punished most of the time without any substantial reason. I had no friends to support me. I felt myself drowning in a patch of quicksand. When a person drowns, he/she starts fighting back for life. I started to do that. I could barely breathe inside the school but my injured soul was determined to win. I managed to get promoted to the next class, class 5.

Class 5 was a happy start for me. My father came back home with a huge plaster. He joined work and walked with a pair of wooden crutches. His daily struggles inspired me somewhere deep inside my heart to go on against all the adversities. Though, I had a happy home then, my school environment did not improve. All my subject teachers except the ones who taught Bengali and English, continued to be judgemental. To them, I was a blacklisted student who have already travelled to the Principal's room. To them, I was not worthy enough to be taught by them. I was so scared about them that I often visualized myself walking through a dark tunnel without any torch to guide me.

It is said that when you experience the darkest hours of your life, you are bound to see the rays of hope just after. This was same for me. I could sense that my class teacher, one who also taught English treated me differently. Her name was Veena Jaya. Each of her lectures was inspiring. With her way of teaching I started to love what I studied. She could successfully instill the love for studying in me. In one occasion, when she had to choose and send a few students from her classroom to visit the school library (the junior sections weren't allowed then), she chose me too. It was a moment of honour for me. This incident made me realize that she could see some hope in me too. The incident was an unimportant one but it helped me to catapult back.

I started studying harder. My sole goal was to become a worthy student to all my teachers. The scores didn't improve much, though. The poor marks on my answer scripts made me strong every time I saw them. My determination saw me through and I got promoted to class 6. As Veena miss handed out the report card to me on the Result Day, she quietly remarked, "well done, Parna!" I looked up to her. She was smiling.

I won't forget that smile on her face, ever. It was the fitting answer to all the teachers who found me unworthy of the school's name and fame. As I look back, I still visualize the smile and thank her to be my guiding light. The light which gave me hope and reassurance of my capabilities. When I feel down at times, I re-visualize these days back in school. I quietly say to myself,"You had proved yourself. You will prove, every time."

পৌষ - পার্ব্বণের পালা

খুব ছোটবেলায় মনে আছে চুষি বা চষি পিঠে খুব ভাল লাগত খেতে। আমাদের দোতলার কোয়ার্টারের কাকিমা বানিয়ে খাওয়াতেন। আসলে তখন নিজের বাড়ি ছাড়া অন্য সবার রান্না খেতে বেশি ভাল লাগত, বুঝতে পারতাম না কেন অন্য সবাই আমার মায়ের রান্নার সুখ্যাতি করত। বাবা অবিশ্যি মজা করে বলতেন, "ভাত রোচে না, রোচে 'ম', চিড়ে রোচে 'প' 'প'" অর্থাৎ নিজের বাড়ির দুধ পুলি, সেদ্ধ পুলি - এসব ভাল জিনিস ভাল লাগছে না, উনি যাচ্ছেন 'চষি পিঠে' খেতে!!

যারা 'চষি পিঠে' কোনদিনও খাওনি, তাদের বলি 'চষি পিঠে' হল চালের গুঁড়ি গরম জলে মেখে, প্রদীপের সলতে পাকানোর মত লেই পাকিয়ে দুধে ফোটানো। না আছে নারকোলের ব্যবহার, না আছে ক্ষীর করার ঝঞ্ঝাট। খেতে দুধ পুলি বা সেদ্ধ পুলির তুলনায় একেবারেই নস্যি।

