Ranchi, my vibrant hometown in the heart of Jharkhand, has always been more than a city to me. It is a starting point—a gateway that opens into some of eastern India’s most beautiful and still-unspoilt landscapes. From Ranchi, the road soon leaves behind the familiar bustle of the city and begins to wind through the forests, hills and small settlements that make Jharkhand so distinctive.

During a recent visit home, my son Judhajit and I felt that familiar tug of the wild. We did not need much deliberation. Betla National Park came almost instinctively to mind..

About 170 kilometres from Ranchi, Betla is one of those places that does not have to announce itself. It lies somewhat away from the usual tourist trail, in the Latehar district, surrounded by the forests of the Palamau region. For me, however, Betla was never simply a destination on a map. It was a place with memories attached to it.

I had taken my family there twice in the late 1990s, when Judhajit was still in primary school. Those were different times—long before smartphones and the constant pull of a connected world. The journeys were simpler, and perhaps because of that, the memories have endured.

Now, decades later, we are heading back to the same forest.

Betla had, in fact, remained a quiet presence in my life even during those intervening years. During my posting at the Jharkhand Regional Office, I had travelled there several times on official work to visit our bank branch at Betla, situated just outside the entrance to the national park. On those occasions, I arrived as a banker, with branch matters to attend to and a schedule to keep.

The forest was always there, just beyond the gate. I would pass through that landscape, knowing that the wilderness lay only a few steps away, yet there was rarely time to enter it. Perhaps that is why the place stayed somewhere at the back of my mind.

This time was different. There was no branch to visit. No official appointment awaited us. No clock was pushing us towards the next task. I was returning to Betla not as a banker, but as a father travelling with his son.

In a sense, I was returning to my own past as well. And so, after all these years, Betla awaited us once again.

Into the Land of the Tiger

Betla National Park may not be the first name that comes to mind when one thinks of India’s great wildlife destinations. Yet this relatively quiet corner of Jharkhand has a remarkable place in India’s conservation history.

The park forms part of the Palamau Tiger Reserve and was among the first nine tiger reserves established when Project Tiger was launched in 1973. It remains Jharkhand’s only tiger reserve.

But statistics and conservation designations can tell only part of the story. To enter Betla is to enter another world.

The dense sal forests close around the road, and the familiar sounds of civilisation begin to fade. Somewhere in the undergrowth, an animal moves. A bird calls from the canopy. Monkeys leap between branches. A peacock crosses the track with an air of complete indifference.

The forest is alive, even when it appears still.

Betla’s wildlife is remarkably diverse. Tigers and leopards share the landscape with wolves, wild dogs and jungle cats. Elephants and gaur move through the forests, while chital, mouse deer and other herbivores form an essential part of the ecosystem. And then there are the animals one may never see but whose presence is felt—the predators that leave behind only a footprint, a movement in the grass, or an inexplicable silence.

There is something particularly fascinating about the history of wildlife tracking here. The first tiger census in India, based on the painstaking identification of pug marks, was conducted in the Palamau Tiger Reserve in 1934.

Perhaps that is why a tiger’s pug marks on a forest track can still produce such a surge of excitement. You may not see the tiger. But suddenly, you know that the tiger has seen the forest before you.

The winter months, from November to February, are considered the best time to experience Betla. The weather is pleasant, and the chances of wildlife activity are better. With the onset of the monsoon in June, heavy rains make the forest inaccessible for several months.

Our visit was a three-day journey through this landscape—a journey that would take us from forest tracks to ancient forts, from roadside breakfasts to thundering waterfalls, and finally to the quiet meeting point of two rivers.

It became much more than a wildlife trip. It became a journey through memory.

Day 1: The Road Less Travelled & a Whispers of the Wild

We left Ranchi at around nine in the morning. Our start was slightly delayed because Judhajit had just finished a night shift. Joining us was Gungun, Tania’s sister, who happened to be visiting us. Soon the city was behind us, and the familiar roads began giving way to the countryside.Our journey from Ranchi began around 9 a.m., a slightly delayed start as Judhajit had just finished his night shift. Adding to our little expedition was Tania’s sister, Gungun, who was visiting us. Excitement buzzed in the car as we navigated out of the city and onto the road leading towards our natural escape.

The journey to Betla is itself part of the experience. About halfway there, at Kuru, we decided to leave the main road for a while and turn towards the local marketplace. It was not merely a stop for refreshments. It was our first taste of the journey.

We settled down to dhuska, kachori and aloo tarkari. And then came the local speciality—Lohra Mithai, affectionately known as the “Atom Bombs,” from Vananchal Sweets.

Dhuska, made from fermented rice and lentil batter and deep-fried with local spices, is one of those foods that somehow tastes better when eaten on the road, surrounded by the sights and sounds of a place rather than served in a restaurant.

With our hunger taken care of, we continued towards Chandwa and Latehar.

The road wound through villages and green landscapes. Small houses appeared and disappeared. The countryside seemed unhurried. Every now and then we stopped, simply because something caught our attention.

