Getting pink-slipped in Orissa

I had never used a hand pump before. A priest noticed I was struggling and offered help so I could wash my feet before entering the temple. He then directed me to a dingy room, asked me to close my eyes and started chanting.

My parents followed. He shoved a pooja thali under my nose which only had Rs100 notes. I dropped a 20. “Five hundred more,” he demanded. Disgusted, I tried to walk away but there were three sweaty priests blocking the entrance. I had to fork Rs200 to get away from the temple.

Orissa is aptly known as the land of temples. It is said that the state has more temples than the rest of the country. And that was our original plan — to visit Bhubaneswar, Puri and Konark, the three temple towns of Orissa that make up the glorious golden temple triangle and whatever lies in between.

My family is not religious. My father is an architect and the 13th century Orissan architecture of the Konark temple was a part of his curriculum. My mother is an artist and the intricate stone carvings fascinated her. I tagged along. The trip was never supposed to be a religious experience. So we didn’t account for the road blocks we were in for.

As we stepped out of the temple we noticed a twenty-something leaning against our car. “Twenty rupees parking charges,” he said forcing a pink chit into our hands. My father looked around suspiciously, there was no board that mentioned ‘Pay and Park’.

Our car was the only one in the parking lot and the driver wasn’t supportive. The chit looked authentic and we coughed up some money.

The route to Puri was beautiful. We drove past the Daya River, on the banks of which King Ashoka fought the Battle of Kalinga. It is said that during the war the river turned red with the blood of about 100,000 Kalinga civilians and more than 10,000 of Ashoka’s warriors.

Every time we entered a new village, locals spotted our car from a distance. A bamboo barrier, held together with jute ropes was brought down and the car was surrounded by teenagers who demanded toll and gave a small slip in return. The driver conveniently looked away. The paper slip often had the image of a local devta and Rs10 printed.

We encountered six such toll nakas, some at the distance of three kilometres from the previous one. When the toll nakas were not coming in our way, the local “devotees” were — for a little dakshina for the pooja they had in the morning. In return we were offered some prasad. They looked appalled when my father refused with a point blank “No”.

Inspite of this we never made it to the Jagannath Puri Temple. A village had decided to block the route in protest against the local collector. We waited for around four hours for the bandh to clear.

We eventually dropped the plan, took a detour and headed for the Chilka Lake. It just seemed like our thing to do. Watching the Irrawaddy dolphins and the Siberian cranes while boating in the Chilka at sunset, we felt at peace for the first time during the whole trip.

The boatman offered to take us to nearby temple on an island. He was shocked when we all looked terrified at the prospect. We also bought few “natural pearls”, which we found out later were fake.

Surprisingly on our way back the toll nakas were shut. They probably didn’t have anybody to take over for the night shift.

The magnificent Konark temple we visited the next day made up for everything. (I remember my father frantically looking for UNESCO approved guide at the site.)

On my way back I noticed my bag was filled with strange souvenirs — crumpled toll naka and Pay and Park tickets and a dozen plastic beads wrapped in a velvet case.  

Here’s a piece of advice: When in Orissa stay clear of the priests who are more than willing to pray on your behalf. Operate on your own. If it still doesn’t work, drop it all and head to Chilka.