Villages around Hazaribagh in West Bengal (page 2 of 3)

I’m posting a group message to thank you, Kola, Calaf, Chris70, and Partirester. I feel less alone😎

I’m arriving too! I see this trip inspired your new avatar choice 😉

I'm on my way too! I see this trip inspired your new avatar choice [;) Hurry up😉 I wouldn't want to lose you. Yep, new avatar for a few months🙁

Thanks, Marie Jo! Yes, keep making us dream... Especially since these women, whom you speak of so movingly, represent just a tiny part of what seems to bring them such unique serenity. You’ve really shone a light on them here—thank you so much!

Sunday, April 5 The night was exhausting. Like the night before, construction work started around 9 PM, but this time it went on all night. Impossible to get any sleep. The noise was infernal: circular saws, dull thuds... a continuous chaos. This time, I wasn’t going to let it slide. I needed to sleep. The reception was deserted, but I’d spotted where the receptionist was staying. I went and knocked loudly on his door. He assured me, in a not very convincing tone, that it would only last another half hour. Skeptical, I went back to my room. But the noise only got worse. I went back down. This time, he seemed to take the situation more seriously and made a call—probably to the hotel owner, who arrived quickly. He explained that the work was happening on the floor below and that he wasn’t responsible for it. Two hours later, the racket was still going. At the end of my rope, I went back to see them: I wanted a solution. Finally, they agreed to intervene and asked for the work to stop. Silence returned at last. I went back to my room and could finally fall asleep. At 6 AM, I left the hotel. Shashi, the driver, was already there to take me to the bus. He’s an excellent driver, both discreet and attentive. He’d been curiously interested in all the visits from the previous days. With Adam, they made a great team—complicit and efficient. While Adam explained the paintings and chatted with the women artists, Shashi took care of photographing and filming our visits. I really had a wonderful stay with them, and I hope to inspire other travelers to meet them. The day was dedicated to the trip to Santiniketan. Several buses were needed: a first change in Asansol, then in Durgapur, before arriving in Bolpur. From there, I took an auto-rickshaw to the homestay, located near the university. When I arrived, the owner seemed surprised: my reservation, made several months earlier, had been forgotten. Despite that, the welcome was warm. The room was simple but pleasant. I even had an entire floor to myself: a kitchen with a hot plate, a fridge, dishes, a living room, and a dining area. The house was very clean, comfortable, and at a very reasonable price.

Monday, April 6 Breakfast was included. The lady of the house brought me oil-soaked toast with an omelet. I couldn’t eat that. Seeing my hesitation, she kindly agreed to prepare a hard-boiled egg with toast, which was much more suited to my habits. Tea and coffee sachets were available, as well as filtered water. The house offered bikes for rent, and I rented one for the day. Before leaving, I had to test it in the driveway, then watch a very thorough demonstration of the lock. I even had to prove I understood how it worked before being allowed to leave. I rode along the university campus and passed by the Brahmamandir, an elegant and peaceful building.





A little further on, another circular building caught my eye: a coconut tree grew in its center, piercing through the roof—a surprising and poetic sight.



I continued on this road for about three kilometers to reach the Sonajhuri haat. The vendors were just setting up. Activity was still calm, but I knew it would pick up in the late afternoon, and I planned to come back. The market stretched along the road, in the heart of a sal forest. They sold saris, bags, clothes, decorative items... and you could also watch songs and dances by the Baul tribe.



I carried on to Surul, on a quiet and pleasant road. I was pedaling peacefully when a motorcycle stopped beside me. A young couple called out to me curiously: where was I from, how old was I, where was I going... A few questions exchanged with smiles, then they thanked me warmly and left, clearly delighted by this brief encounter. It’s in these simple moments that I realize how unique this country can be. The Rajbari was easy to find. The building was immense and majestic, built by the Sakar family, wealthy merchants.



