New adventures from Perpignan to Ranchi (Jharkhand)

March 2nd — Departure by bus from Latour at 6:50 AM. The journey isn’t direct: we pass through Elne then Corneilla. In Perpignan, I switch to a BlablaBus heading to Barcelona’s northern bus station. Before reaching Le Perthus, French police stop us to check IDs. Several people aren’t in order, but after about fifteen minutes, we’re on our way again. We’re checked again at La Jonquera: this time, the wait lasts almost forty-five minutes while police identify those in violation and wait for a vehicle to pick them up. The driver then tries to make up for lost time; we finally arrive at our destination half an hour late.

I quickly head to the Arc de Triomphe metro station, located 200 meters away: you have to cross the bridge along the bus parking lot, then walk through a large garden; the station is on the right before the garden entrance. The trip to the airport isn’t direct: I have to change at Tomasso and take the line to the airport, where I arrive at 1 PM.

At the Emirates counter, I learn my flight was just canceled due to the war in Iran; they offer me another flight for the next day. I have to wait at the airport until 7 PM before being taken to a hotel; the next morning, I’ll take a flight to Vienna (with an 8-hour layover), then an Air India flight to Delhi, and finally a flight to Kolkata. I agree: I don’t know Vienna, so it’ll be an unexpected discovery.

At 7 PM, a small group is taken to the hotel, 35 minutes from the airport, where we’re served a light dinner upon arrival.

March 3rd — A taxi picks me up at 6:30 AM; the flight to Vienna takes off at 9:30 AM and arrives at noon. I’m free until 7 PM; the metro is direct to the city center. The weather is pleasant and not too cold, luckily, since my clothes are light.

When I exit the metro, I spot the St. Stephen’s Cathedral tower in the distance and approach it: the roof, made of glazed tiles, is remarkable.



Entry is free, and the interior, a mix of Gothic and Baroque styles in the center, is stunning.



Not far from there is St. Anne’s Church



, also Baroque, adorned with beautiful frescoes



—a music concert adds an enchanting atmosphere to the visit. I continue my walk at random through the pedestrian streets lined with magnificent buildings: I’m charmed by the city.







Before heading back to the airport, I stop at a lovely tea salon. My flight will eventually leave with a delay.

Wednesday, March 4th — Delhi and a little luggage scare We arrive in Delhi shortly after noon. Immigration is quick, and good news: my bag was checked through from Barcelona to Kolkata. I head to the connecting terminal and arrive half an hour before boarding: the flight goes smoothly. Upon arrival, the luggage comes out quickly… except mine. After filing a report, I’m told my bag is in Delhi—I have to retrieve it before taking another flight. I didn’t know (or had forgotten): with the delays, I wouldn’t have had time to pick it up and make the connection.

I take a taxi to the Ichamati Hotel. The welcome is warm, and the room is clean but very small. Without my bag, I feel a bit lost—I have nothing to change into.

Tonight, I’m dining with Raja and his friends at a beautiful restaurant, an old colonial house turned into a hotel.





We’re happy to see each other and have a comforting evening together.

Hello, Great to hear about your new adventures. I hope everything went well, apart from the trip there. Pierre

Welcome Pierre, you're the first to board.

I’m no longer receiving emails letting me know I have messages. What should I do to get notified again?

Thursday, March 5th

I slept really well—the hotel is super quiet, you can’t hear a sound. I need to head out and find an open restaurant for breakfast. I didn’t go the right way at first, but I found one near the hotel on a parallel street, the Prince Hotel, which is nice and very local.

It’s past 10 a.m. when I set off to explore the city. I pass by the museum and continue to the Shaheed Minar, located on Esplanade. The column is 48 meters tall and was nicknamed the "cloud-kissing monument."



I reach an intersection in the BBD Bagh neighborhood, and St. Andrew's Church comes into view. It’ll be my landmark during my stay.



I keep going until I reach Tiretta Bazar,





then I wander into the alleys in search of the Chinese temples. There are five in this neighborhood, but I only visit two, including the Sea Ip Church. The others are closed—it’s already past noon. These small temples, hidden in a maze of alleys, are colorful and exude a peaceful atmosphere, contrasting with the hustle and bustle of the nearby streets.



I continue my walk through a lively market until I reach the Nakhoda Masjid.





Women can only enter the courtyard. Two basins allow men to perform their ablutions before entering the mosque.

The Buddhist monastery closes at noon, so there’s no point in heading there—it’s way too late. I set off in search of St. John’s Church but can’t find the cemetery, which should be nearby.

I end the day with a visit to Eden Garden, which didn’t really impress me in the end. I take a moment to rest before receiving a message from the hotel saying my bag has finally arrived at the airport.



I decide to walk back to the hotel despite the distance. A Uber driver then takes me to the airport and even accompanies me to the baggage claim service. First, I need to find the right counter, which is upstairs. I show my passport and the receipt I was given, then wait for a staff member to retrieve my bag. The wait is a bit long. Before handing it over, the staff takes a photo of the bag alone, then another of me holding it, probably to confirm the handover. Once the formalities are done, the taxi takes me back to the hotel. I’m exhausted and have dinner at the same restaurant as this morning.

Friday, March 6

After breakfast, I set off to find Mother Teresa’s dispensary to drop off some dressing supplies I’d collected from a friend. Once there, I realize I’m in the wrong place. Fortunately, a sister agrees to take the supplies and ensures they reach the dispensary. Before arriving, I stop at a small market—just the kind of authentic spot I love.



In Calcutta, it’s common to see men washing up on the sidewalks, using simple water spouts as showers. Though surprising at first glance, this scene is part of the city’s daily life.

Next, I’m near College Street and pass through Boi Para, the famous book market. Booksellers line both sides of the street for its entire length, creating an impressive open-air library where books stack as far as the eye can see.



I then head to the Victoria Memorial. Given the distance, I decide to take a taxi. I only visit the gardens, having already explored the interior on a previous trip.



From there, I walk to St. Paul’s Cathedral, located near the planetarium.



I take a bus to the G.P.O. (General Post Office), an old colonial building.

I continue my walk to Metcalfe Hall. Since the entrance is paid, a young man helps me make the payment using his phone. Inside, I discover modern exhibitions that contrast with the building’s beauty and elegance—its architecture is truly worth seeing.





I take another taxi to reach the James Prinsep Memorial, which is quite far from the center.



I then take another taxi to drop me near a metro station, as the traffic jams in this area are too heavy. I take the metro to Maidan station, then a bus before walking to the flower market, which is as lively and colorful as ever.



I decide to walk back and make a detour through New Market. I spend a long time in a large shop where I find some lovely pants I really like. Tonight, I’m dining at the restaurant I discovered ten years ago: Mocombo. It’s still as elegant, and the food is just as excellent. The restaurant is only 500 meters from my hotel, which is much appreciated after such a long day.

Saturday, March 7 I take the metro at Park Street to go to Marble Palace, getting off at Mahatma Gandhi Road station. The palace isn’t very far, but you have to weave your way through the neighborhood’s narrow alleys. The visit is free, but photos are forbidden, even outside. At the entrance, the guard still asks me for 100 rupees. Another staff member then comes to get me and escorts me to the house’s hall. First, I have to sign a register. There’s a lot of staff around, and a man gives me a quick tour of the place. After that, I’m just a five-minute walk from Tagore’s house, which I really enjoyed during my last visit. Entry costs 500 rupees, with an extra fee to visit the outside area, which I decide not to pay—no need to go overboard! Here too, I have to sign a register before entering. I continue my walk on foot to Kumartuli. Along the way, I discover several typical scenes of daily life: a barber set up right in the street.