আরও মনে পড়ে, বাড়িতে প্রায় তিনদিন ধরে পিঠে খাওয়া হত। একদিন গরম গরম সেদ্ধ পিঠে পয়রা গুড় দিয়ে, সাথে মুগ সামালি, পাটিসাপ্টা, পরের দিন গোকুল পিঠে ও রস বড়া, আর তার পরের দিন আমাদের রাঙালু খাওয়ানোর জন্য রাঙালুর পিঠে ও পায়েস, সরু চাকলি ও 'মৌ-ঝোলানি গুড়'। নারকোল নিয়ে আসা হত সু্দূর চব্বিশ পরগণার দাদুর বাড়ি অথবা মাসিদের বাড়ি থেকে, তখন দুর্গাপুরে নারকোল গাছ পাওয়া খুবই দুষ্কর ছিল আর বাজারে নারকোল ধরা-ছোঁয়ার বাইরে ছিল। গুড় অবশ্য বাবা কোথা থেকে আনতেন, উনিই জানতেন, তবে সেই গুড় নানা ভাবে বহুদিন খাওয়া হত। এমন ভাবেই খাওয়া হত যাতে অনেকদিন পর্য্যন্ত খাওয়া যেত। প্রথম দিকে পয়রা গুড় যাকে জলীয় অবস্থার নলেন গুড় বলা হয়, সেটা সেদ্ধ পিঠে দিয়ে খাওয়া হত, সেই গুড়ই বাবা পরের দিকে জল দিয়ে ফুটিয়ে ফুটিয়ে খাওয়াতেন 'মৌ-ঝোলানি' গুড় বলে চালিয়ে। তখন এই কাণ্ড-কারখানায় হাসতাম, এখন বুঝতে পারি নিম্ন মধ্যবিত্ত পরিবারে সখ ও সাধ্যের মেলবন্ধন ঘটানো হত এই কর্মকাণ্ডের মধ্যে দিয়ে। বাবা হয়ত নিজের ছোটবেলায় যা পাননি, পারেননি,  সেটাই পেতে চাইতেন, পারতে চাইতেন।

বাবার এই পৌষ-সঙ্ক্রান্তি নিয়ে ছেলেমানুষিটাকে যোগ্য সঙ্গত করতেন আমার মা। ওপর ওপর রাগ দেখালেও, বাবা যা যা পিঠে খেতে চাইতেন, তাই  তৈরি করে খাওয়াতেন উনি। বাবা আসকে পিঠে খাওয়ারও ফরমায়েশ করতেন মাঝে মধ্যে, কিন্তু বাড়িতে মাটির সরা না থাকার দরুন মা ইডলি বানিয়ে খাওয়াতেন, মনে আছে। বাবার এই আসকে পিঠে খাওয়ার বাড়াবাড়ি নিয়ে আমরা বাবার অনুপস্থিতিতে কোনসময় হেসে উঠলে মা বলতেন বাবার ছোটবেলার পিঠে খেতে না পাওয়ার কাহিনী। অভাবের সংসারে তখন এই বচ্ছরকার দিনে ঠাকুমা আসকে পিঠেই তৈরি করতে সক্ষম ছিলেন, গুড়-নারকোল ছিল সত্যি সত্যি মহার্ঘ্য। তাই জন্যই হয়ত বাবা, সঙ্ক্রান্তির দিনে উচ্চস্তরের পিঠেদের সাথে নিজের ছোটবেলার সেই যত্ন নিয়ে স্বল্পাড়ম্বরে গড়া আসকে পিঠেকেও চেখে দেখতে চাইতেন। সেই মাটির বাড়িতে বেড়ে ওঠার সাধারণ দুঃখ দুর্দশার দিনগুলোকে তুলনামূলক সচ্ছলতার দিনগুলোর সাথে একাসনে বসাতে চাইতেন, হয়ত বা।

সেই বেড়ে ওঠার দিনগুলোয়, কেন জানিনা, এই সম্বৎসরের পিঠে - উৎসব আমার কোনমতেই ভাল লাগত না। মানুষ বোধহয় সহজে যা পায়, তাকেই হেলাফেলা করে। আমারও ছিল তাই অবস্থা। বাংলার পৌষ-পার্ব্বণের অভাব প্রথম বোধ করতে শুরু করি যখন চাকরিসুত্রে ঝাড়খণ্ডে থাকতে শুরু করি। মনে আছে, সেবার, যখন পৌষ-সঙ্ক্রান্তির পর কোন এক দীর্ঘ ছুটিতে কলকাতায় এসেছিলাম, মাকে বলেছিলাম পিঠে করে খাওয়াতে। পরম মমতায় স্পর্শ করেছিলাম উষ্ণ সেদ্ধ পিঠেগুলোকে, খেতে খেতে এক লহমায় যেন পৌঁছে গেছিলাম দুর্গাপুরের কোন এক পৌষের সন্ধেতে।