For a few rupees, you could enter and discover the inner courtyard, the Thakur Dalan, where Durga Puja celebrations take place. The courtyard, surrounded by pillars and arches, was bathed in bluish tones that gave it a soft and elegant atmosphere.



Outside the Rajbari, there were two temples. The Lakshmi Janarshan temple, with its five spires, immediately caught the eye. Its terracotta ornaments depicted scenes from the Ramayana. It had recently been restored by Muslim artists from Murshidabad, a beautiful example of artistic collaboration beyond religious traditions.





Nearby were the Shiva temples of Jora.

Above the arch, a terracotta panel caught my eye. The sculpted scenes unfolded like a living story: musicians, dancers, divine figures... In the center, two birds faced each other, framing a floral motif, a symbol of harmony. In these intricate reliefs, mythology and everyday life blended together, as if the sacred and the human world were one.

(continued) Then, as I ventured down a narrow alley, I discovered the temples of Pachim Para.



The Deul temple is particularly remarkable.



On one of the first panels, a central couple is surrounded by musicians and dancers in a lively scene that oscillates between mythological narrative and everyday life representation. The details are abundant, the gestures delicate, but the deities remain difficult to identify with certainty.



Further on, the walls are covered with more fragmented motifs: small figures, animals, faces, and floral ornaments follow one another like a meticulous patchwork. Each element seems to tell its own story, nestled within the architecture, bearing witness to patient craftsmanship and a remarkable sense of detail. Other panels illustrate daily life and mythological figures. A vertical frieze catches my attention: the mrityulata, the “vine of death.” It consists of a succession of human and animal figures, each seeming ready to attack the one below. This motif, repeated along the entire height of the temple, creates a simultaneously fascinating and unsettling impression.



Next to it is the Aatchala temple, recognizable by its three-arched entrance. The central panel is adorned with floral and geometric motifs, more understated but just as elegant. I continue my visits and cycle to Supur. Upon arriving, I discover the Hattala temples, peacefully nestled in this quiet village.





I then head to the Shiva Jora temples, located on the main street.



One of them, octagonal in shape, particularly catches my eye. Its eight facades are richly decorated: musicians, dancers, and soldiers unfold amidst floral and geometric designs. As is often the case here, every centimeter tells a story.







It’s time to head back. The market is about ten kilometers away. Halfway there, a sharp noise suddenly rings out, like a firecracker: the rear tire has just burst. I’m forced to push the bike under the scorching heat. I walk like this for nearly a kilometer, asking for directions several times. Each time, I’m told to keep going straight. I finally come across a small house. At first glance, there’s no one around, but a woman appears and calls someone. A man arrives and immediately gets to work. The diagnosis is clear: the inner tube has a huge hole. He offers to replace it but eventually agrees to repair it. It already bears several “bandages,” evidence of previous fixes. While examining the tire, he discovers it’s also seriously torn. I start to worry, but he remains perfectly calm. He cuts a large piece of inner tube and slips it inside the tire, then pulls out a large needle and thread and begins sewing the tire. I’d never seen anything like it. The repair costs me 100 rupees. I set off again, torn between admiration and concern, hoping this makeshift fix will hold until I get back. The tire is in very bad shape, and another puncture is still possible. In the end, I reach the market without incident. The atmosphere is now lively. I make a few purchases, including kanthas in the shape of scarves. Back at the house, the owners are away. I leave the bike: the repair held.

Tuesday, April 7th After breakfast, I go downstairs and see that the bike is back in the entrance. The owners didn’t notice anything unusual and didn’t say anything to me. Though, to be fair, the tire—already quite worn from so many ruts—probably needs replacing.

I take an autorickshaw to Bolpur, then a bus toward Nanoor. There, I visit the Chandidas Bhita temple complex: there are about fifteen temples within the grounds, but unfortunately, they’re in very poor condition. I quickly walk around them.







Right across from the temples, there’s a tailor’s shop—perfect, since I brought my khantas. I ask him to turn them into pie carriers: they’ll make great gifts when I get back.



