Our weekend in Puri - a coastal town situated in the neighbouring region of Orissa - was the perfect antidote to a rather stressful couple of weeks. We spent a considerable time doing much to nothing - which was nice! Our accommodation, the former home of a maharajah with its high white washed archways and heavy rosewood doors,bequeathed a quintessential relic of the British Raj. Mornings were adjourned over the Times of India with a fresh pot of coffee and a rack of toast, while sat on the veranda overlooking Bay Bengal. Civilised strolls along the stretch of beach were central to most afternoons; exploring the enclaves of the local fishing community. One day, the illusory tide caught us unaware, - too busy eyeing the catch of the day and observing the sheer artistry of the fishermen weaving their boats to shore. Not till the advancing sea grabbed at our heels did we realise the beach upon which we'd casually walked was now a simple slither of sand. With sodden trouser hems we entered a vast commune of thatched beach huts that resided untouched along the tides periphery. The villagers went about their business, unperturbed by the skirting sea; the men continued to weave their nets and plain their boats. Feeling a little misplaced and unsure of our way, we were thankful to be commandeered by a self appointed usher, an 8 year old village boy named Mo, who led us through the cozy intersections of the village. As it began to rain children recoiled home to their mothers preparing dinner under the thatched alcoves, the symphony of home life resonated from every corner, the smell of wood burn and fried fish laced the numerous passageways, I felt incredibly at ease in this strange place, it felt homely. We arrived home soaked but entirely exhilarated by our day's adventure.
Our evenings were spent sampling some of the local culinary delights - tuna steak, mackerel, exquisite tomato chutney (an Orissa speciality). Meals in Puri were never boring. In addition to the delicious array of seafood, our eating environments were often equally as impressive – from dining in a tree house to having monkeys scamper across the restaurant terrace; to sitting in gas lit beach shacks with our toes in the sand, listening to the waves break just a mere stones throw away.
Alas, the end was nigh! Monday evening arrived like a slap in the face. We begrudgingly clambered on to the sleeper train bound for Kolkata and braced ourselves for the eight hour journey back to the hustle and bustle. Sleep was fractured by 'chai wallers' and disgruntled babies. As the train rattled into Howrah station, the patchwork of slums, rubbish dumps and dilapidated buildings was as unnerving as my first ever encounter to the streets of Kolkata.
Later on that day, while I made my way to my evening class with the girls at the PBK home I couldn't help but hum En Vogue's "..back to life, back to reality, back to life, back to reality.........."