না ফেরার দেশে পারি দেওয়ার আগেও মা খাইয়েছিলেন রাঙালুর ভাজা পুলির পায়েস ও নতুন গুড়ের পায়েস। পিঠে গড়ার পাঠও দিতে চেয়েছিলেন তিনি। কিন্তু, নিতান্ত আলসেমি ও স্বল্প ধৈর্য্যের জন্য আমি কোনদিনও শিখে নেবার চেষ্টাই করিনি। মন ভেবেছিল, মা তো আছেই, আর শেখার কি দরকার? তখন যদি মন জানত যে মায়ের যাবার সময় হয়ে গেছে, তাহলে হয়ত শিখে নিতাম, নিশ্চই শিখে নিতাম।

স্মৃতির বাগান

দূর্গাপুরের এম এ এম সি টাউনশিপের অন্তর্গত বি-ওয়ান ১০৭/২ কোয়ার্টারের ছড়ানো বাগানে তখন অবাধ বিচরণ করা যেত। আম, কাঁঠাল, পেঁপে, পেয়ারার গাছেরা ছিল বন্ধু গাছ। শত্রু গাছ ও ছিল, - বাসক পাতার গাছ - ঘনঘন ঠাণ্ডা লাগার কারণে গিলতে হত তেতো পাঁচন। উপরোনোর চেষ্টা চলেছিল পুরোদমে - কিন্তু ছোট ছোট হাতের জোর কে সে অবজ্ঞা করে বেড়ে চলছিল।শীতকালে কিছু মরশুমি ফুলের দল আসত পরিযায়ী পাখিদের মত। আর পাখী - নাঃ শালিখ ছাড়া আর কিছু মন দিয়ে খোঁজা হয়নি তখন।

একদিন সেই বাগানে এক অশীতিপর বৃদ্ধ মালী - সন্তোষ কাকুর আবির্ভাব হল। বাগানটাই বেবাক বদলে গেল। সজনে গাছের ওই পারে আলু, পালং শাক, মেথি শাক বোনা শুরু হল, বেগুন, টমেটো ও কাঁচালঙ্কাও লাগানো হল। কিন্তু সেই ক্ষেতের আলের ওপর দিয়ে হাঁটতে ভয় করত - কি জানি কোন শাকটার ব্যাথা লেগে যায়। বাগান টা ছিল সন্তোষ কাকুর প্রাণ। সারাদিন খাটতে পারতেন আর বেলা পড়ে এলে দিতেন গাছের সারের হদিশ। বাবা মা যখন ওঁর সাথে একসাথে চা খেতে খেতে ওঁর সাথে গাছ নিয়ে আড্ডা মারতেন আর সময় পেলেই ওঁর সাথে গাছের পরিচর্যা করতে লেগে যেতেন, খুব মজা হত - শ্রেণীসমতার সেই প্রথম পাঠ - হাতেকলমে। ...

বাবা মায়ের ষ্টীলের চায়ের কাপের ধূমায়িত চায়ের কোন ভাগ ছিল না, ভাগ ছিল টায়ের চানাচুর ও মুড়িমাখায়। আর, আর ভাগ ছিল গল্পের, আলোচনায়। অধিকার ছিল মতামত দেওয়ার ও শোনার। আধ ঘণ্টার চা পানে হঠাৎ বড় হয়ে যাবার একটা আকর্ষন।