A man approaches us and takes me to a woman who also sews khantas. She shows me a few designs, but I don’t find what I’m looking for. I head back to the bus station. While waiting for the bus to Bolpur, I enjoy a delicious yogurt. Back in Santiniketan, I walk to the market. I find the khanta sellers and show them my creations. They think they’re so well done that they take photos—maybe they’ll offer them for sale in the future. I’m still on the lookout for saris to turn into curtains for my niece, and here, the selection is endless. I leave with two saris and two more khantas. As soon as I get home, a storm breaks out. Later, I go out to buy two eggs, which I’ll cook tomorrow morning before I leave.

Wednesday, April 8 I take the bus at 11 AM to Burhanpur, then an auto to Murshidabad, where I arrive around 4 PM. I booked a room at the Mahfil-e-Motijheel. The hotel is new, the room is large and very comfortable. For 22 € including breakfast, it’s a real little luxury that feels great after several more basic stops. The staff is particularly helpful and friendly, which adds to the pleasure of the place.



The restaurant is in a pretty building in the heart of the hotel’s park. I have a very decent dinner there: tomato soup, eggplant, and ice cream. A simple but pleasant evening in a peaceful setting.

Thursday, April 9 Murshidabad is nicknamed the "Land of the Nawabs." A quote from Robert Clive after the Battle of Plassey perfectly illustrates the city’s importance at the time: "The city of Murshidabad is as extensive, populous, and rich as London, with this difference: some individuals in the former possess infinitely greater wealth than those in the latter. If the inhabitants had wanted to annihilate the Europeans, they could have done so with sticks and stones." Breakfast, included in the room price, is hearty and served à la carte: omelet, toast, butter, honey, yogurt, and fruit. Just what I needed to start the day before exploring the city. Yesterday, I had asked to rent a bike. After waiting until 10 AM, a kid shows up with a bicycle without brakes and with a bar in the middle… I decide to skip it and head out on foot. I start with the Katra Masjid, which has free entry.



The mosque is magnificent, built with red baked bricks. Erected by Nawab Nazim Murshid Quli Khan between 1723 and 1734, it served as a mosque, mausoleum, and one of the largest caravanserais on the Indian subcontinent. Inspired by the Kaaba in Mecca, it stands on a vast square pedestal 54 meters wide, surrounded by rows of domed cells on two levels. These cells could accommodate about 700 Quran readers, while nearly 2,000 worshippers could pray within the enclosure.



Some Indian tourists suddenly call out to me and rush over for a photo. We exchange a few smiles and take a bunch of selfies. Delighted, they quickly head off to continue their visit, leaving me with this spontaneous and joyful little moment—so common when traveling in India.



From the Katra, I take a small road lined with a vast mango plantation leading to the Fauti Mosque. It’s now in ruins, and it’s no longer possible to get close. I turn back. I then head to the Hazarduari Palace. Since it’s quite a distance, I take an auto. This palace is famous for its thousand doors: 900 are real, and the other 100 were added to deceive potential enemies. Entry costs 300 rupees.



Photos are forbidden inside, where weapons, spears, tableware, and especially a huge chandelier in pink, yellow, and blue—absolutely stunning—are on display. It’s considered the second-largest in the world after the one in Buckingham Palace. The gardens within the grounds are very well maintained. Facing the palace stands the impressive Nizamat Imambara, whose monumental façade isn’t open for visits.



On one side is the Mosque of Medina, and a little further away, an enormous cannon weighing 7,657 kg. Legend has it that during a test firing, the supersonic boom was heard within a 16-kilometer radius, even causing premature births among some pregnant women.



On the other side stands the clock tower.



As for the Yellow Mosque, it’s on the other side of the road: you have to leave the grounds and go around to get close.

Santiniketan! !!

Isn’t this the town founded by Rabindranath Tagore, my favorite poet? Did you find the lyrical offering within while biking around, or any of his poems scattered along the paths? Oh wow, this trip is making me so jealous… (Plus, there’s nothing lying around on the ground—is this really India, or did they clean everything up before you arrived?) Thanks, Marie Jo, for these beautiful photos…

Santiniketan! !!