A basket-weaving shop also catches my eye.



I also pass by a magnificent colonial building, now a hospital.



I finally arrive in the potters’ neighborhood. Here, they make clay statues of deities. At first, they’re just straw structures tied with ropes, which are then covered with several layers of clay and left to dry in the sun. Later, they’ll be painted and richly decorated.



I then take the metro toward Dakshineswar Kali Temple. I still have to walk about a kilometer to get there. When I arrive, it’s already 2 p.m., and the temple has just closed. Oh well, I’ll come back another time. I head back to Park Street and look for a pastry shop where I can sit for a while to rest after this busy day. Dinner at Mocambo.

Sunday, March 8: Medinipur Yesterday evening, I asked the hotel manager to book a taxi to take me to the station at 9:30 AM. I was on time for the meet-up, but no car showed up. So I went back to the reception, and the manager immediately booked another one, which arrived very quickly. It took us about 15 minutes to get to the station. There was no one at the counter to buy a ticket to Medinipur. Someone just pointed me to the platform, but since I couldn’t find the train, I asked for help—it was actually right in front of me! The train was supposed to leave at 9:20 AM, but with the delay, it was already 10:20 AM. This setback actually worked in my favor, as I was able to catch it without waiting for the next one. The train was packed, but I managed to find a seat. It stopped every three or four minutes, and we made over thirty stops before reaching our destination. Some travelers weren’t as lucky as me and had to stand the whole way. At every stop, vendors boarded the train to sell all sorts of things: food, small items, dish towels… You could really find anything. The ride was lively—there was always something happening, which made the time pass pleasantly. The scenery flew by with bright green rice paddies. Every now and then, I’d spot fields of flowers, often marigolds. When I arrived, I took a rickshaw to the Light House Hotel, which I’d found on Google. It’s a small family-run place. The receptionist didn’t quite understand my request, so he called the owner, who arrived quickly with his wife and daughter, curious to meet this Frenchwoman—they clearly don’t get foreign tourists every day. The room was decent and clean. I wanted to visit Pathra, the temple town, that very afternoon. The owner knew a taxi driver who arrived quickly. The distance wasn’t far, but we moved slowly behind numerous trucks that kept stopping. The temples of Pathra are right by the road, in the middle of the countryside, surrounded by rice paddies. The site is well-maintained, and a few young people were hanging out there. The setting was peaceful and very pleasant.



The temples of Pathra are divided into three main groups: the Nabaratna temple complex, the Kalachand complex, and the Rasmancha complex.

The Kalachand complex is the most elaborate of the temple complexes in Pathra. It’s on the left side of the road for visitors coming from Midnapore. The Kalachand temple, a rectangular flat-roofed structure with decorative pillars supporting five arched doors, stands by the roadside. Behind it are three sloping-roofed Shiva temples (aat chala) and a pancha ratna (five-spired) temple. Further back stands a roofless rectangular laterite structure, preceded by a veranda and locally known as the Durga Mandapa. Next to the Durga Mandapa is the dilapidated home of the Zamindar, whose staircase, still visible, leads to the roof.



Further down the road stand two temples built in the aat chala and panch ratna styles. The temples in the Kalachand complex only retain remnants of terracotta ornamentation, without intricate details. The complex also houses several ruined structures completely overgrown with vegetation.



Right across from the Kalachand temple complex stands the Nabaratna temple complex, centered around the imposing nine-spired (nabaratna) temple. It’s the only nine-spired temple in Pathra and the tallest of all the town’s temples.



A left turn after the Kalachand temple complex, followed by a winding dirt path passing a small unknown aat chala temple, leads to the Rasmancha complex.



Built by the Bandopadhyay family, it’s also known as the Bandopadhyay temple complex. The Bandopadhyay family’s temple complex includes three pancha ratna Shiva temples, the octagonal Rasmancha, the Kacharibari, and two smaller Shiva temples. The three Pancha Ratna temples feature fine terracotta ornamentation, while the Rasmancha is adorned with stucco. The octagonal Rasmancha, with its nine spires, stands out clearly from the others.







A great discovery—I’m really happy with this outing. I had dinner at a small open-air restaurant by the road near the hotel.

Monday, March 9 At 8:30 AM, there's a knock at my door. The receptionist brings me an omelet, but no toast or tea. I ask if it’s possible to get some. After a long wait, he returns with three very greasy toasts, each accompanied by a piece of a new omelet! I’m a little embarrassed because I’ll have to eat all of it… and the whole thing is rather unappetizing. I then leave by bus for Pingla. The trip isn’t direct, and I have to make two changes. The first is in Debra, where I cross the railway tracks to catch a bus toward Balichak. The next bus drops me off at an intersection, where I take an auto to reach Naya. It ultimately takes me over three hours to cover just 45 kilometers. The road winds through magnificent landscapes, lined with vibrant green rice paddies. Naya is famous for its Patachitra paintings. The community of artists is gathered at the village entrance, where you can discover their workshops and traditional craftsmanship.



Patachitra refers to a type of scroll painting practiced by a unique community of artists who are painters, lyricists, and singers from the village of Naya in West Bengal, India. The tradition itself dates back to the 13th century; the scroll painting is called Patachitra, while the "Poter Gaan" are the songs associated with the stories painted on the scrolls. In the past, the traditional bearers of this visual and oral art lived on alms they received in exchange for their door-to-door performances, which gradually declined due to a lack of patrons. However, over the years, the artists have evolved and diversified their offerings, creating an artist collective called "Chitrataru." Today, the Patuas of Naya form a recognized community of artists with over 250 practitioners from more than 80 families who have won numerous national and international awards.



I go from house to house discovering these beautiful paintings. I watch the songs as the scroll unfolds—it’s moving.



At one house, I’m invited to lunch with the whole family. I eat an excellent thali; we’re seated on the floor on a mat. I buy a few small paintings—they’re really beautiful.



I was supposed to visit another craft village, but it’s too late. I take a direct bus to Balichak, then a train to Medinipur—it’s much faster. When I arrive in Medinipur, the hotel owner’s daughter spots me, and we head up together by car. In the evening, I dine at a restaurant where I’m the only customer. I’m not very hungry, so I order a paneer 65—it’s really good and very filling; I can’t finish it. I head back quickly—I need to repack my bag. Between 11 PM and 1 AM, I hear music and firecrackers in the street: it must be for a wedding.

Hi, You need to go to "my account - my options" and confirm that you want to receive an email notifying you of new messages in the followed discussion. Pierre

Thanks for this travel journal—we’ll be following it with interest! We easily recognized Kolkata and its bustling activities. We’re going to check out your route since it’s a region we’re not familiar with.

Hi, You need to go to "my account-my options" and confirm that you want to receive an email notifying you of new messages in the followed discussion. Pierre

I’ve double-checked—everything’s set up correctly, but I’m no longer receiving any messages.

Welcome Didier! You're going to discover "another India" with no Western tourists at all.

Tuesday, March 10 At 8:30 AM, the waiter brings me breakfast. Today, the omelet is served separately from the toast, which is no longer swimming in oil, along with a cup of tea. All good—I can finally have a normal breakfast. I leave the hotel to head to the train station. My train to Bishnupur leaves at 9:30 AM. It’s on time, and the journey takes an hour. In Bishnupur, the train station is far from the city center. The auto-rickshaw driver asks for 200 rupees and refuses to negotiate. My hotel, the Suryadeep, is about a kilometer from the bus station. I booked it via WhatsApp. The welcome is warm. Western tourists don’t seem to be very common here, as they seem surprised to see a French woman. Or maybe it’s because I’m traveling alone and I’m not exactly young anymore—it always raises eyebrows. Once settled in my room, a boy brings me a nice cold lemon juice. The receptionist offers to book an auto-rickshaw for sightseeing, but I prefer to do everything on foot despite the distances. I’ve got all the time in the world, and I love strolling, observing, and wandering. I plan to visit all the main sites on this first day. First on my list is the Rasmancha, located three kilometers away. The entry ticket, at 300 rupees, also gives access to the Jor Bangla and Shyam Rai temples.