There was no need to hurry. We were going to the forest. By afternoon, we finally reached Betla.

We checked into Hotel Van Vihar, had a hot lunch, and rested briefly. But the forest was already calling. Soon we were on our way again.

The First Safari

The dense sal forest seemed to embrace us as we entered the park. Our open jeep rolled into the wilderness at around 3:45 in the afternoon. Almost immediately, our senses changed. We began listening rather than merely looking. A rustle in the leaves. A bird calling somewhere beyond the trees. The movement of monkeys in the canopy. Peacocks walking through the undergrowth. Langurs watching us from a distance.

Jackals appearing briefly before disappearing again. And then the chital—spotted deer—grazing peacefully in small groups, seemingly untouched by the human excitement around them.

View this post on Instagram

A safari is often described as a search for wildlife. But perhaps that is not quite right. It is a lesson in waiting. You drive slowly. You look into the trees. You listen. You wonder what lies behind the next bend.

Then, suddenly, our guide pointed towards the dusty track. Pug marks. Fresh tiger pug marks. There was no tiger in sight. Yet the mood in the jeep changed instantly. 

The forest had given us a message. The tiger was somewhere here. And for that moment, that was enough.

Palamu Fort: History in the Forest

As the afternoon light softened, our driver suggested a detour to Palamu Fort. He also mentioned that we might encounter larger wildlife along the way—perhaps elephants or even a big cat. The possibility of both history and wildlife was too tempting to resist. We headed towards the fort.

Palamu Fort, also known as Medininagar Fort, is a reminder that this forested landscape has witnessed not only wild animals but also kingdoms, battles and political ambitions. The original fort was associated with the Raksel dynasty and was later substantially rebuilt and strengthened by the Chero ruler Medini Rai.

The fort occupies a strategic position, with the ruins rising against the surrounding greenery.

As we approached the fort, its imposing stone and brick walls stood silhouetted against the backdrop of the surrounding lush greenery. The architecture showcased a fascinating blend of Hindu and Islamic styles, reflecting the diverse cultural influences that have shaped this land over time.

Walking through the fort, however, history did not feel like something written in a book. It felt present. The narrow passages and carved arches seemed to whisper of another age. We walked through the chambers and tried to imagine the people who had once lived within these walls—the rulers, their families, soldiers and artisans.

For a while, we were no longer tourists. We were simply visitors from another century. From the rooftop, we could see the surrounding landscape and the winding Auranga River below.

It was a beautiful meeting of two worlds—the old fort above and the timeless river below. Yet the beauty was accompanied by a sense of sadness.

The fort was visibly deteriorating. Walls were crumbling, interiors had been neglected, and the remains stood exposed to the slow erosion of time.

Heritage, once neglected, does not disappear suddenly. It fades quietly.The Betla Fort adds a unique historical dimension to the natural beauty and wildlife encounters that Betla National Park offers. It’s a compelling stop for anyone interested in history and a wonderful addition to the overall Betla experience.

Standing there, I could not help wondering how many such places across India are slowly losing their stories because we have not cared for the stones that carry them.

As dusk approached, we began our journey back. Day One had given us a little of everything—food, forest, wildlife, history and memory. The whispers of the jungle and the silent stories of the fort stayed with us as we returned to our hotel.

Day 2: Of Deer, Waterfalls and the Sound of the Forest

The second morning began early. The forest at dawn has a different personality. The air was crisp and cool, carrying the earthy smell of the trees. The early morning jeep safari took us deeper into Betla.

The tigers remained hidden. But that did not make the safari any less rewarding. A herd of chital grazed quietly in a clearing. A jackal appeared briefly before slipping back into the undergrowth. The forest canopy slowly filled with sunlight as the morning advanced.

Sometimes the absence of what you hope to see becomes part of the experience. We had come looking for the tiger, but the forest offered us something else—the privilege of simply moving through its world.

After returning from the safari, hunger took over. Just outside the park gate, we stopped at a makeshift eatery. Steaming tea, crisp kachoris, litti and jalebis made for a wonderfully uncomplicated breakfast..

There is something about eating local food immediately after a forest safari. Perhaps it is the contrast—the wilderness on one side and the roadside bustle on the other.

Refreshed, we set out again. This time our destination was Lodh Falls, with a stop at Mirchaiya Waterfall along the way.

The road took us through the forested valley and across the North Koel River. At the railway crossing, we had to wait for a passing train. It was one of those small, ordinary interruptions that somehow become part of the memory of a journey. 

The Koel lay calm beneath the bridge. For a while, everything seemed still.

Mirchaiya: A Small Wonder

Our first stop was Mirchaiya Waterfall. Located near Garu in Latehar district, Mirchaiya is a relatively modest waterfall, but its setting gives it a charm of its own. Water flows over distinctive black granite lava formations, creating a natural cascade over the rock surface.