Isn’t this the town founded by Rabindranath Tagore, my favorite poet?

Yes, it’s in Santiniketan that you’ll find Visva-Bharati University, created by Rabindranath Tagore. It has over 11,000 students. You can visit part of it, but I thought the price was excessive—I’d already been there 10 years ago and had visited it then. I haven’t read his poems. Santiniketan and the villages around Hazaribagh are indeed very clean. The cities in Jharkhand are very polluted—I wore a mask in the street.

I’m continuing my visits in Murshidabad.

About 300 meters away stands another palace, the Wasif Manzil, also known as the New Palace. Its façade is elegant, almost refined, and its architecture—inspired by European neoclassical style—reflects the British colonial influence on the region at the time. The nawabs adopted this style to display their modernity and closeness to British power. However, the interior shows its age.



The large main hall, on the other hand, still holds an unexpected beauty. The walls, painted in water-green tones, contrast with the yellow and white moldings, and the finely decorated ceiling immediately draws the eye. Tall white columns structure the space and emphasize its verticality. Despite these refined elements, the room feels almost empty: a few display cases, dark furniture arranged along the walls, and bright light streaming in through the large door at the back, leaving part of the hall in semi-darkness. This light accentuates the sense of vast, almost abandoned space, where the past grandeur seems to have gently faded away.



I continue to the tomb of Azimunissa Begum, of which only a door remains today. She is said to have been buried under a staircase, like her father. A local legend claims she was a cruel woman and that her husband had her buried alive. But it seems this is just a popular tale with no verified historical basis.



A little further on is the Jafarganj cemetery, enclosed by high walls, where the last Nawabs of Bengal rest. The atmosphere is peaceful, almost timeless. The eye is drawn to a striking contrast: the small, well-maintained white tombs appear better preserved than the larger ones, now in ruins, whose dilapidated state reinforces the sense of abandonment.





On the way back, I pass through Jiaganj, where a monumental gate catches my eye.



Massive and worn by time, it still stands, made of red bricks blackened and eroded. The stacked arches reveal a passage now sealed off, while vegetation creeps into the cracks, as if reclaiming the place. The walled-up openings and faded reliefs evoke a once-imposing structure, of which only this silent fragment remains. There’s something melancholic about this ruin, but also a great beauty.

I continue along a road under construction.



Here, the asphalt is still made using traditional methods. Two men work around a rudimentary machine, from which thick smoke billows. One lifts a heavy load of burning mixture while the other monitors the cooking process. Around them, piles of sand, drums, and stacked wood fuel the fire. The ground is covered in dust and gravel. The smell of hot tar mixes with the ambient heat, making the atmosphere almost stifling. Their movements are precise and repetitive, reflecting an empirical know-how. The scene is raw, almost archaic, yet perfectly mastered.



The contrast is striking: just steps away from the remnants of a prestigious past, life goes on with simple, almost timeless techniques.

Then comes the Nashipur Rajbari palace.



Photos are officially banned there, but I take advantage of the guards' absence to snap a few discreetly. Inside, the place is still furnished, but nothing is truly showcased: everything seems frozen in time, covered in a thick layer of dust that looks almost original. The large hall I walk through is the perfect example: a long table covered with a red cloth, surrounded by wooden chairs, sits in the center, as if ready to welcome guests who will never come. Around it, the furniture is scattered without order—a dark vanity, a dresser, a few display cases—while old portraits, some crooked, remain hung on the yellowed walls.



The eye is drawn to a mirrored cabinet, quite unique, allowing you to see yourself from different angles, like a game of reflections from another era.