The Rasmancha is a magnificent structure with many side arches supported by pillars. Its base rests on a raised laterite platform. Built around 1600 by King Malla Hambhir, this temple once hosted all the idols of Radha and Krishna from the city of Bishnupur during the Vaishnava Ras festival, where they were gathered to be worshipped. The Rasmancha is the oldest brick temple in Bishnupur and remains one of its most iconic monuments.



I continue my walk to the Garh Darwaja, now in ruins and overgrown with vegetation. I keep going down the same road and arrive at the Jor Bangla temple, whose name evokes two traditional huts joined together. I really like its sloping roofs connected to each other, giving it such a unique silhouette.



The walls, both inside and out, as well as the ceiling, are beautifully adorned with terracotta panels.



The sculpted scenes, with incredible detail, remind me of comic strips—they tell so many stories through their many characters and intricate details.



Right next to it is the Radhashyam temple, recognizable by its single spire. Built from laterite, it’s adorned with delicate lime stucco decorations.



The temple is surrounded by high walls, and its entrance is through a three-domed gateway with Islamic influences, contrasting with the architecture of the sanctuary.



It has a unique feature: a tulsi mancha, a raised platform where the tulsi, the sacred basil, grows—a plant particularly revered by Hindus.



I continue walking down this road, which leads me to the main gate of Bishnupur, the Pathar Darja, the "Stone Gate." Built from laterite, it stands two stories high and was once one of the main entrances to the fortified city.



A few steps away is a second, more modest gate: the Garh Darja, which also marked the entrance to the old fortress.

I had to backtrack—I’d forgotten to visit the Shyam Rai Temple, located at the junction near Garh Darwaja. Luckily, it wasn’t too far away. I don’t regret the detour at all; it’s one of the most beautiful temples in Bishnupur.



Also known as the Temple of the Five Jewels, it gets its name from its five spires, each symbolically representing a jewel. Accessible through a three-arched entrance on each of its four sides, it’s entirely covered in stunning terracotta panels, even on the inner walls and spires. The scenes depicting the love stories of Krishna and Radha are remarkably delicate.





Afterward, I passed back through the city gates and headed toward the stone chariot.



Nearby, women were doing their laundry. Across the way, a narrow alley caught my eye. Music was drifting out, and the atmosphere was lively. The women were all sitting in front of their homes while a little girl danced in the middle of the street.



When they saw me, they waved me over—they wanted me to take their picture. I stayed with them for a while.



A little later, some men arrived with a large basin filled with a sweet preparation. They offered me a bite: a kind of meringue, light and delicious.

I then continued my visits toward the Madan Mohan Temple. Along the way, I made several stops to take photos. The locals are really friendly, and I had some great moments with them. A smile, a few words, sometimes just a glance is enough to create a connection.



The Madan Mohan Temple is quite a distance away, but the walk is easy. It’s also magnificent, with a single spire and a rectangular roof with slightly rounded edges, reminiscent of the traditional thatched-roof houses of Bengal.



The terracotta panels adorning the temple depict scenes from the Ramayana, with incredible detail. Across from the temple stands a long terracotta structure that once housed the temple kitchens.



Bishnupur is a truly unique city, where every monument holds a new discovery.



I returned to the hotel by crossing the market. When I arrived, the manager offered me tea. I then had dinner at the hotel restaurant, where all the staff were incredibly attentive. It was really nice!

Hi Marie Jo, I stumbled upon your new travel journal by chance. Still going strong, I see! Well done! Once again, you’re making me want to follow in your footsteps... There are the places you visit, but it’s your way of traveling that really resonates with me—so much like mine before I settled down in Kerala. You’re making me want to grab my walking staff again. Unfortunately, I want to go where you’re going, but my legs aren’t what they used to be... Did you switch cameras?

Hi Jean Marie, To really follow me, you’d better have good legs—I don’t know any other way to travel. I need to take my time and "get lost" among the locals. I love discovering off-the-beaten-path places, the more authentic, the better. Even in touristy cities, I always find unusual spots. This is how I like to travel, though I don’t think many others do—my travel journals in India and elsewhere don’t get much attention.

I’m still using the same camera and the same phone, which takes great photos, in my opinion. Have a nice day.

To truly follow me, you’d better have legs—I don’t know any other way to travel. I need to take my time and "get lost" among the locals. I love discovering off-the-beaten-path places, more authentic spots. Even in touristy cities, I always find unusual corners. This is how I like to travel, though I don’t think many travelers do it this way—my travel journals in India or elsewhere don’t attract much attention.

But that’s just it—you seem to have misunderstood my point. What I love about your journals isn’t your prose or your photos—though they *do* make me want to visit the places they show—but the spirit behind them. Your way of traveling is *exactly* how I travel. I also adore your mindset, your philosophy, your taste for risk (like when you set off on a motorcycle at your age to some remote place with a stranger...).

Reading you, I see myself wandering those same spots, strolling through markets, lingering in little streets lined with shops displaying their treasures... I’d love to take YOUR trip, the way YOU do it. I envy you. I want to do exactly what you do and go where you take us. But... I don’t have the legs for it anymore...

So next time, we’ll go together—and *you* can push the wheelchair...🤣 I can already hear you yelling: "Oh no! Not you!"

I love this way of traveling, though I don’t think many travelers do it this way—my journals in India or elsewhere don’t attract much attention.

If you think your journals don’t attract much attention, I don’t think it’s because of *how* you travel...

I don’t think there are many travelers in this situation because my travel journals in India or elsewhere don’t attract much attention.

Hey Marie Jo!

Well, I’m into them because your itineraries give us a break from the "classics"! So I’m sticking with you, but just a heads-up—I won’t have the patience you show when it comes to delayed transport or lost bags 🏴‍☠️

So next time we leave together, and you push the wheelchair...👨‍🦽 I can just hear you screaming: Oh no! Not you!

You know me well, huh😉 I just love going solo. And yeah, I’m not afraid to ride off on a bike with strangers—I only do it in India!!!!😄

Hello,

Don’t get me wrong—I’ve always followed your travel journals—fast-paced and full of energy!—with as much interest as pleasure. Thank you for that.

Best regards,

I wouldn’t have the patience you show when it comes to transport delays and lost bags 🏴‍☠️

Me neither! But I found a way around it: traveling with Air France and flying from an airport in France near my place—or even my own city—to a major Indian airport. That way, I check my bags at departure and pick them up at my final destination. I hate Air France. It’s really expensive, but the comfort, reduced stress, and less fatigue make it worth paying an extra 200 or 300 €. Plus, the free wheelchair for long corridors, transfers between terminals, and priority lanes for various formalities, etc...

Wednesday, March 11 Breakfast is included in the room price: omelet, toast, two bananas, and a gulab jamun. The server also lets me try a very spicy fried snack, but at breakfast, it really doesn’t sit well. I then head to the bus station, located a kilometer from the hotel. Today, I’m going to Panchmura. The bus is already there and fills up quickly; we leave promptly. The village isn’t very far, but the driver makes a long stop before arriving. In Panchmura, I set off in search of the potters.



