There are two kinds of travel. The first is meticulously planned, plotted on maps, measured in kilometres and hotel bookings. The second begins with a plan but quickly develops a mind of its own. It is guided by missed turns, unexpected encounters, roadside breakfasts, sudden rainstorms, and moments of chance that somehow feel preordained.

Our Eid holiday journey to Ajodhya Pahar belonged firmly to the second category.

The original plan was modest enough. With my son Judhajit constrained by an unforgiving work schedule and my own visit home limited to a brief holiday, our ambitions had already been scaled down. What might once have been a leisurely week-long exploration became a compact two-day, one-night escape from Ranchi.

Yet, as every traveller eventually learns, the road is rarely interested in our itineraries. It prefers to tell its own story.

The Missed Turn

We left Ranchi on the morning of 27th May. Judhajit was driving. To avoid the notorious morning congestion of the city, he wisely took the Ring Road. The broad ribbon of smooth tarmac felt liberating after the crowded streets of Ranchi. Music played softly inside the car. Conversations flowed effortlessly. The familiar joy of a family travelling together after a long interval filled the cabin.

Perhaps that was the problem.

Immersed in conversation and aided by surprisingly poor highway signage, we sailed past the crucial diversion towards Muri soon after the Hesal toll checkpoint without realising it.

Only when Bundu appeared before us did reality strike. We were already deep on NH-33.

“What now?” Judhajit asked.

The answer was simple. Never argue with a detour.

“Drive on,” I replied. “We’ll go via Chandil.”

Looking back, I suspect the highway had plans of its own.

A few kilometres later, we passed the revered Deori Mandir. Without stopping, we bowed our heads in silent reverence as the temple slipped past our windows. For generations, travellers have sought blessings here before beginning journeys across the Chotanagpur Plateau.

Perhaps Maa Deori had simply summoned us to pass by her doorstep that morning.

Breakfast at Rangamati

Spiritual nourishment soon gave way to a more urgent earthly requirement.

Breakfast.

We stopped at Nirmal Hotel, one of those popular highway establishments that become institutions in their own right. Every frequent traveller between Ranchi and Jamshedpur seems to know it.

Soon our table was overflowing with steaming puri-subzi, crisp aloo pakoras, and the irresistible combination of hot gulab jamuns immersed in chilled rabri. Strong tea completed the ritual.

Roadside breakfasts possess a magic that five-star dining rarely achieves. Perhaps it is the appetite created by travel. Perhaps it is the knowledge that the road still stretches ahead.

Whatever the reason, everything tasted perfect.

Lessons from the Kings of the Highway

From Chandil, we turned towards Purulia.

For me, this route carried memories. Historically, the road crossed a meandering railway line repeatedly. One approaching train could trap travellers at multiple level crossings, creating a frustrating game of cat and mouse.

Modern India, however, is changing rapidly. Massive flyovers now leap over the railway tracks. Yet progress had introduced a new challenge.

As we approached one such overbridge, traffic slowed and eventually stopped. Ahead stretched an immense wall of stationary trucks, extending as far as the eye could see. The highway had become a parking lot.

I stepped out to investigate.

The advice came from the people who understand Indian highways better than anyone else—the truck drivers.

“Take the wrong side, sir,” one of them suggested casually. “You’re in a car. You’ll clear it.”

It was classic Indian road pragmatism.

I took over the wheel. After assessing the alternatives, including an uncertain village track, I decided to trust the collective wisdom of the highway veterans. Carefully navigating along the shoulder of the opposite lane, we eased past the bottleneck and rejoined the proper carriageway beyond the obstruction.

Within minutes the jam was behind us.

Purulia beckoned.

Entering the Land of Ajodhya

Crossing into West Bengal always feels subtly different. The roads change character. The villages acquire a different rhythm. Even the landscape appears softer.

Police checkpoints were active near the border, and vehicles ahead of us were being stopped for inspections. We slowed down, mentally preparing to produce documents and answer the usual questions. Instead, the officer took one look at our vehicle and waved us on. Why? Your guess is as good as ours. Perhaps a family car packed with travellers did not fit any suspicious profile. Or perhaps the hospital stickers on the vehicle, announcing Judhajit’s professional affiliation as a doctor, bestowed upon us a temporary cloak of bureaucratic immunity. Whatever the reason, we wisely chose not to investigate the matter further and continued our drive.

Driving into the Purulia district of West Bengal, we approached Balarampur town under the warm afternoon sun. Just before entering Purulia, we veered left towards Bagmundi. It felt like crossing an invisible threshold. The traffic thinned, the settlements became sparse, and the horizon slowly filled with undulating green ridges. The hills were announcing their presence long before we actually reached them.

The transformation was immediate. The road entered the forests. Tall sal trees arched overhead. Sunlight filtered through dense foliage. The air grew cooler. The dark road wound gracefully through the wilderness like a ribbon threading through green silk.

We passed Pakhi Pahar, the remarkable “Bird Hill,” where artist Chitta Dey and his team have spent decades transforming bare rock into an extraordinary gallery of giant bird sculptures. Hundreds of birds appear to take flight across the mountainside, turning stone into movement.