Above, the hanging chandeliers and bare bulbs further accentuate this strange atmosphere, somewhere between abandonment and survival. The cracked walls bear the marks of time, and even the signs asking not to take photos seem forgotten, like everything else. The palace somewhat resembles Wasif Manzil, but the rooms here are less spectacular and much more dilapidated. This sense of abandonment is striking, and you can’t help but regret the lack of upkeep for these historically rich places.

Outside, a large open hall borders the courtyard: an elegant gallery of arches and columns, likely intended for receptions.

The arches, weathered by time with their yellow-orange hues, support a structure topped by a small temple whose whitewashed sacred part contrasts with the darkened domes crowned with red flags.



The whole ensemble, both majestic and weary, exudes a particular charm, somewhere between past beauty and slow decay.

(continued)

Next door is the Jagat Seth House museum, whose name means "banker to the world." Photos are, once again, forbidden inside, but I manage to take a few discreetly.



The rooms are richly decorated and display a wide variety of objects, reflecting the prosperity and refinement of this influential family.





Among them, Comtoise-style clocks, surprisingly present here, catch my eye: an unexpected detail that speaks to the exchanges and influences from Europe.



A secret tunnel, quite surprising, runs through the building; it once allowed its owner to stay protected or move around out of sight. Outside, a basin with a fountain adds a touch of serenity.

A cannon is displayed near the building, imposing with its tier, a reminder of the power and prestige of the place.

I continue on to Kathgola Palace, walking along a long avenue lined with magnificent trees. In Murshidabad, palaces are plentiful but often far apart from each other. Since I love exploring on foot, the day promises to be intense—I’ll probably break my walking record. As soon as you arrive, the tone is set: the monumental gate to the park is already grand, almost like a palace in its own right. It’s adorned with Corinthian columns and delicate floral stucco motifs, reflecting a strong European influence and a taste for refined ornamentation. It hints at the opulence and significance of the place even before you step inside.



A large basin faces the palace, its elegant façade reflected in the water, adding even more majesty to the site.



Built in the 19th century by a wealthy Jain merchant family, Kathgola Palace is a testament to Murshidabad’s commercial prosperity at the time, when it was still a major financial hub in Bengal. Its name, "Kathgola," means "wooden house," referring to the wood warehouses that contributed to its owners' wealth, along with the mention of a rose garden that once surrounded the estate.



The four-story building features European-inspired architecture, blending neoclassical influences with local tastes. By the late 19th century, French architects contributed to its renovation, adding an even more Western touch, including lion statues that enhance the palace’s majestic appearance. Photos are prohibited inside, except in the grand hall on the upper floor, which is absolutely remarkable. This vast, richly decorated room reflects the refinement and luxury in which the owners lived. The monumental staircase, finely crafted, is also stunning and adds to the sense of grandeur.





On the top floor, a large terrace offers a view of the entire estate. From here, you can take in the gardens, the basin, and the surroundings, providing a beautiful perspective on the harmony of the site. In the gardens, an elegant kiosk evokes the lifestyle of the era, when these spaces were used for strolls, gatherings, and moments of relaxation.



Under this kiosk, a few young people now rest while checking their phones, adding a contemporary touch to this historic place. From here, you can enjoy a view of the gardens, a fountain, and, in the distance, the Adinatha Temple, which stands out with its dazzling whiteness.



This Jain temple, dedicated to the first Tirthankara, reflects the religious affiliation of the palace’s patrons and the importance of this merchant community in Murshidabad’s history. Finally, a *baori*—an ancient stepwell typical of Indian architecture—completes the estate. The one at Kathgola Palace has a special story: it’s said to have filled with water after a flood from the Bhagirathi River, located on the opposite bank.



Beside the well, a statue carved from Italian marble adds another refined detail, illustrating once again the blend of Indian and European influences that characterize the estate. Victorian-style lions, fountains, and numerous decorative elements also reflect the British influence that shaped Murshidabad’s architecture in the 19th century.



Kathgola Palace thus reflects an era when wealthy Jain merchant families displayed their success by combining Indian traditions, local craftsmanship, and Western architectural trends that were very much in vogue at the time.