চা পানেরও অধিকার যখন পাওয়া গেল, তখন বদলে গেল বাসস্থান। আরেকটা কোয়ার্টার, - সি ডি ১১১/১। মা চেয়েছিল বাগান করার বিস্তর যায়গা আর আলো হাওয়ার অবাধ যাতায়াত, তাই বাছা হল এই কোয়ার্টার। তাও পুরোনো কোয়ার্টারের মায়া কাটানো গেল না। নতুন বাসস্থানের বাগানে ছিল কাঁকর, বালি ও সিমেন্টের অবশেষ। কেউ বা কারা যেন বেছে বেছে এই যায়গাটাতেই সিমেণ্টের মশলা তৈরি করত, তারা আসার আগে। অশীতিপর সন্তোষ কাকু তখন নবতিপর। হাতের জোর কমে গেলেও মনে কঠিন সঙ্কল্প, - বাগানটিকে আবার মনের মত করে তুলবেন। মনের মত বাগানে যখন ফুল ও সবজি ফলতে শুরু করলো, তিনি বাগানের মায়া কাটিয়ে পাড়ি দিলেন না ফেরার দেশে।

আরও আরও পরে সেই বাগান আর বাগান থাকে না। অনেককাল পরে যখন যাওয়া হল তখন সেই বাগানে আগাছার বন। গবাদি পশুদের নন্দনকানন। সেই বাড়ির বাসিন্দারা সেই ছোট্ট শহরের স্মৃতি বুকে জমিয়ে রেখে বড় শহরে পাড়ি দিয়েছিল অনেকবছর আগে - আরও বড় হওয়ার তাগিদে। তারা বড় হয়েও শিকড় জমিয়ে রাখল সেই  ১০৭/২ তেই। আরও বড় বাগান, আরও বড় বপুর ১১১/১ তাদের মন জয় করতে পারেনি, পারবেও না কোনদিন। তবে ১১১/১ রেখে দেবে তাদের বড় হবার স্বপ্নদের, আশাদের, আকাঙ্খাদের।

Decembers in Durgapur

December is indeed a special month to me since my childhood days. Being a student of a catholic convent school, I grew up singing Christmas carols and participating in the school fests celebrating the birth of Christ. The December fest in school used to begin with the quintessential play on the birth of Lord Jesus and then went on with each class presenting their thoughts on Christmas with songs, skits and dances. The selections for the participants used to begin from November though we knew beforehand who would play Jesus's parents, angels, three kings and so on. I always got selected in the song crew and felt safe because the singers did not have to look for fancy clothes as they did not had to perform on stage. We would huddle beside the piano with our music teacher.

Only once there was a break from this routine. I was chosen as a participant in group dance with the song 'Saviour's day'. How on earth did my teachers chose me, the person with two left feet as a dancer makes me wonder till date. But I enjoyed the rehearsals and the performance nevertheless.

Apart from the stage performances, there were the soft boards and cork boards to decorate for the Christmas theme. There were 'Cribs' or the models representing birthplace of Christ. On my last year in school, we were asked to think about innovative themes on 'Crib Making'. The group with which I worked on making crib thought about a globe frame with the usual Christmas scene. Now, how much we were dedicated in Christ devotion and how much we craved for roaming around and bunking classes, we only knew. Everyday, we used to plan an excuse and bunked the subject period we did not liked to study. Our frantic runnings here and there to arrange for equipments even carved soft corners in the teachers' hearts, including the teachers and sisters we were scared of.

All these hullaballoo on Christmas ended by 20th December every year and our winter vacations commenced.  The garden in my quarter's backyard would be in full bloom with seasonal flowering plants by then. There were white 'December Beauties', red Poppies and Gerberas, multicoloured Zinnias, Marigolds, Chrysanthemums, Dahlias and Roses. The wintry holidays would start with observing my parents watering the plants in the garden. Occasionally, they would point the waterpipes towards me in jest making me running around the garden to save myself from the cold water droplets. There would be the fragrance of brewing coffees and bakings of cakes and nan khatais all over the household. There would be me and my brother lazing with the storybooks under the warm blankets amidst the sweet whiffs of baked goodies. There would be my mother knitting sweaters with multi-coloured wools while father would be pulling a joke or two on the structures of the knitted sweaters. The orange peels would be out in the garden for sun-drying. The sun-dried ones would be sorted for making a grounded powder essence for the orange cakes we would be carrying in our lunch boxes for the next few months. The evenings would be reserved for family tea time, the only time of the year when we were allowed to taste the specially blended black tea made by father or a mug of coffee to beat the chills.

