In the late 1990s and early 2000s, I was a manager stationed at the zonal office in Ranchi, the bustling heart of the newly carved state of Jharkhand. Those were heady days, filled with the promise of a region brimming with untapped potential—lush forests, rolling hills, and a rich tapestry of culture. But beneath that promise lay a shadow: the Maoist insurgency that made every journey a gamble with fate. As a young officer, I crisscrossed the state for work, navigating its rugged terrain and volatile roads. We had one golden rule back then—always reach a safe town before sunset. Night travel was a risk we couldn’t afford.

One trip, in the crisp January of 2001, stands out like a vivid painting in my memory, its colours both radiant and dark. It was a journey that began with devotion, wove through duty, and ended in a heart-pounding encounter that I’ll never forget. My colleague Sanjay and I were tasked with an official visit to Deoghar, a town steeped in spiritual significance, home to the sacred Baidyanath Dham, one of the twelve Jyotirlinga temples dedicated to Lord Shiva. This wasn’t just a work trip; it became a family pilgrimage, as our wives and children decided to join us, turning a routine assignment into a blend of duty and devotion.

Deoghar holds a special place in the hearts of devotees. The Shiva Purana tells the tale of Ravana, the demon king of Lanka, who performed an extraordinary penance here, offering his ten heads as a sacrifice to Lord Shiva. Moved by his devotion, Shiva descended as a healer, or Vaidya, giving the temple its name, Vaidyanath. The sanctum of Baidyanath Dham is a sight to behold, with intricate red threads tying the shrines of Lord Shiva and Maa Parvati together, symbolising the eternal unity of Shiva and Shakti. For Hindus, this sacred bond makes Deoghar a revered destination for marriages and spiritual renewal. I was eager to visit the temple, not just as a pilgrim but as someone seeking solace in the divine amidst the uncertainties of our travels.

We set out from Ranchi at dawn, the winter chill nipping at our fingers as we piled into the car. The route to Deoghar wound through some of Jharkhand’s most volatile areas—Giridih, parts of Hazaribagh—where Maoist activity was a constant threat. The tension was palpable, but we trusted in our early start and the grace of Lord Shiva to guide us. By late afternoon, as the sun dipped low, we reached Deoghar safely, settling into a modest guesthouse with a collective sigh of relief. The golden rule had held.

The next day was a beautiful blend of the mundane and the divine. Sanjay and I wrapped up our official duties by midday, leaving the afternoon free for our families to explore Deoghar’s spiritual heart. At Baidyanath Dham, the air was thick with the scent of incense and the murmur of prayers. The sight of those red threads, weaving Shiva and Parvati’s sanctums together, felt like a quiet promise of harmony in a world that often felt chaotic. My son, wide-eyed, clutched my hands as we offered our prayers, and for a moment, the weight of Jharkhand’s troubles seemed to lift. We left the temple with hearts full, carrying the serenity of that sacred space with us.

Our plan was to return to Ranchi the following day, but the logistics of travelling with young children and the lingering winter chill delayed our start. By the time we hit the road, it was later than we’d hoped. We reached Giridih around noon, where we stopped for lunch at a place that still makes me chuckle—the “Bewakoof Hotel.” Its name, meaning “fool” in Hindi, was a quirky nod to the hearty, no-nonsense meals it served.

Over plates of steaming dal and rice, Sanjay and I debated whether to spend the night in Giridih for safety. The Maoist threat loomed large, and the roads ahead were notorious. But we decided to press on, reasoning we’d reassess at Bagodar, a key junction, and take a detour if needed.

As we approached Bagodar at sunset, the sky was a canvas of deep oranges and purples, but the fading light brought a creeping unease. We were on the Bagodar-Hazaribagh Road, a stretch flanked by dense jungle, when it happened. About ten minutes in, we spotted a car parked diagonally across the road, blocking our path. It was a textbook setup for a highway dacoity, a chilling reality in those parts. My heart sank. “Reverse!” I barked at the driver while Sanjay and I urged our wives to hide their valuables under the seats. But before we could act, they were upon us—armed men emerging from the shadows, their weapons glinting in the dying light. One pressed a pistol to my temple; another held a grenade near Sanjay. My children, strapped into the backseat, froze, their silence louder than any scream.

What happened next was surreal, a moment so bizarre it still feels like a fever dream. Despite the guns and the grenades, the dacoits were… polite. Eerily, almost comically so. “Sir,” one said to Sanjay, who was seated by the door, “please come out. We have to check you and the car.” Sir? In the middle of a robbery? Their tone was calm, almost respectful, as if they were conducting a routine inspection rather than a heist. But the threat was real, and we complied, handing over cash, jewellery, watches—anything they demanded. My wife’s gold chain, a wedding gift, vanished into their hands. My son’s tiny wristwatch, a birthday present, was gone too. Each loss stung, but survival was all that mattered.

Ahead of us, other vehicles were ensnared in the same trap, their passengers equally helpless. The jungle around us grew darker, the air thick with menace. The dacoits threatened to search the car, a prospect that terrified me—not for what they’d find, but for what they might do to our families. Just then, headlights pierced the gloom. An approaching vehicle startled the dacoits, and their attention wavered. In that split second, another miracle: police officers appeared, their flashlights cutting through the night. For a heartbeat, I doubted their authenticity—could this be another ruse? But when they cleared the roadblock—a massive felled tree—and waved us through, relief flooded my veins.

We drove on, shaken and silent, until we reached a roadside dhaba near Ramgarh. There, under the flickering light of a single bulb, we retrieved some hidden cash from the car’s crevices and called our families in Ranchi to assure them we were alive. Over cups of scalding tea, we replayed the ordeal, marvelling at the dacoits’ bizarre courtesy. “Sir, please come out,” Sanjay mimicked, and we laughed, a shaky, cathartic release. But the fear lingered, etched into our bones.

Initially wary of the police’s authenticity, our fears were soon allayed. But relief washed over us when they cleared the blockade—a massive felled tree—and assured our safety. Exhausted and shaken, we drove to a roadside dhaba near Ramgarh. There, we retrieved hidden cash and called our families to let them know we were safe.

That night on the Bagodar-Hazaribagh Road was a stark reminder of the fragility of life in Jharkhand’s turbulent years. It was a time when the state’s beauty and potential were overshadowed by its dangers, when every journey carried the weight of uncertainty. Yet, looking back, I’m struck by the resilience that carried us through—the unspoken bond between Sanjay and me, the quiet courage of our families, and the divine grace that saw us home.

Jharkhand has come a long way since those days. The roads are safer now, and the insurgency is less pervasive. But the memory of that night, with its strange blend of terror and politeness, remains a vivid thread in the tapestry of my life. It’s a story of survival, of human complexity, and of a state that, like us, has endured its trials to emerge stronger. As I write this, I’m filled with gratitude—for the progress Jharkhand has made, for the strength of the human spirit, and for the simple fact that we lived to tell this tale.