I’m really savoring this moment because I’ve fallen in love with this place. After all these discoveries, I take the time to wander around the estate a little longer, extending my visit until sunset. The light that envelops the gardens, the palace, and the basin creates a special atmosphere, almost timeless. But after such a long day of walking and exploring, I have to think about heading back. I’ll eventually take an auto to return to my hotel, which is quite far from the center.

Friday, April 10. The temples of Baranagar Today, I set off to explore the temples of Baranagar, located on the other side of the Bhagirathi River, just a few kilometers from Murshidabad. I walk to the ferry landing. Along the way, a motorcyclist slows down beside me, curious to know which country I’m from and where I’m headed. When I explain my plan, he spontaneously offers to take me there. Once again, the kindness of the locals makes my travels easier. The river crossing is quick.



On the other side, several auto-rickshaws are waiting for travelers. I don’t have to wait long and quickly hop in to reach the temple complex. The village of Baranagar, near Azimganj, is home to a remarkable collection of terracotta temples built in the 18th century by Rani Bhabani, a wealthy zamindar (landowner) from Bengal and a great patron of religious architecture. The terracotta panels covering their facades depict both episodes from sacred texts and scenes from daily life at the time.



At the entrance to the site, the guard asks me to sign a register. He then accompanies me on the visit and tells me the history of these temples. Afterward, he leaves me to welcome an Indian couple. I can take my time, observe the details, and photograph the facades in peace. I also check out the explanations I found on a blog to better understand the scenes depicted.



On one terracotta panel, I discover a depiction of Rama confronting Ravana, the ten-headed demon king, a famous episode from the Ramayana.

Other panels show scenes from daily life: people at work, musicians, animals, and even battle scenes. These small sculptures are true archives of 18th-century Bengali society.



A little further on is the hexagonal Bhabanisar Shiva temple, located by the roadside. Unfortunately, the gates are locked, and I can’t go inside.



I try to walk around it anyway and end up in the courtyard of a neighboring house, where a woman is sitting on the ground grinding ginger. A simple scene of everyday life that contrasts with the ancient monuments I’ve just been admiring.



I head back to my auto-rickshaw, and we continue through the countryside in search of another temple: the Gangeshwar Jor Bangla. Isolated in a rural setting, it gives the impression of being made up of two adjoining sanctuaries, a characteristic architecture of the jor bangla style ("two joined houses").



Here too, the facades are adorned with numerous terracotta panels depicting various aspects of daily life, people, animals, and decorative motifs.





I end this visit with the feeling of having discovered a discreet but exceptional heritage. Far from the grand palaces of Murshidabad, these small village temples tell another story of Bengal—one of beliefs, craftsmen, and daily life etched in clay.

(continued)

We return to Azimganj, where I make a final stop at the Jain temple Sambhavnathji, just before it closes.



The place is peaceful, and I take these last moments to explore the sanctuary before the doors close.



From there, I set off on foot in search of the old *havelis* that still bear witness to the past wealth of the Jain merchant families in the region.



My walk ends in front of a charming house, the Bari Hotel. From the outside, the place doesn’t look like much, and I even wonder if I’ve arrived at the right spot.



I gather my courage and push the door open to ask if I can visit. A waitress invites me in and to sit down in a lounge.



A few moments later, another person brings me a cold drink. A man then comes to greet me and explains that a visit is possible—on the condition that I have lunch there, for 1500 rupees. I’m not hungry, and the price is too high for me, so I decline. Eventually, he kindly agrees to let me see just the ground floor.





And what a surprise! Behind this unassuming façade lies an absolutely stunning place. The rooms are elegant, decorated with refinement, and you can sense the prestigious past of this residence.



I didn’t dare ask about the price of the rooms—probably beyond my budget—but this visit will remain a wonderful unexpected discovery.



