During my childhood, our family had a travel circle — my parents, my father’s colleagues, and their families. Four families in all, we vacationed together every year. One such trip took us to Chandipur, a small seaside resort in Odisha’s Balasore district, resting quietly on the Bay of Bengal.
We stayed at a government-run resort perfectly positioned on the shore. Thatched-roof cottages faced the ocean, while a large dormitory cottage stood in the centre, and one solitary cottage perched on a mound almost in the lap of the waves. A wide green lawn lay between them, a natural stage for evening gatherings.
A seafood feast to remember
Swimming in the Bay of Bengal was pure joy. We would soak for hours, surrendering to the warm embrace of the sea. One afternoon, returning from the water, I noticed a fisherman haggling with the women in our group over a basket brimming with fresh catch. That day’s lunch in the dining hall was a seafood lover’s dream — pomfret fry, hilsa fry, roasted surmai, and prawn tandoori as starters, followed by rice and chapati with lobster, Shorshe Ilish (hilsa in mustard paste), Daab Chingri (prawns in tender coconut), and stuffed crab. Dessert was pure Bengali indulgence — sandesh and roshogolla. Since I was a non-vegetarian back then, I savoured every bite. It was so lavish that lunch stretched into what felt like dinner, more a sumptuous brunch than a single meal.
The sea that vanished
Later that day, something magical happened — the sea vanished. Where waves had roared hours ago, now lay a vast sandy expanse. Curious and excited, I waded in. The water barely reached my ankles. I kept walking — a kilometre, then two — yet it was still only knee-deep. I felt as though I could walk to another continent. But remembering my family might worry, I turned back. The resort manager later explained this was Chandipur’s most extraordinary feature — during low tide, the sea recedes dramatically, revealing miles of seabed where visitors can walk, explore, and spot marine life.
The call of Jagannath
That afternoon, we visited the Jagannath Temple, an ancient spiritual treasure of Odisha. The temple in Balasore, though smaller than the famed Puri temple, holds a similar charm — a sanctum dedicated to Lord Jagannath, flanked by idols of Lord Balabhadra and Goddess Subhadra.
As we approached, the air thickened with the mingling scents of incense, sandalwood, and flowers. The temple walls were adorned with intricate carvings — celestial beings, floral motifs, and scenes from the Mahabharata and Ramayana. The rhythmic beat of drums and the chanting of mantras flowed through the air, drawing visitors into a meditative calm.
Outside, the temple’s stone courtyard bustled with life. Vendors sold miniature wooden idols, conch shells, and packets of khaja (a flaky, sweet delicacy offered as prasad). Somewhere, a devotee sang a bhajan softly to herself, and the tune lingered with me long after we left.
A night of music and dance
On the way, I collected seashells, and red crabs scurried into their sandy burrows as I approached. Evening brought a campfire on the lawn — a “Musical Odisha” night. Guests sang, played instruments, and I performed an Indian classical dance, blending Rabindra Nritya, Manipuri, Kathakali, Odissi, and Bharatanatyam. Soon, even strangers joined the celebration, and the night stretched past midnight.
Into the Nilgiri Hills
The next morning, we boarded a mini-bus for the Nilgiri Hills, bound for the Panchalingeshwar Shrine. The road cut beautifully through dense forest, and from the base, we began a mountain trek. At nine years old, I was spellbound by the stillness, the deep green canopy, and the meditative hush.
Panchalingeshwar Temple, perched on a hilltop, is dedicated to Lord Shiva. Its five Shivalingas lie immersed in a small, flowing stream and can be touched only by descending into the water. Legend has it that they were placed there by Sita during her exile with Lord Rama. From the summit, the Nilgiri Hills rolled out like a painting. That day, I made a secret vow — if I ever chose a yogini’s life, this would be my home in nature’s embrace.
We spent the day trekking, crossing streams, listening to birdsong, and letting the forest’s stillness seep into our hearts.
The Allure of Sajanagarh and the Nilagiri Palace
The following day took us to Sajanagarh, once called Sarojini after the beloved daughter of King Shree Vasant Virat Bhujang Mandhata of Nilgiri. Over centuries, the name evolved into Sajanagarh. It is one of India’s fifty-one Shakti Peeths, its main attraction the shrine of Goddess Bhudharchandi. The temple walls boast exquisite stone carvings and deities sculpted with delicate mastery, making it a treasure for archaeologists.
Our journey continued to the Nilagiri Palace, a relic of Odisha’s princely past. The old section dates to the 15th–16th century, while the newer part was built in 1898. Now abandoned, with its clock tower collapsed and part of its western wing caved in, it still spoke of regal grandeur long gone.
The final night
Our last night was marked by one more grand campfire. Music floated across the lawn, mingling with the deep bass of the waves. The night sky glittered overhead, and the salty breeze carried the warmth of companionship.
When we finally left Chandipur, I carried with me more than souvenirs — I carried the mystery of a sea that walks away, the serenity of hills that seem to breathe, the sacred hum of temples, and the timeless beauty of Odisha’s heritage.
Disclaimer
Views expressed above are the author’s own.
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