Then the climb began. The ghat road to Ajodhya Pahar is a delight for anyone who loves driving. Sharp bends, steep gradients, sudden viewpoints and endless greenery create a route that is as enjoyable as the destination itself.

One severely damaged stretch tested both driver and suspension, but eventually we reached the plateau. And with that, we arrived in one of eastern India’s most fascinating hill landscapes.

The Ancient Hills of Ajodhya

Ajodhya Pahar is not merely a hill station. It is a landscape where geology, mythology, tribal culture and history intersect.

Part of the eastern extension of the Chotanagpur Plateau, the Ajodhya Hills rise dramatically from the plains of Purulia. Their rugged terrain, forests and streams have shaped human life here for thousands of years.

Local traditions connect the hills to the epic Ramayana. Many believe that Lord Rama, Sita and Lakshmana spent part of their exile in these forests, giving rise to the name “Ajodhya”—a local adaptation associated with Ayodhya, Rama’s legendary kingdom.

The region is also deeply intertwined with the lives of indigenous communities such as the Santhals, Bhumijs and Mundas, whose traditions, festivals and folklore remain inseparable from these hills.

Every year on Vaisakha Purnima, thousands of Santhal tribals from West Bengal, Jharkhand, and Odisha gather here for the traditional Lo Bir Baisi, a night-long tribal assembly, and the historic Shikar Utsav.

Geologically, the hills form part of the ancient Chotanagpur Plateau, rising to an average elevation of about 600 metres. The highest peak, Gorgaburu, stands at 677 metres, offering sweeping views of the forests and plains below.

Historically, these forests played important roles during various tribal uprisings against colonial rule. The rugged terrain provided shelter and strategic advantages to resistance movements that emerged across the Chotanagpur region.

Today, Ajodhya Pahar stands as one of West Bengal’s most significant eco-tourism destinations, offering waterfalls, forests, wildlife corridors and rich cultural heritage far removed from the commercialised mountain resorts found elsewhere.

Rain on the Plateau

By the time we checked into Kushalpalli Resort, the afternoon sun was still fierce. The plateau baked under the harsh heat of late May.

Then nature staged one of its sudden transformations.

As we settled into the restaurant for lunch, dark clouds gathered across the horizon. The sky shifted from blue to charcoal within minutes.

And then came the rain. Not a hesitant drizzle. A proper summer storm.

Sheets of water swept across the landscape. The temperature plunged. Trees danced wildly in the wind. The swimming pool outside became a theatre of delight and chaos.

Most children fled. One determined youngster remained in the pool, floating happily in the downpour as though he alone understood that this was the finest moment of the day.

When the rain softened, we wandered through the vast grounds of the resort.

A small Shiva temple stood quietly among the trees. A miniature golf course spread across emerald lawns. There were fishing ponds, sports grounds and even an artificial beach—an unexpectedly charming touch amid the hills.

The entire property felt like a carefully maintained oasis amidst the wilderness.

That evening, rain returned. We found refuge in the resort bar.

Cold beer, warm conversation, the IPL match on the big screen, and the rhythmic drumming of rain on rooftops created the perfect ending to the day.

Long after dinner, we walked through the rain-washed pathways before finally retiring for the night.

The next morning revealed a completely different world. The storm had cleansed the landscape. The sky was brilliant blue. The air was fresh and cool. Every leaf seemed newly polished.

After a leisurely breakfast beside the pool, we checked out and chose a different route home.

Searching for Giants

This time ,we descended through the forests towards Jhalida. The region is also an important elephant corridor, with its dense forests providing a vital migratory route for wild Asian elephants moving between the Dalma Wildlife Sanctuary in Jharkhand and the forests of West Bengal, making it a significant landscape for biodiversity conservation.

Along the road, bright yellow signs repeatedly warned:

Elephant Crossing Zone

Naturally, hopes rose. Every bend seemed capable of revealing a magnificent tusker emerging from the forest.

The elephants, however, had other plans.

Instead, the only wild resident who honoured us with an appearance was a solitary jackal, lean and alert, darting across the road before disappearing into the dry undergrowth.

It was hardly the giant we sought. Yet somehow it felt perfectly appropriate.

Travel rarely gives us exactly what we expect. It gives us what belongs to the journey.

The Real Souvenirs

By late afternoon, we were back in Ranchi. Along the way, we paused for lunch at a humble roadside eatery in Angara, enjoying one last taste of highway hospitality before re-entering the city. The entire journey had lasted barely thirty-two hours, yet it felt far richer than its brief duration would suggest.

On paper, it was nothing extraordinary: a missed turn, a traffic jam, a legendary roadside breakfast, a sudden summer downpour, a comfortable stay at Kushalpalli Resort, a fleeting encounter with a jackal, and a simple roadside lunch on the journey home.

And yet, those are precisely the moments that endure.

Long after hotel rooms fade from memory and photographs disappear into digital archives, we remember the taste of pakoras at Chandil, the advice of anonymous truck drivers, the scent of rain on a mountain plateau, and the simple pleasure of sharing a road with family.

Ajodhya Pahar was beautiful, no doubt about that. But as is so often the case, the real destination was never the hilltop. It was the journey itself—the unexpected detours, the conversations, the laughter, and the moments of serendipity that no itinerary could have planned.

The road, as always, knew that long before we did.