Back in Murshidabad, I set off in search of a tailor for a few jobs. I end up spending a long time with him, explaining how to make curtains and pie bags. Communication isn’t always easy, but with a few gestures and a lot of goodwill, we manage to understand each other. He offers me *chai*, then a man and a woman join us to chat for a while. When it’s time to pay, he asks for a very modest amount. I decide to give him double, a gesture that touches him deeply. His friend seems to approve, and the three of us share a simple but warm moment. These small everyday exchanges are often the most beautiful memories of a trip. I then head back to the hotel. Elections are supposed to take place at the end of the month, and several people are already preparing flags. As I walk by, some insist on giving me one. I refuse sometimes, but their enthusiasm and eagerness to share this local moment with me make me smile. A little further on, I pass a house decorated for a wedding. People are sitting outside and spontaneously invite me to join them. Quickly, curiosity gives way to friendliness: I’m invited inside, introduced to the future bride and groom, and offered pastries.



I can’t eat them all on the spot, so I ask if I can take a few with me. The woman then returns with an entire box full of cakes. Now I have dessert for several days! Once again, this day ends with an unexpected encounter, just like India knows how to offer so well. Beyond palaces and temples, it’s these moments of sharing, these smiles, and this spontaneous generosity that make travel so rich.

Saturday, April 11 Last day in Murshidabad. The hotel is located outside the city, on the road leading to Cossimbazar. I set off on foot along this quiet, almost deserted little road. At the end, I pass by a chicken farm: the chicks are piled on top of each other, a sight that really doesn’t make me want to eat any.



I look for a car, but as often happens, it’s a motorcyclist who stops. He offers to take me. I have to ride sidesaddle on the bike; at first, I’m not very reassured, but I eventually find the position quite comfortable. He drops me off two kilometers further on, at a crossroads, and flags down a driver who agrees to take me to the Roy Rajbari in Cossimbazar, now transformed into a charming hotel with a museum.



Part of this family home still belongs to the Roy family, who undertook its restoration themselves to create the Cossimbazar Palace. The white building is impressive, and the museum occupies the former residence.



The visit feels like a stroll through time: inner courtyards, ballrooms, long corridors… all the way to the temples of Durga and Chandi.

The rooms are furnished with Victorian furniture, the walls adorned with trophies, and heavy Belgian glass chandeliers hang from the ceiling. All the furniture is covered with clear plastic sheets, giving the whole place a strange, almost frozen atmosphere.





After the visit, I head to the hotel where I’m shown the inner courtyard and a room—71 € per night. Still, I’m a bit disappointed: I’d much preferred the visit the day before at the Bari Hotel, where the welcome had been much warmer. Here, since I was just passing through, I had to insist to get a quick look around.





On the way back, I stop in front of a cemetery. A sign at the entrance reads: DUTCH CEMETERY. This cemetery is located on the site of the former Dutch trading post. According to François Bernier, a French physician and traveler who arrived in India in 1658 and served the Mughal prince Dara Shikoh, the site already existed in 1666 and employed between 700 and 800 men. It now houses 47 tombs, the oldest of which is that of Daniel Van Der Miyl, who died in 1721.

Back in Murshidabad, I set off one last time in search of the old city gates. The road here is also under repair: the asphalt is spread by hand, using simple rakes. What a job... A scene that feels almost timeless, giving me the impression of leaving a world where time flows differently.



Before reaching the Tripolia Gate, I pass through the Chawk Bazaar Gate, an old fortified gate that still blends harmoniously into the urban landscape. It seems to bridge the past and present life, unobtrusive yet ever-present.



I then head toward the Tripolia Gate, formerly called Chawk Gate, a Mughal-style entrance that once led to the Kila Nizamat complex.



Nearby stands a large white mosque.



I pass by the Wasif Manzil again, with its beautiful European-inspired architecture. I can’t resist photographing it one last time, as if to preserve a clearer memory before leaving.



I continue to the southern gate, the Dakshin Darwaza, an imposing two-story brick structure. Up there, in the past, musicians in the Nahabat Khana would announce the arrival of visitors and troops. Today, the place seems silent, almost frozen, as if the echo of that music had faded with time.