It is not the sheer scale of the waterfall that stays with you. It is the intimacy of the place. We spent some time there, watching the water move over the dark rocks before continuing towards Lodh.

A roadside stall provided another brief pause—boiled eggs with spices, masala chickpeas and tea. 

Simple food. Simple journey. And yet these are often the moments one remembers most clearly.

Lodh: Where Water Finds Its Voice

Lodh Falls was different. Situated near Burha village, it is the highest waterfall in Jharkhand, plunging from a height of approximately 143 metres. But numbers cannot prepare you for the sound.

Reaching the falls required a short trek through the forest, followed by a descent of around 220 steps. With every step downward, the sound grew louder.

At first it was a distant rumble. Then a roar. Finally, the waterfall announced itself with a force that seemed to fill the entire valley.

Water thundered down the rocky cliff, breaking into mist before continuing its journey below. We stood there for a while without saying much. Some landscapes do not require commentary. They simply demand that you stand still and look.

Lodh also carries its share of local folklore. Stories have long circulated about attempts to measure the depth of the falls. One such tale speaks of villagers lowering a boulder tied to ropes extending to the length of seven khatias, only for the boulder to disappear into the depths without revealing the bottom.

Whether folklore or fact, the story adds another layer of mystery to a place already possessing an elemental quality. The waterfall’s roar is said to travel for many kilometres across the surrounding hills. Standing there, it was easy to believe it.

After the long descent and the climb back, we were ready for lunch. We found a small roadside eatery run by a gentleman named Mr. Kujur. Rice, dal, potato bhujia, potato-cauliflower curry and chicken curry made for a hearty meal.

It was exactly what we needed. A final cup of tea, and we began our return to Betla.

The day’s images travelled with us—the deer in the morning forest, the Koel beneath the bridge, the black rocks of Mirchaiya and the immense roar of Lodh.

Day 3: Where Two Rivers Meet

Our third morning carried the inevitable feeling of an ending. Three days had passed quickly. We had explored the forest, followed old roads, walked through the ruins of a forgotten kingdom and stood before waterfalls whose voices seemed older than memory itself.

Now it was time to return to Ranchi. But before leaving Betla behind, we decided on one final detour. Kechki Sangam. The name itself carries a sense of quietness. Here, the Koel and Auranga Rivers come together.

Another connection made the place particularly evocative for us. Satyajit Ray had chosen this landscape as one of the filming locations for his iconic film Aranyer Din Ratri (Days and Nights in the Forest). The Kechki Forest Rest House still stands as a quiet reminder of that cinematic association.

Standing at the sangam, watching the two rivers meet and continue their journey together, I felt an unexpected sense of peace. Perhaps it was because we were at the end of our journey.

Perhaps it was because rivers have a way of putting human journeys into perspective.,We arrive. We wander. We meet people and places. We carry memories. And then, like rivers, we move on.

There was something almost poetic about ending our wilderness sojourn at a confluence—a place where two separate streams surrendered their individuality and flowed forward as one.

For a moment, none of us spoke. We simply watched the rivers.

The Journey Back

The road back to Ranchi gave us time to look back on the three days. The tiger had remained elusive. But perhaps that was fitting.

Betla had given us no grand spectacle on demand. Instead, it had offered glimpses—the pug marks on a dusty track, a herd of chital in the morning light, a jackal vanishing into the undergrowth, the call of unseen birds, the sudden appearance of a peacock.

It had given us history in the form of Palamu Fort. It had given us the thunder of Lodh Falls. It had given us the quiet beauty of the Koel and Auranga meeting at Kechki.

And, perhaps most importantly, it had given me something more personal—the opportunity to return to a place that had been part of my life for decades and experience it again with my son.

The Betla of the late 1990s belonged to a father travelling with a young boy. The Betla of today belonged to a father travelling with an adult son. The forest was much the same. We were not. And perhaps that is what made the journey special.

Beyond the Tiger

Wildlife tourism often begins with the hope of seeing the charismatic predator—the tiger, the leopard, the elephant. But Betla teaches a quieter lesson. A forest is not built around one animal.

It is an intricate web in which predator and prey, tree and soil, river and rock, bird and insect all belong to the same story. The tiger is important, but so is the chital that feeds in the clearing, the langur watching from a branch, the sal tree sheltering life beneath its canopy and the river carrying water through the landscape.

The beauty of Betla lies precisely in this interconnectedness. It is not merely a place to go on safari. It is a place to slow down. To listen. To look beyond what is immediately visible. And perhaps, if one is fortunate, to rediscover something within oneself.

For me, Betla became all of these things at once—a childhood memory revisited, a professional landscape seen through different eyes, a journey shared with my son, and a reminder that some places quietly remain part of us long after we have left them.

We had gone looking for the wild. We returned with memories. And somewhere between the forest, the ancient fort, the waterfalls and the meeting of two rivers, Betla reminded me that the most enduring journeys are not always about the places we visit.

Sometimes, they are about the parts of ourselves that we find waiting there.