I get the impression there were more of them when I passed through ten years ago, and their stalls are less stocked today. Still, I find a small terracotta horse. I walk past an alley where a woman is painting pots. They’re beautiful, but far too fragile for me to buy one at the start of my trip.





At the end of the alley, I spot two traditional kilns. They’re built on two levels: the firebox is at the bottom, and the firing chamber is above.



A little further on, men are working at their manual wheels, shaping the clay with remarkable skill.



Almost every house has its own small temple in the courtyard. I wander through the village for a long time and spot several small animist shrines.



Back on the main street, I ask several shopkeepers where the Ayurvedic hospital is. Finally, a man knows the place. He explains I need to take a rickshaw (200 rupees). He stops one for me and gives the driver directions himself. We take a very small, badly damaged road full of potholes. We move slowly, jostled at every bump; I can’t wait to arrive. The route crosses rice fields and then a sal forest. When I arrive, I’m surprised: this hospital doesn’t look anything like what I imagined a healthcare facility would. Under an open hall, several women are kneeling. They grind different herbs on a grooved stone, endlessly repeating the same motion until they get a paste.





Patients sometimes come from very far away. One man is accompanying his father, who has cancer and lives in Ranchi, in the state of Jharkhand. After the consultation, the doctor prescribes herbal preparations that patients buy immediately from the pharmacist set up next to the hall.



This ancient medicine is still practiced here, using methods passed down from generation to generation. I wonder if such a system hasn’t become almost unique these days. There’s no bus back to Bishnupur. The man I met at the hospital also needs to go there to catch his train. So we share the same rickshaw for the return trip.

The driver drops me off at the market entrance, and I set off on foot to explore the Jor Mandir temple complex. This complex consists of three temples—two large and one smaller—nestled in the heart of a meticulously maintained park. All three are built from laterite, on raised platforms, with sloping roofs topped by a single shikhara. The entrance facades are richly adorned with sculptures.



Outside, the smallest temple is also the most decorated. You’ll find scenes from the Ramayana and the Mahabharata here.



I continue my visit with the Radha Madhab temple, also built from laterite. It has a triple-arched entrance, but only two sides allow access to the interior.





The bas-reliefs, remarkably well-preserved, depict incarnations of Vishnu, floral motifs, as well as birds and various animals. Several scenes from the Ramayana are also featured here. I finish with the Kalachand temple, located in a pleasant complex with beautiful gardens and magnificent trees.

Afterward, I head back to the hotel, wandering through the village alleys and skirting the rice fields.



An open-air cowshed—there are so many in this region—I don’t remember seeing this many cows before.



A peaceful walk that nicely wraps up this day of discoveries.

, I wouldn’t have the patience you show when it comes to transport delays and lost bags. Hi Kate! When it comes to traveling, I’m up for anything. I collect unexpected surprises right from the start of my trips ;) For Laos, all my flights were delayed, and this time, one was even canceled. The next one??? I’m still heading back anyway :|

Thanks Alain for your loyalty 🙂 I’m committed—I’ve got to see this through to the end 😏

Thursday, March 12 Today, I’m heading to Joypur. On my way out of the hotel to the bus station, I stop by an optician’s: he fixes the frame of my glasses and I take the opportunity to pick out a pair of sunglasses. At the station, my bus is about to leave—perfect, no waiting. Arriving in Joypur, I take a path along a canal. The place is quiet, no traffic, very pleasant. I pass by temples in very poor condition, as well as a large building that once belonged to wealthy merchants, the same ones who had these temples built. The temples of Datta Para and De Para are nine-spired temples, built on two levels. Two of the entrances feature beautiful triple arches adorned with terracotta motifs, while the other two are badly deteriorated.



The central panel, in the shape of an arch, is divided into two parts: the upper section depicts Krishna, Radha, and the gopis. The lower section is itself divided in two: on the right, Rama surrounded by Sita and Hanuman; on the left, a figure seated on a throne, surrounded by three women and a man. This is a representation of Radha as a reigning queen.



The left arch panel illustrates the battle between Arjuna and Karna during an episode of the Mahabharata.



Above, a row of nine terracotta panels depicts different scenes: Garuda, Vishnu’s mount, appears twice: once with hands joined and wings spread, and another time devouring the elephant-tortoise.



Krishna, Radha, and the gopis boating.



Krishna killing Bakasura, the crane-demon.



Four mythical beings, half-human and half-animal, exceptional musicians.



Krishna planting a tree. Krishna and Balaram overthrowing King Kamsa from his throne in Mathura. Krishna and the gopis with Barayi.

I continue for about 200 meters to reach the Navaratna temple of Raddh Damda, called the Sridharlal temple. To get there, you have to enter the courtyard of a house. This temple, also on two levels, closely resembles the previous one architecturally, but its decorations differ: they depict scenes from the Ramayana. The lower panels show nobles, saints, and monkey-soldiers alongside Rama and Sita, seated on their throne.



I then decide to walk to Gokulnagar, taking a small road through the countryside. A man on a motorcycle stops beside me and offers me a ride. Along the way, I spot an animist temple decorated with terracotta; it intrigues me, so I’ll come back on foot to check it out. Throughout the journey, we pass by fields: it’s potato harvest time, and you can also see a few rice paddies. He drops me off at the entrance of the temple, which is located within a fortified enclosure. Built from laterite, it has five spires.



I walk back and discover three temples adorned with terracotta, nestled at the foot of trees. The one I had noticed on the way there is impressive. I make sure not to step on the sacred area at the entrance.



I then head to the bus stop. While waiting, I look at my photos and realize that a series I took in Bishnupur didn’t save. Back in Bishnupur, I pass by the Shyam Rai temple again. I stay outside to avoid paying the entrance fee again. As I walk past the statuette stalls, I notice one that catches my eye. I stop for a chai and notice my backpack is stained—flies are sticking to it. When I look inside, I find a completely squashed banana. It’s pretty gross—and the people around me find it hilarious. Back at the hotel, I wash my bag before going out for dinner.

Friday, March 13 I continue my visits around Bishnupur and head to Hadal Narayanpur today. The bus ride takes about two hours. The stop is near the Radha Damodar temple and the palatial residence of the Mandal family. The estate was divided among the three brothers: Baro Taraf for the eldest, Mejo Taraf for the middle brother, and Choto Taraf for the youngest.



The main temple is a two-story *rasmancha*, located opposite the large family mansion. Octagonal in shape and built in 1854, it features exceptional ornamentation: finely sculpted terracotta panels decorate each of its eight sides. These panels depict various scenes: – Durga surrounded by her family – Shiva with Nandi and Bhringi – Gostho Lila – Shiva’s wedding – Vishnu – Rama and Sita – Krishna and Radha The Baro Taraf residence, with European influences, is painted yellow and has a cylindrical entrance. Each window is adorned with an arch. At the entrance, several men are present, and one of them accompanies me on the tour. We pass through a door leading to a large courtyard, the Thakur Dalan, where Durga Puja is celebrated. A small courtyard then leads to a set of three temples. The most impressive is the Radha Damodar, with its five spires. Opposite are two more modest temples dedicated to Shiva.



On the way out, I ask the guard where the Radha Damodar is. He takes me there: we pass through a gate and follow a street to a temple near a pond. It’s truly a marvel.



The central panel depicts scenes from the Ramayana, with Durga at the center. Another panel shows Vishnu lying on a bed of snakes, surrounded by his wife Lakshmi. A third reveals a rare composition: Rama and Krishna united in a single figure, holding both a bow and arrow and a flute.



On a fourth panel, Ganesh is seated on a rat—symbolizing desires and ignorance. By dominating it, he embodies wisdom and the ability to guide people beyond materialism, as well as the power to overcome obstacles.