As the days passed, the fragrances weakened signalling the reopening of school after the vacation. My mother would start to check our notebooks to find out whether we had been completing the vacation homework. A spurt of scolding would continue to resonate the air instead of the baking fragrances. The last days of December would go in frenzy yet we would be scribbling my homeworks till the very morning the school started again.

Reminiscing the Giridih Winters

I love this nip around the air when the winter begins to announce its arrival. I also miss the winters spent in Giridih and Durgapur. When I think about the winters in Durgapur, I become nostalgic about my childhood and my mother's cooking. The very dishes which she cooked then made us frown and cut sorry faces but now we can only imagine the aromas and stay elated the rest of the day. I will reminisce the Durgapur winters some other day as today my heart is going back to Giridih.
The city...maybe we should better call it a small town became a sleepy head by 9 PM every winter day with the chilly air and the evening azaans ruling over. The mornings would begin from 4 AM with the early morning azaan. I loved to wake up to hear this particular azaan and had set up my clock alarm accordingly. Neither I am a religious person nor I am an expert in Arabic but I could relate to the mesmerizing voice of the person who called out the azaan during this time every day. I felt that the person was actually calling out to the God he believed, in the same way we told our dear ones to come and stay with us. By the time the azaan finished, I would be holding my tea mug and thinking about the day that lay ahead.
The days when I was a student in a B.Ed college in Giridih and spending study leaves, my winter days would often go experimenting different dishes on my new induction oven. The winter lunches which I made only for myself were mostly risottos and stews to be eaten while I watched the Jeremy Brett's Sherlock Holmes series. The dinners would be lavish, very north Indian or very Chinese. We had everything ranging from Rajma Chawal to the Chholes to the Mixed Chowmeins to the Chilly Chickens. The sundays would be strictly reserved for Pulaos and Chicken. The chicken which I detest now was a delicacy then as the assorted vegetables which were available in the winter months gave us less opportunity to become non vegetarians with chickens and eggs. Fishes were a rare visitor in our Giridih house as the fresh ones were not easily available.
The winter evenings were spent on coffee mugs, the hand made, indigenous espressos and the seasons of 'The Big Bang Theory'. When the lights went out, we would play around with the waxes of the thick candles discussing on philosphies, life, travels, perspectives and the people of Giridih. Yes, we discussed on Giridih people because their compositions were very new to us. They appeared unwelcoming and welcoming at the same time. We tried to match our exposures and education with them, but gave away eventually and embraced the proverbial saying 'Ignorance is bliss'.
I have forgotten the people who appeared unwelcoming. What I remember now are the winters, the food experiments, the colourful vegetable markets where the tribal people would come to sell their crops, some friendships we made with some unforgettable, humble and gentle people and the morning azaan. I have seen ridiculous caste discriminations and heard about the dowry categories there in Giridih, but what I still carry in my mind is an imaginary image of the chilly Giridih mornings, the person calling out a welcome to his God and I standing still in my balcony with a piping hot tea mug in my hands.

Far from the Madding Beach

For a person smitten by wanderlust, even a minuscule opportunity of packing the knapsack and hitting off the roads would not go ungrabbed. So, this time, during a long weekend, we went to very humble Puri beach. All we wanted was to spend some moments of rendezvous with the rains, mildewed weather and the gay sea breeze.

On reaching Puri, we were quite taken aback to see the rowdy crowd there, not that we didn't know that no person would sit at home and waste the opportunity of not going to the nearby sea beach, but never expected the heavily populated and madding sea beach. There the ocean roared during high tides, and here the people jostled with selfie sticks as if they haven't been to a sea beach and they need to capture each and every moment of their community bathing! We, too, swayed  around and swept with the waves, as if the time had stopped, felt the sea breeze and the towing under currents sweeping the soil under our feet and had 'daaber jol' afterwards.

