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Text and photographs: Kartik Krishna

"All alight, last stop, all alight. Sambalpur station, last stop." Of course, this is a fanciful Hollywood construction in my head and there's really no ticket collector on board exhorting his passengers to disembark. But after two grimy days spent freezing and bunched up on the floors of Sambalpur Express, I'm given to rabid hallucination. I'm just glad to be here, I muse. Even if I've never been to this place in my whole life.

Sambalpur is one of the more widely-heard-of towns in the huge state of Orissa -- and there aren't many. My initial pilgrimage around town is in a junk bucket of a rickshaw that's carted over scarred roads and wheeled around potholes by a tattered puller.

In my search for decent lodging, I have a chance to explore a bit of the town. Shanty houses coexist by more gracious 'edifices'. Upmarket suburbia and weather beaten tenements live side by side.

Finally, I decide to check in at the Bombay Lodge, which, despite its extravagant sounding name, doesn't exert quite as much of a gravitational tug on my wallet as some of the other hotels. At 90 bucks a day, I can comfortably afford a couple of days soaking up this dusty old town before moving on. Bag and baggage ensconced in my tiny room, I head out... to anywhere.

As I amble past newly-constructed two-storey homes and raw, dingy shops, I feel more like Clint Eastwood than Julia Roberts. No Sunset Boulevard, this. "Howdy pardner, I'm a stranger in this town, could you be guidin' me to the local bar?" The road is pockmarked with more mini-craters than the moon and frowzy locals stare as I make tracks towards an intersection some distance away.

Here, ten minutes later, I confront a quaint relic from colonial India. A policeman stands on a platform, clad in regulation black and white, waving a couple of round, wooden STOP and GO signs! The traffic -- buses, jeeps, cars, rickshaws, cycles, tourists, common pedestrians -- mill around him and miraculously flow obediently by. His hands move smoothly in quick coordinated movements and he seems completely unaware of the strange sight he makes. Man, talk about stepping sixty years into the past.

I ask him for some directions. Soon, I'm squashed between half a dozen local fellows in the front of a jeep, headed toward the Hirakud dam -- one of the few sightseeing wonders of this place. The other wonder around here is a temple and I've seen enough of those structures for ten lifetimes during my sojourn in south India. So heck with the temple and let's go for the dam, I think aloud in the jeep. A couple of paan-stained smiles acknowledge this comment, even though not one musty human in the vehicle looks like he can grasp the 'profundity' of my statement.

The dam, I discover is not really a recommendable tourist spot after all. It stretches across the river like a long tombstone, a version of the Great Wall of China. Heavily guarded (in case anyone steals the dam), the walk uphill to see this tourist spot isn't worth the aching calves. There's a lot of history (yawn) etched in marble and stone, details about the fourth engineer to this project and all the dinners he missed because he worked late. Even the fact that Nehru inaugurated this great monument doesn't hold interest.

Fortunately, the journey isn't a complete write off. At the base of the hill, children frolic gaily. They are surrounded by some of the most brilliant flowers I've ever seen; colours of every depth and richness boggle the mind. It's a serene sight and I luxuriate in the afternoon sun for a long while -- my silver lining in a gray-bleak day.

I catch another jeep back. They can hardly be called jeeps. These rattling four-wheelers lumber in and out like elephants. On the way back, I sight a sign outside a tumbledown hutment-like building: 'College on indefinite strike beginning 24th Nov.' Yes! At last, definite trace elements of culture permeating into these backwoods.

Back at Sambalpur, traipsing about in the yellowing dusk, I realise that every street corner is identical to the others. Nonetheless, the local food -- chappati, dal, sabzi, tons of spice -- adds plenty of variety to my taste buds, which have to be doused by gallons of water after the meal. Dragonbreath, I mumble to myself as I turn in for the night.

In the morning, I'm told by the hotel owner that Narsingnath would be a particularly picturesque stopover. Since he's the one who'd hyped Hirakud the previous day, I'm not too sure. Some more 'rabble-mingling' -- I'm a pro at this by now -- and I make it the bus station. Almost everyone advocates at least a day in Narsingnath. Two hours of chewing on my fingernails, twiddling thumbs and consuming packet after packet of elaichi cream biscuits and I'm finally on a bus. An Orissa bus.

A written detour is in order here: An Orissa bus is not your regular rumbler, not even a sub-species of the buses we're used to. An Orissa bus is a congested aluminium box, a stuffed tin toy that ferries the state's rural populace across vast, fallow land that looks the same in every direction, for hours on end. The peeling, decrepit giant shambles along lonely, broken roads and massive unchanging agrarian tracts of landscape. If you have the opportunity to stand continuously, en route, in one of these dabbas, as I was, at journey's end every bone and tooth in your body will rattle.

Attempting to walk steadily after seven hours in one of these buses is an exercise in futility. Alighting a couple of kilometres from Narsingnath, my legs are putty. Some brisk striding up and down a short incline -- much to the amusement of a couple of rickshaw-wallahs -- resuscitates my sleeping muscles.