I then head back to the bus stop and look for an autorickshaw to take me to Sonamukhi. It’s hard to find one, but after insisting, one driver agrees to take me for 300 rupees. I accept, though I have to show him the bills first. We drive through landscapes of rice fields and potato fields, which are also being harvested.



In Sonamukhi, the main street is jammed with traffic. The temple isn’t far: I get dropped off and continue on foot. I take a narrow alley to reach the Sridhar Mandir, tucked away in the heart of a house. This temple has twenty-five spires, which is extremely rare—only five of this type exist in Bengal, and this is the last one to have been built.



The terracotta panels depict: – Krishna with young cowherds – Rama and Sita seated on a throne – Krishna with the *gopis* – Durga and her family



There’s also a wide variety of scenes from the Ramayana and Mahabharata, as well as musicians, dancers, animals, birds, scenes of daily life, and floral motifs. It would take hours to see everything. A remarkable feature of this temple is the [*i]mrityulata[/i*] or "vine of death": a vertical terracotta panel where human and animal figures seem ready to attack the one below.



I spend a long time admiring and trying to interpret these scenes. The owner comes to meet me, surprised and delighted to see me so interested. While chatting, he tells me it’s possible to return to Bishnupur by bus. I follow his directions and head to the bus stop. On the main street, a man calls out to me from his shop. He pulls out a large register and asks me to write my name, the date, and sign it. Before leaving, we take a selfie together. It’s surprising and fun—this country is truly unique. The bus is already there. It takes about an hour to get back to Bishnupur. Today, the heat is unbearable. Dinner: paneer butter masala and jeera rice.

I love your travel journals, like Marien's!

I love your travel journals, like Marien’s!

You’re right, we shouldn’t hurt anyone ;)

Saturday, March 14 It’s my last day in Bishnupur. I decide to spend the day wandering and visiting more modest temples, away from the most well-known sites. Google Maps has the great idea of leading me through quieter alleys, dotted with small, lively markets.



I end up in the weavers’ neighborhood, guided by the steady clatter of looms. I’m delighted to discover them. Here, it’s the men who weave. They work in dark, cramped rooms where the heat is stifling despite a fan. It takes them about four days to make a sari. The ones I see are made of silk, with beautiful patterns, all unique.





A little further on, two men are setting up the warp threads. They stretch them over several meters, each at one end. Once secured, they pass a comb through, carefully checking each thread before starting to wind them. What impressive work. I continue my walk to Sridar MandirBose Para,



then to Murli Mohan Temple,



before finishing at Madan Mohan, which I’ve already visited. I stop regularly by women who are piercing nuts to extract small beads. They then string them onto a thread, making necklaces worn by men. I buy two from them, and one of the women ties them delicately around my wrist.



Further on, a woman is doing her dishes,



another is doing her laundry.



Everyday scenes unfold simply. They all happily agree to pose for a photo, and we exchange knowing smiles.



The men present also join in the fun with pleasure.



The day passes peacefully. I spend wonderful moments in their company. I deeply love these moments of wandering, where you discover local life in all its simplicity.

The heat is even more oppressive today, and I decide to return to the hotel in the early afternoon. In the evening, a group of Indian tourists arrives. They’re very loud. At dinner, a couple is seated not far from me: they’re talking loudly, and I get the impression they’re arguing. Dinner: paneer 65 and yogurt. The paneer 65 isn’t as good as the one in Medinipur.

Sunday, March 15 and Monday, March 16 – Purulia A stop in Purulia, not essential, mainly planned as a transition point for changing buses or trains. Today, municipal elections are taking place in France, and the French won the Six Nations tournament. At the restaurant, a group of Indians is already seated and being served a buffet. The waiter brings me an omelet and toast; I ask for a puri. He returns with poha, dhal, and the puri. I won’t eat it all. I take the 9:30 AM train and arrive in Purulia at 12:10 PM. I booked a room at the Rupasi Hotel via WhatsApp, but upon arrival, they refuse to give it to me. They insist I take a suite at a much higher rate. I refuse, and after lengthy discussions, I finally get the originally booked room. I book a taxi with them for the next day to go to Chirudih. In the afternoon, I want to visit the Kashipur Palace. No bus goes there. Near the bus station, taxis are waiting; I approach and negotiate the trip for 1,800 rupees round-trip. After an hour’s drive, we arrive in front of a huge palace surrounded by a high wall. The entrance is closed, but the guard opens the gates to let us in. As soon as I get out of the car, another guard intervenes: the palace is not open to visitors; it’s private. He only allows me to take a few photos of the exterior before asking us to leave. I had read it was open every day... so much for that.





Back in Purulia, a violent storm breaks out, preventing me from going out again. Dinner is pretty mediocre. I want to take a shower before bed, but there’s no water. An employee tries to fix it; after a long time, he ends up moving me to another room.

Monday, March 16 The taxi is very late. He doesn’t know Chirudih, but the receptionist, who seems to know the area well, shows him the route on Google. We finally leave at 10 AM and arrive at 1 PM in a remote village in the middle of the countryside. Men are sitting in the shade; we stop to ask them where the painted houses are. The village is indeed called Chirudih, but it’s not the one we’re looking for: there are several villages with that name, far from each other. There’s nothing to see here, and we turn back. I’m really disappointed with these last two days.

I booked a room at the Rupasi Hotel via WhatsApp, but when I arrived, they refused to give it to me.

Back in Purulia, a violent storm breaks out, preventing me from going out again. Dinner is pretty mediocre. I want to take a shower before bed, but there’s no water.

The village is indeed called Chirudih, but it’s not the one we’re looking for: there are several villages with that name, far from each other.

That’s what they call a streak of bad luck 😏 But Marie Jo, patient and fearless, carries on…

Hi Marie Jo

Yeah, it’s that "law of series" thing Kate mentioned. Oh well, not everything can be perfect all the time...

I know you found the right Chirudih much later... Did you jot down the GPS coordinates or anything to locate that village? As you know, I’m planning another trip to West Bengal and Jharkhand (thanks for the ideas!) and I’d love to visit that artists’ village. There are a few Insta or Facebook posts, but nothing to pinpoint its location, and my searches on maps show 3 or 4 Chirudihs in Jharkhand! It’s tough to find info on these off-the-beaten-path spots.

Christine

They don’t call it the law of series for nothing 😏 But Marie Jo, patient and fearless, keeps going…

Yep, I’m patient and stubborn—I *will* find the right Chirudih. The law of series wasn’t over yet, but I didn’t know that at the time… suspense required 🤪

Hi Marie Jo,

Yeah, the law of series, as Kate says. But hey, not everything can be perfect all the time...

I know you found the right Chirudih much later... Did you note the GPS coordinates or anything to locate that village? As you know, I’m planning a new trip to West Bengal and Jharkhand (thanks for the ideas...) and I’d love to visit this artists’ village. There are a few Insta or Facebook posts, but nothing to pinpoint its location, and my searches on maps show 3 or 4 Chirudihs in Jharkhand! It’s tough to find info on these off-the-beaten-path spots.

Christine

Hey Chris! You’ll need some patience and have to wait a few more days before heading to that amazing village. I didn’t note the GPS coordinates, but I know how to get there—it’s lost in the middle of nowhere.