Our next stop was the 'Wild Grass Restaurant'. We were quite hungry and excited to taste local cuisine and made it a point that we should go somewhere offering different from the ubiquitous 'Bengali Food Available' flashed restaurants. As we seated ourselves in the quaint table, the menu book whetted our appetite with the coastal cuisines. The food was absolutely delicious, very local, very different. Yes! That's what we had wanted. I was just flipping through the menu book to find out any other hidden treasure in the form of food and caught hold of the advertisement of the cycle tours around the city. In the midst of having the crab curry, we contacted the concerned person and the next moment we knew that we are going on a cycling trip the next evening.

I spent the night quite anxiously, to be true. I had cycled about 15 years ago. I know every nuances of cycling but I was out of practice. There was a also a scare of heavy rainfall and storms the next evening. Amidst the scare, we got ready and went to the 'Wild Grass' again to meet our guide and the cycles which were arranged for us. After a short wait, the cycles were ready and my fellow companions started practicing with them. As I started, my legs began to tremble. Just when I was thinking of giving up the try, I found the balance and happily pedalled away ahead of my other friends. The road was smooth with the sides enshrouded with the wet, green trees till we reached the entrance of the Balukhand Sanctuary. As the name Balukhand suggests, we were greeted by a small tract of 'balu' or 'sand just on our way and we had to get down from our cycles. After we crossed the tract on foot with the cycles on our sides, there was a red gravel laden path ahead of us tearing away a wood of cashewnut and casuarina trees. Our guide explained us about the social forestry programme taking place here and how the Odisha government is trying to bring the tribal people on its fold by assigning them responsibilities to take care of the sanctuary and the short stretch of an enclosed beach skirting the sanctuary.

The gravelly path can be called 'a green mile' for the sheets of greenery spreading on both the sides. The sheets looked greener in the month of August for the bounty of rainfall blessing them intermittently. There was a scare of rainfall too, as we cycled away towards the enclosed beach, but the rain gods decided to take a break that evening and spare the novice-out of practice-bicycle riders. The path was steep on a few stretches and my legs started to show signs of tiredness. I continued with a determination to not stop and then after a few metres I noticed that I was losing balance. I didn't know how I fell, but I found myself smeared with red dust. Brushing away the dust, I rode the cycle once again and did not stop till I reached the beach. And what a landscape it was!

The beach had no crowd, it was full of natural sand dunes and the sand looked blandly golden with the rays of the setting sun. Bland, because, the sky was still cloudy. We sat for a while, stretched our legs and saw the sea ahead of us. The waves had started to lose the blue hue. The roar had started to calm down. The surging waves had started to subside and waved us goodbye as we rode back on our cycles and headed back.

A surprise awaited us as we rode on our way back through the National Highway. Our guide told us to stop in front of a roadside eatery for a tea break. Fresh cottage cheese and 'dal pakouri' or lentil fritters were served to us along with the tea. Our guide apologized to us as he could not arrange 'chhana pora' or a type of local cheesecake. He looked sorry, but we assured him that we were overwhelmed to taste the fresh cottage cheese and the spicy dal pakouris and we can ride a few more kilometres with a new zeal.

The return journey was eventless save the fact that I fell down again trying to save a street dog. As we returned to our hotel, our bodies ached but our minds returned rejuvenated. Sometimes, simple joys can feel you with childlike exuberance and breathe in new oxygen to you to tide on over the mundane life until you can venture out again to satiate your wanderlust.

P.S:
Name of our guide: Mr. Yugabrata Kar.
He is a member of Puri Cycling Club and conduct cycling tours through different trails in Puri.
We took part in Nature trail. The other trails are namely Village trails and Puri Heritage Trails.
Contact Details:
Mobile Number: +91 9437023656
Email id: bubu@heritagetoursorissa.com
Or,
Visit Wild Grass Restaurant, Puri and they will contact you to the person.

Photography Courtesy: Avik Das, Sudip Basak.
Disclaimer: Please do not copy any of the information without giving due credit to the photo owners and the blog owner.