Nearby, by the riverside, a small white mosque, quite dilapidated, stands discreetly.



Across from it, the Ghanta Ghar of Kila Nizamat, an old clock tower, also evokes a bygone era when life was marked by the chime of the hours.



Everything seems to bear the mark of the past, as if Murshidabad were gently closing behind me. On my way back, I make one last detour through Motijheel Park, near the hotel. The shaded paths form a horseshoe around the lake, children play, and a few families stroll. I walk slowly, soaking in this peaceful atmosphere, aware that these are my final moments here. The day gently comes to an end, and with it, my stay in Murshidabad.

What a joy to follow this trip off the beaten track, discovering this timeless India. We’ve traveled to India several times in recent years, but rarely like this. I’ll be eagerly following your travel journal. Didier

I don’t have time to comment, but I’m following this travel journal just like the previous ones with great pleasure. It’s fascinating—I also admire the research effort that went into preparing such an off-the-beaten-path trip, as well as the narrator’s curious and kind-hearted mindset. 🙂

Sunday, April 12 and Monday, April 13Ambica Kalna, the temple town of Bengal I leave this hotel where I had a great stay. As soon as the restaurant opens, I have breakfast and then take an auto-rickshaw to Baharampur. From there, I catch a bus to Kalna. Upon arrival, near the bus parking, I spot a guesthouse. Since I hadn’t booked anything, I decide to stop there. The receptionist isn’t very friendly, the place is noisy, and not very inviting. Across the road is the hotel where I stayed ten years ago. They’ve since opened a restaurant there. I negotiate the room price; it’s very basic, but options are limited here, so I’ll make do. Once settled, I head out to stretch my legs in the neighborhood. Revisiting this town after so many years already brings back some memories. The next morning, after breakfast, I set off on foot to explore the temples located about three kilometers from the hotel. The walk lets me stroll through the town, observe daily life, and reach one of Bengal’s most beautiful religious sites at my own pace. The Nava Kailash Temples The Nava Kailash temples are exceptional. They consist of a circle of 108 shrines dedicated to Shiva, built in 1809. Their decorative panels depict scenes from the Ramayana and the Mahabharata, true stories carved in terracotta. The complex is organized into two concentric circles: 34 temples on the inside and 74 on the outside. Their architecture is intentionally simple, but each shrine houses a Shiva lingam, black or white, arranged alternately in a symbolic pattern.



The number 108 holds sacred significance in several religions, including Hinduism, Buddhism, and Jainism. It represents deep spiritual symbolism: the 1 stands for unity; the 0 evokes emptiness, the stilling of thought, a pure and perfectly clear mind; the 8 symbolizes infinity. Thus, 108 represents the culmination of the spiritual journey: ecstasy, liberation, enlightenment, like the end of an inner voyage. The Rajbari Complex of Kalna Facing the 108 Shiv Mandir is the Rajbari complex of Kalna. As I cross the entrance, I’m once again amazed to discover this beautiful ensemble of temples surrounded by a well-maintained garden.



This is my second time here, but the emotion is the same as ten years ago. The place is still just as magnificent, peaceful, and harmonious. The first temple on the left is the Pratapeshwar.



It features sculptures on all four sides and false doors on three sides, richly decorated.





A few steps away is the Rasmancha, circular in shape, with its many openings. Its roof is now gone, revealing an elegant structure open to the sky.



Next, you pass through a gate to reach the Lalji Temple, the oldest in the complex. It has 25 pinnacles spread across three levels. Its second floor, octagonal in shape, features a pinnacle at each of its eight corners.



A little further on, the Giri Gobardhan Temple catches the eye with its sculptures of animals and human figures on its roof. It has four sloping roofs and once served as a gathering place for devotees.



Passing back through the gate on the right, I discover a flat-roofed temple



as well as the Pancharatna, a group of five small temples of varying sizes.