Tuesday, March 17 I’m leaving this morning for Ajodhya. At 7 AM, I go downstairs to order my breakfast and, at the same time, ask for the bus schedules. The receptionist checks and gives me three options; I’ll take the 9:20 one. An hour later, I’m still waiting for my breakfast: they have to serve the group that arrived the night before first. I go to the kitchen and wait even longer. Eventually, they bring me four pieces of toast—no butter, no jam, no omelet—and a cup of tea. Nothing else. I pay for the meals and the taxi from Sunday—the room was already paid for when I arrived. Yet the receptionist tries to make me pay for it again. No way. I storm off in search of an auto. The hotel boy runs after me and stops the driver from leaving. I get out and walk away; it’s not far. A tuk-tuk finally picks me up and drops me off in front of the bus. Purulia really isn’t an interesting stop. The bus, though, has more comfortable seats—finally, a nice surprise. A young woman and her little boy sit next to me. The child is very outgoing: he’s not scared of me and comes to sit on my lap, squirming all over the place. When I arrive in Ajodhya, I need to find an autorickshaw to get to Ajodhya Hills and visit the sites along the way. Taxis are very expensive, and autos are rare. I wait a long time until my savior arrives. He asks for 500 rupees, while taxis wanted 2000. I don’t hesitate. He first takes me to Mayur Pahar, then to Sita Kunda, which isn’t very interesting. The landscapes are still very pretty, though.



We continue to the marble lake… which leaves me cold. I prefer those in the Hautes Pyrénées—I’m getting picky.



He then stops at some waterfalls where I go without much enthusiasm. There are a lot of Indians here; they love this place, which was why I came. In the end, the waterfalls are beautiful: it’s the most interesting spot of the day.



We carry on to Dighal Homestay in Ajodhya. The house is simple, but the welcome is very warm. I feel at home right away. The rooms are upstairs, and a large terrace with tables and chairs is available for guests. The house is surrounded by rice fields, right in the countryside. I go for a walk in the rice fields.





I spot egrets and a woolly-necked stork with a long beak. Flowering trees line the fields; I get closer: they’re palash flowers, the "flame of the forest," used in medicine.

Wednesday, March 18 I heard music in the distance all night. This morning, everything is quiet, even though the house is full. Indian tourists arrive in the evening and leave in the morning; every night, it's fully booked. At breakfast, I'm served tea, an omelet, and puris. Yesterday, I booked a rickshaw driver for the morning. He's on time, and we start at the Lahariya Sita temple. The place is packed with Indians, who come in large numbers. I run into some tourists I met at the guesthouse this morning. We take a few photos and selfies. The place radiates deep devotion. A person is lying in front of the temple, holding incense.



Behind it, a lake attracts walkers. A woman moves forward, prostrating herself regularly, lying on the ground at intervals until she reaches the temple.



In the courtyard, my gaze stops at a sacred tree where small fabric pouches containing wishes are hung.



We hit the road again, pass through Charida, and head to a huge dam,



before returning to Charida, the city of masks used for Chhau dances. On both sides of the street, workshop-shops display these masks.



The men work sitting on the ground in cramped spaces.



The masks are all stunning and beautiful. I won’t be able to see the dances—it’s not the season; you have to come in January. I buy a miniature model and hope I don’t damage it during the trip. Chhau dance is a tradition from eastern India, inspired by episodes from great epics like the Mahabharata and the Ramayana, as well as local folklore and abstract themes. It comes in three regional styles—Seraikella, Purulia, and Mayurbhanj—with the first two using masks. Closely tied to regional festivals, especially Chaitra Parva, the spring festival, it draws its origins from tribal dances and martial practices. The movements blend simulated combat techniques, stylized animal imitations, and gestures inspired by daily tasks. Traditionally passed down within families of artists or local communities, it’s performed at night, outdoors, to the sound of instruments like the mohuri and shehnai, accompanied by percussion. Today, industrialization, economic pressures, and the influence of new media threaten this practice and reduce collective participation. Back at the homestay, my kind driver refuses to set a price and lets me decide. He turns down the 1000 rupees I offer—too much—and accepts 800 with a big smile.



The homestay manager tells me he organizes Chhau dance performances for tourists with other accommodations. But the season is over, and these shows no longer take place. Too bad.



In the afternoon, I go for a walk in the rice fields on the other side of yesterday’s fields and venture into a small hamlet. The locals seem quite wary when they see me.

Ranchi, March 19–23 March 19 Breakfast is served at 7:30 a.m. before my departure. I settled the bill the night before. At 8:30 a.m., I leave the place: the manager gives me a ride on his motorcycle to the bus stop. We take a dirt path through the rice fields that leads to the village. He waits with me for the bus, puts my bag in the storage compartment, and gives the driver a few instructions. The trip includes a long stop, and we arrive in Johar around 10 a.m. An auto-rickshaw then takes me to the train station. The driver helps with my bag and walks me to the platform after I buy my ticket. The train arrives at 10:30 a.m.; two hours later, I reach Ranchi. A rickshaw takes me to my hotel, Collection O Ranchi, where I’m warmly welcomed by a young receptionist. Once settled, I go back to see her: she recommends a traditional market happening this afternoon, Namkum Market, about 6 kilometers away. I have plenty of time and decide to walk there. Google Maps leads me down small roads, far from traffic. I don’t feel like I’m in a big city. The market is huge. Along the road, red and white saris with varied patterns are for sale; women will wear them for the Sarhul festival.



As I walk down an alley, I come to a large square filled with the vegetable market. Men and women run the stalls, and everyone happily agrees to be photographed.







The atmosphere is warm, and I have a great time. Sometimes a little shy or hesitant



but quickly amused



I then take an auto-rickshaw back to the hotel. In the evening, I dine at a nearby restaurant-pastry shop.

March 20 Breakfast is included in the room price, but it’s not great and is only served after 8:30 AM: three doughnuts and a yogurt, with no tea. I set off on foot toward the Tribal Research Institute, the tribal museum, located over 6 kilometers away. It’s already hot, and the traffic is heavy. The city is dirty and dusty. Along the way, I pass a small market where women are making small containers out of sal leaves, just like in Chhattisgarh.



Inside, the fruit and vegetable stalls are well-stocked and, as always, beautifully displayed. Everything looks fresh and tempting.



A little further on, I take a tuk-tuk to the museum. The driver doesn’t know the place, so I have to guide him using Google Maps. The museum is quite large, and entry is free, but nothing is really highlighted, which is a shame. However, the room dedicated to the different tribal paintings from Indian states is interesting.



These are more modern, in a different style.



On the way out, I want to continue my visit to the State Museum, located over 8 kilometers away. I struggle to find an auto-rickshaw, and the one who agrees to take me drops me off quickly, considering the trip too long. A young girl then arrives on a scooter. She explains the route to the driver, but he still refuses. She then offers to take me there herself. Unfortunately, she takes the wrong direction, and we drive about fifteen kilometers to an agency she knows well. I’m not happy. She then tells me the museum is closed and offers to take me back to the hotel. In the end, she drops me off at the entrance of a park—the old museum, also closed—where I had already passed in the morning. I cross the park, where a few statues are on display.





I then head back. Along the way, I buy some still-warm pastries for my next breakfasts; I taste one immediately—it’s delicious. I stop by the bakery before returning to the hotel. The receptionist tells me about another market happening the next day, about fifteen kilometers away. I have dinner at the same restaurant: paneer butter masala, naan, and dessert.

Saturday, March 21 I set off on foot toward Jagannath Mandir, located 6 kilometers away. Along the way, I pass a street lined with barbers hard at work, their clients seated in front of mirrors hung directly on the walls—a lively and typical slice of life.



Upon arrival, I have to climb a long series of steps. The temple, painted in pink and white, is very colorful—like a real cake.



From there, I want to reach Santraji Market, about fifteen kilometers away. I use the Rapido app: a bike arrives in under two minutes. Once there, I spend a great time among the many stalls, mostly selling fruits and vegetables, taking photos.