Fifteen minutes in an autorickshaw (no pulling required, thank the lord) and I'm at the OTDC (Orissa Tourism Development Corporation) lodge at Narsingnath. My initial impression is that it desperately needs some renovation. But once I'm in my large room on the top storey (first floor), I'm totally cosy under the sheets. Considering the rather rustic location, this quasi-hotel isn't so bad. Especially at Rs 60 a day for a double bed.

At night, the dark envelopes the lodge completely. I walk down to a small row of restaurants, torch in hand. I've been warned by the lodge keeper to beware of snakes and other unruly creatures of the night. I select one of the restaurants because of its warm, earthy peoplechatter inside. Of course, the tables and benches here are rickety, mosquitoes buzz around your toes, but the food -- chappati and sabzi, this time without the spice -- is hot and delicious, especially for a hungry bus-weary veteran like me.

I begin a conversation with a couple who're also at the lodge and I learn that they've descended here all the way from Calcutta just to trek into the surrounding mountains. I tell them I'd love to join them but my shoes just aren't suitable for trudging up hills. They smile as if they know something I don't.

The following morning I wake up unusually refreshed, despite a lagging stiffness in my bones. I go out onto the balcony for the first time and I'm bowled over. Trees sprawl about on all sides, forming a lush green cover that's balm to the eyes (and for the lungs too). Directly ahead is a dense jungle. On the right, the road leads beyond yesterday's neat line of restaurants and I'm walking down this road five minutes later. Any fear of reptilian assailants evaporates in the daylight, which, although bright, is hardly enough to keep off the chilly nip in the air.

My teeth chatter as I enter the same restaurant for some good Indian style breakfast. I also see a temple close by that I'd missed the night before.

The day unfolds leisurely as I tramp around. Near the temple, there's a string of stalls selling all kinds of ornate finery, gaudy baubles, trinkets and spangled cloth, the A to Z of garish goods, glinting in the sun. Each stall seems to be selling the exact same trifles and I wonder if any of the stall keepers have ever heard of business sense.

To the left of the guesthouse is a clearing in the jungle. I stop here I listen to the raw, intense sounds of the jungle -- cicadas, crickets, birds. Here and there I spot some wasp nests and anthills and every clump of dried vegetation is thrumming with life and activity. This is a wonderful world of its own.

Late in the afternoon, post-siesta, I decide to explore the foot of the mountain. I skirt the temple and saunter up some twisting steps. I'm marching up a rough-hewn path, an uneven part-sandy, part-rocky road that snakes up the mountain. The walk is as exhilarating as the cool, crisp air. There's no trace of the fatigue I'd felt earlier and I'm ready to trudge up to heaven if need be.

A couple of hours later, I'm still threading my way around the mountain, blissfully oblivious to the rapidly fading light. The path seems endless. On the left there's the upward-sloping jungle, on the right, a steep drop past trees and shrubbery. Animal cry in the nights. It's beautiful, perfect.

All of a sudden, I stand stock-still. There's a figure approaching me, and in the dim twilight, I can barely discern its features. Then, with a relief, I recognise one of the Calcuttans I'd met at the restaurant the previous night. He's exhausted and claims to have gone all the way to the top, a three hour walk from where we stood. He says there's nothing but a temple there and a bunch of locals.

He sets off and I trudge on, wondering whether to accompany him back. However bravado gets the better of me and I continue alone in the opposite direction. I've now realised that if I don't turn back immediately, I'd have to walk back in inky darkness, with jungle all around me. But my ego's still playing kiddy games and every time I turn a corner, I promise myself that the next bend will be the last.

I delude myself this way for another half hour, until the light's nearly gone. I turn on my heels and canter back down as briskly as possible, trying in vain to beat the darkness. But it descends rapidly. Fortunately I have my torch. My ears are ringing with a heady mix of adrenalin, fear and jungle noise. Initially, the moon helps to illuminate the road, but is soon lost above the thick canopy of foliage. Then, it's just me and the cool, dark mountain.

Still tripping down the path, I realise that the descent is going to be much quicker. Completely alone and small in miles of towering vastness and green expanse (now black), I feel wonderfully liberated and a giddy sense of communion washes over me. Suddenly, for the second time, I see a silhouette trudging towards me and behold! It's the same fellow I'd encountered going uphill. He ruefully informs me that he's lost his way back and that I'm on the wrong track as well.

We walk back and forth for half a kilometre in a heavy curtain of darkness, scouring the curve we might've missed. To no avail. A good half hour onwards, we're just beginning to ponder about spending the night around here, when he inadvertently stumbles across a stone path. It's the one that brought us here earlier and we skip our way down towards the warmth and comfort of the resthouse.

Later, safely entrenched in the light and warmth of the lodge, we recount our misadventure with macho bluster and braggadocio. My friend's wife, arriving at the place half an hour after us, humours us willingly.

So ended my sojourn in Narsingnath. For me, this trek on the mountain will always define Orissa in my memories. However I spent long arduous hours in state transport buses and jeeps, traversing farms and villages and haystacks, lodging in a three star hotel at Raipur (Madhya Pradesh) and caught the 0100 hours Geetanjali Express back to Bombay. But the rest of my journey didn't quite match the adventure at Narsingnath.

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