Here, the women easily join in the fun and are delighted to see themselves on the screen.













I still have time to try visiting the museum, which is quite out of the way. I call another bike via Rapido. The driver finds the destination very far but agrees to take me. He doesn’t drop me at the right entrance, and I have to finish on foot. Unfortunately, the museum is closed today—no luck. The building is new and nicely decorated, though. I head back on foot, then take two shared tuk-tuks; the last one drops me off in front of the pastry shop, where I take a little break.

A little later, the Sarhul festival begins with a parade accompanied by music.



Sarhul is an ancient tribal festival celebrated mainly in Jharkhand, marking the worship of nature and the start of spring. The word "Sarhul" literally means the worship of the sal tree, which holds a central place in tribal beliefs as it’s considered the home of the goddess Sarna Maa. Women and young girls wear festival-specific saris in red and white.





Women have flowers tucked into their hair, while men also sport red and white scarves tied around their heads.





Trucks blasting music move slowly, and the whole crowd follows them. Women link arms to dance, forming moving chains. The atmosphere is joyful and lively, with everyone joining the procession in a kind of collective momentum.







But the sudden arrival of a storm and rain unfortunately cuts the celebration short. I take shelter under a tarp as the road turns into a river. Once the downpour ends, everyone scatters, and I have to walk through the dirty water. I get back to the hotel soaked; my sandals and pants are covered in mud. I wash everything before taking a shower, then head out for dinner.

Sunday, March 22 Today, I planned to go to Khunti to visit a weaving workshop. I took a shared taxi that only leaves when it's full—we were ten passengers. The taxi dropped me off near the market, about a kilometer from the city center. I strolled around leisurely. At the market entrance, I was impressed by the work of the blacksmiths, who belong to a local tribe. A man and a woman took turns striking a red-hot piece of metal pulled from the fire with a heavy mallet, while another held it with tongs. The movement was precise, rhythmic, almost choreographed. The woman, dressed in traditional attire, refused to be photographed. I didn’t insist and continued my visit.



I then set off on foot toward the city center in search of a rickshaw. One quickly stopped beside me and offered his services. Looking for a weaving workshop, I showed him a photo. He didn’t know the place but asked around in several shops. Finally, a man recognized the location and gave him directions—it was about ten kilometers away, in the middle of the countryside. Along the way, my driver stopped several times to check the direction. Just before arriving, he took a dirt road that led us to a dilapidated building surrounded by a few houses. The weavers likely lived in this small hamlet. We had indeed arrived at the Nimacha Cluster Open Field.



The room was huge, bathed in light, and filled with looms from another era. The warp—those long stretched threads that form the base of the fabric—extended well beyond the loom itself and was held in place by simple wooden stakes planted in the ground. The whole setup was rudimentary, almost fragile in appearance.





A weaver sat right at the loom, focused on his work. In front of him, the perfectly aligned red threads formed an already dense surface. With precise movements, he passed the weft—the horizontal thread—through the warp, then packed it all down with a piece of wood to tighten the fabric. The motion was repetitive, fluid, almost meditative.



Despite the simplicity of the tools—worn wood, ropes, handmade structures—the result was remarkably fine. The fabrics produced were even, taut, and of beautiful quality. The contrast between the roughness of the means and the delicacy of the result was particularly striking.



Only two men were working today, on this Sunday. The demonstration was simple but captivating.



One man then sat down at his spinning wheel, made of simple pieces of wood assembled together. The whole thing looked fragile, almost unstable—you wondered how it could still stand and function. Yet, as soon as it started moving, everything became fluid. The wheel turned steadily under his precise movements, transforming the fiber into thread with surprising efficiency.

Again, the simplicity of the tool contrasted with the mastery of the gesture. Nothing was superfluous; everything relied on habit, patience, and know-how passed down through generations.



On my way out, I didn’t dare venture further into the hamlet. No one invited me in, even though my presence hadn’t gone unnoticed. I still walked along the path leading to a river, in a peaceful landscape.



I took the time to savor this suspended moment before rejoining my devoted driver. Back in town, I returned to the market where I enjoyed an excellent samosa, fresh out of the fryer. In the same shop as the samosas, delicious pastries caught my greedy eye. The gulab jamun, those little golden balls soaked in fragrant syrup, sat alongside other sweets whose names I didn’t know: round doughnuts with a hole in the center, like little rings, and, slightly set back, orange balls that added to the temptation of the counter. It was hard to resist in the face of so many colors and unknown shapes… In India, every region has its own treats, and every shop window seems like an invitation to discovery.



I wasn’t in a hurry to return to Ranchi.

I had to take a taxi in the city center, at an intersection where several vehicles were waiting. I spotted the one for Ranchi at the end of the line. I was the first to arrive, and we waited with the driver for nearly half an hour before leaving. Back at the hotel, I asked about the bus schedules for the next day. I also took the opportunity to check if my laundry was ready. Unfortunately, it was returned to me just as it was—still dirty. It clearly hadn’t been washed. I hope to take care of it at the next stop; otherwise, I’ll have to do it myself.

I ended the day with a biryani, which, unfortunately, was much too spicy for me.

Monday, March 23 – From Ranchi to Jamshedpur, between religious fervor and colorful houses I leave Ranchi, where I’ll be passing through again in a few days. It’s just a short stop, just enough time to change buses. The bus is ready to leave, but for now, there aren’t many travelers yet. That doesn’t last long: passengers quickly board, and the bus fills up completely. It’s a "luxury" bus, and I pay 350 rupees for the trip. After a few kilometers, the bus drops me off at the side of the national highway. I want to visit the Diuri temple, located about two kilometers away, but I need to take a small side road. No autorickshaws in sight... All I can do is hitchhike. After a few minutes of waiting, a car stops near me. I approach and ask the passengers if they can take me to the temple. They agree easily and kindly drive me to the entrance. A Brahmin welcomes me and suggests I leave my bag in a nearby garage. Then he accompanies me to the Maa Dewri Mandir.



I’m immediately struck by the crowd. There are so many people, and a strong sense of devotion fills the place. The faithful arrive with their offerings, some with their families, others here to perform a specific ritual. I notice a man who came to have his motorcycle blessed, carefully decorated with flowers for the occasion. Here, vehicles can also receive a blessing before hitting the road.



The exterior of the temple is very colorful, richly adorned with decorations. The dome, with its vibrant colors, is magnificent.



The Brahmin waits for me at the entrance and lets me skip the long line. It’s a privilege that surprises and touches me.



The Maa Dewri Mandir is a unique temple in Jharkhand: the ceremonies (pujas) are performed by Pahans, priests from tribal communities, alongside Brahmins. The temple is dedicated to the goddess Dewri, depicted with sixteen arms. Thanks to the Brahmin, I can move forward to the sacred area. In front of me, many devotees wait patiently for their turn, holding their offerings in their hands. Outside, life at the temple continues. Small stalls surround the building, and women sit on the ground selling souvenirs, flowers, or items for offerings.



I notice a wall and a sacred tree whose branches are covered with yellow and red threads. The faithful come here to tie a wish. When it comes true, they return to the temple to untie the thread as a sign of gratitude.



It’s time to head back to the national highway to catch another bus. Once again, I need to find a solution. I pick up my bag from the garage and spot a van parked by the side of the road. The driver is at the wheel. I ask if he can take me to the bus stop. He kindly agrees and even stays with me to wait for the next bus. When he sees it, he signals for it to stop. When I try to thank him financially for his help, he refuses. That’s life in India... These small spontaneous gestures from strangers you meet on the road are part of the memories that stay with you. I continue my journey to Jamshedpur, a name I still struggle to pronounce. I check into The Villa, a pleasant surprise: a friendly and very clean place.

Next, I want to explore the village of Amadubi. I take a taxi to get there, but upon arrival, I find that the cultural center is unfortunately abandoned. I’m disappointed because I was hoping to learn more about this place. But that disappointment is quickly forgotten. On the way, I had noticed a street lined with houses beautifully decorated with paintings. I ask the driver to stop and set off on foot to explore this neighborhood.



What surprises me, beyond the beauty of the paintings, is how clean this street is. The houses are well-maintained, the facades are neat, and the whole village gives off an impression of harmony and care. It’s a lovely surprise, especially since this isn’t the first time I’ve noticed this during my trip. In the different states I’ve traveled through, I’ve often seen that tribal community villages are particularly clean and well-kept. The homes, the areas around the houses, and the living spaces seem to receive special attention. Beyond the traditions and colors, it’s also this way of taking care of their environment that strikes me.

At that moment, I don’t yet know the history behind this art of painted houses or its significance. I’ll discover it in more detail in a few days, but already I’m amazed by what I’m seeing. Some houses are simply decorated with a colorful stripe,



while others display full murals. The colors brighten the facades and give the village a joyful atmosphere.



A man invites me into the courtyard of his house. Here too, the walls are carefully painted. Everything is cheerful, vibrant, and full of color. A little further on, I discover houses adorned with floral friezes. Even the door frames are delicately decorated. Each facade seems to tell a story.





Gradually, the locals come out of their houses, curious about my presence. Smiles appear, and conversations begin. I take lots of photos and selfies with them, happy to share this simple and warm moment.





The children come to play around me, amused by this unexpected encounter. In the end, this impromptu walk through this colorful village will remain one of the highlights of my day. I arrived without knowing about this tradition, simply drawn in by the beautiful colors I’d spotted from the road... and I leave with the memory of a wonderful human connection.





I don’t know it yet, but I’ll soon rediscover this tradition of painted houses from a different perspective, with more explanations about its history and its place in the local culture.

The exterior of the temple is very colorful, richly adorned with decorations. The dome, with its vibrant colors, is magnificent.



So many beautiful things in your last two posts! That dome is truly stunning!

Your last two posts are full of beautiful things! That dome is truly stunning!

Yes, this temple is magnificent, and so is the atmosphere. It was a wonderful discovery. This region is absolutely not touristy, and I found it very difficult to find information about it. I passed through places that didn’t excite me—maybe it’s better to go with a guide, but on a 20-day trip through this state, that would make for a hefty budget if I’m traveling alone.

March 2nd — Departure by bus from Latour at 6:50 AM. The route isn’t direct: we pass through Elne then Corneilla. In Perpignan, I switch to a BlaBlaBus heading to Barcelona’s northern bus station.

I saved reading this travel journal for when I’d have the time to give it the attention it deserves, and today I’m finally diving in. At Marie-Jo’s, no long, unnecessary deliberations about the circumstances and intentions behind the trip like you find with Pagal and others 😄

This *in medias res* opening (starting the story right in the middle of the action) throws us right in without any warm-up!

I saved reading this travel journal for when I’d have the time to give it the attention it deserves, and today I’m diving in. At Marie-Jo’s, no long, unnecessary rambling about the circumstances and intentions behind the trip like you find with Pagal and others 😄

This *in medias res* opening (starting the story right in the middle of the action) throws us in without any warm-up!

Welcome, Pagal. Hold on tight—I don’t dawdle, and the road ahead is long, with both great and not-so-great discoveries. A journey into the unknown.

Tuesday, March 24 Yesterday, on my way back, I arranged for a taxi to pick me up at 9 AM for a new excursion: Chirudih, the right village this time. At 9:30 AM, the car still hadn’t arrived. The reception desk was closed, but luckily, the guard was sitting near the gate. I tried to explain that I was waiting for a taxi. Since I didn’t have the driver’s number, he called the owner of the guesthouse, who took charge. The driver finally showed up—with a good twenty minutes late. Chirudih is about sixty kilometers from Jamshedpur. It took us nearly an hour and a half to get there. The village is lost in the countryside. When I arrived, I got out of the car and walked down the main street. Very quickly, the first painted houses appeared. Here, the walls are true works of art.



This art is called Sohrai painting, a tradition unique to Jharkhand. The motifs, inspired by nature, depict animals, plants, and scenes from daily life. They’re made using natural pigments mixed with mud: yellow ochre, white (kaolin), black (charcoal), and red (iron-rich clay). The women apply them with their fingers, rags, or small chewed twigs that serve as brushes. This art is closely tied to the Sohrai festival, celebrated after Diwali, during harvest time. Cattle are honored and decorated, symbolizing gratitude for their essential role in agricultural life. The paintings express this deep connection between humans and nature, as well as respect for ancestors and hopes for prosperity.



In the past, these murals adorned the mud walls of houses. Today, as construction methods evolve, this medium is gradually disappearing, putting the tradition at risk. Yet, thanks to the women of the village, Sohrai art lives on. Girls learn it from a young age from their mothers and grandmothers, passing down this knowledge. I’ll come back to this art in more detail later in my trip. Three young people came up to me and offered to show me around the village. Without them, I never would’ve found all these scattered houses. They introduced me to the artists, some of whom were very young. I noticed that all the murals were signed. One name kept coming up: Amrita. I’d meet her a little later.





We passed through the courtyard of a home where a woman was resting with her granddaughter. Our presence didn’t seem to bother her; without leaving her charpoy, she welcomed me with a smile mixed with surprise.



We walked through another courtyard where a woman was sorting dried straw, probably rice or another grain. The movement was slow, precise, endlessly repeated. Around her, bundles of straw piled up, likely meant to feed the livestock. The scene was simple, almost silent, yet it spoke volumes about life here—paced by the seasons and agricultural work.



Next, my guide took me to visit the school. When I arrived, the class quickly emptied, and the students came outside to gather around their teacher. They all welcomed me outside, curious and smiling. They seemed so proud to have me in their little school, and I was touched by this simple and warm welcome.



We ended the visit at the small museum.



At one point, two young men were fixing a sound system. Soon, a French song started playing. A thoughtful, unexpected gesture just for me. A villager arrived with a jug of water to welcome me. Then, young girls in saris improvised a dance in my honor. Everything was spontaneous. So much kindness and generosity—I was deeply moved.



Before I left, Amrita joined me and gave me a small painting. I was so touched by the gesture.



I realized then that I’d come empty-handed. All I could do was give them a few rupees to thank them for such a natural welcome—yet so precious to me. I’d just experienced a rare moment. A simple, sincere encounter, but one of particular intensity. I already know I’ll carry this memory with me for the rest of my life.

Back in Jamshedpur, I take a walk in a park that’s still quiet at this hour. I then cross a street lined with bookstalls that reminds me of the one I discovered in Calcutta.



Back at the hotel, I ask about the next day’s plans. I want to visit Chaibasa, and it’s possible to do a day trip there and back. I feel so good here that I eventually decide to extend my stay by one more night. The team is thrilled with my decision and seems happy to know I’m enjoying my time with them. After dinner, I walk through the market, which is lit up with lots of decorations. The sight is unexpected—almost surreal in this city.



Colorful lights transform the streets into a festive scene.

In the middle of the street, despite the traffic, white chairs are set up facing a stage. I wonder if a wedding ceremony is planned.



A stage set up right in the street, ready for an event—maybe a wedding. Later in the evening, fireworks go off. Maybe they’re celebrating a wedding nearby.