The Son-in-Law of Jodhpur - The Temple That Revealed Itself in the Dark

The Son-in-Law of Jodhpur

- The Temple That Revealed Itself in the Dark

The Ravana Temple Exterior (Night).

The evening had already loosened its grip by the time we left the majestic Mehrangarh Fort. Stone and history stayed behind as we exited through the Blue City Gate, where Jodhpur quietly changes character. The noise thins. The alleys tighten. The city begins to whisper instead of perform.

Ravana with Shivlinga

It was October 2024. The sun had bowed out early, leaving behind a dusk that felt less like nightfall and more like suspension. We searched for a while and finally found an autorickshaw, asking to be taken to a temple. Which one, I can’t recall now. Perhaps it didn’t matter. The driver drove on, then stopped abruptly in front of a huge gate; imposing, shut, and utterly silent.

This already felt wrong.

Or right.

Mandodari (Original Click)

Beyond the gate lay a long ascent. Stone steps. Many of them. The kind that slow you down, force breath into awareness. We climbed, unsure of what awaited us at the top. The gate closed behind us. The city fell away. Inside the complex, the light was scarce. Shapes emerged before details did. I won’t lie; it was a little scary. The first space revealed itself as a Shiva temple. Low-lit. Almost reluctant to be seen. The Navagrahas stood nearby, each occupying their own quiet geometry. Other deities shared the space, coexisting without announcement. This wasn’t a temple that guided you. It expected you to pay attention.

Mandodari (AI-cleaned)

Kamlesh Kumar Dave, the priest, moved ahead of us; calm, unhurried; speaking softly about the Navagrahas, the temple, and the others. Then, without explanation, he gestured for us to follow.

We walked.

Lord Shiva Painting on Wall

A little away from the main temple. Further into the complex. And then the light disappeared entirely. Trust me; it felt spooky. There were no lamps. No bulbs. No illumination of any kind. Just darkness; complete, unnegotiated. We hesitated, then instinctively switched on our phone torches. Thin beams cut through the pitch black, revealing stone, walls, trees, garden paths… and silence.

Amarnath Jyotirlinga

And then; a temple in the dark.

Not announced.

Not framed.

Not lit.

Navgraha Chamber

Nearby, in a separate space, stood Mandodari; close, yet distinct. Present, but not imposed. Her placement felt intentional, like a quiet acknowledgment rather than a declaration.

Ram–Sita–Hanuman

Then we were led to what was genuinely thrilling: the temple.

A form of Ganesha believed to have come from Nepal

There we saw him; Ravana, the greatest devotee of Lord Shiva. Sitting in stillness, revealed only because we chose to look. Kneeling before a Shivling, holding a vessel in his hands, eternally pouring water in devotion. No aggression. No theatrical fury. Just surrender. Or so it seemed. The absence of light did something profound. It stripped the figure of spectacle. Without shadows dancing or gold catching the eye, what remained was intent. Devotion without performance.

Kamlesh ji spoke softly then.

This temple belongs to the Maudgil (Mudgil) Brahmins, who trace their lineage to Ravana himself. According to their belief, Ravana was married to Mandodari, daughter of the King of Mandore; the ancient capital of Marwar. In other words, Jodhpur is Ravana’s sasural.

Suddenly, geography reconfigured mythology. Lanka receded. Mandore advanced. Ravana stopped being a distant antagonist and became something far more unsettling; familiar. We had never been to a Ravana temple before. I later learned that there are said to be seven or eight such temples dedicated to the King of Lanka. But this one felt different; almost mythic. Undiscovered. Unspoken.

Ravana’s kuldevi, Kharanana Mata

Back in the Shiva temple were the others. The Amarnath Jyotirlinga. A form of Ganesha traced to Nepal. Ram. Sita. Hanuman. The Navagrahas. And a fierce goddess few outside this lineage know; Kharanana Mata, revered here as Ravana’s kuldevi.

India, where devotion isn’t linear.

Where belief refuses to choose sides.

Where mythology remains lived, layered, and unresolved.

Where gods aren’t separated by ideology, but held together by continuity.

Before we left, Kamlesh ji handed me two things; a Jyotish magazine and a small pamphlet about a museum he hopes to build someday. But the true offering had already been made.

Detours, we learned that night, are always worth it.

- Arin Paul. 

The House Where Pather Panchali Was Born: Gouri Kunjo, Ghatsila.

It was an early February morning in 2013. I stood before a quiet, modest house in Ghatsila, Jharkhand. Whitewashed walls, a red tiled roof, green shutters, a verandah with a locked iron gate. A house that looked ordinary — but held within it the extraordinary. This was Gouri Kunjo, the home of eminent author Bibhutibhushan Bandyopadhyay (12 September 1894 – 1 November 1950).

 

It was here, in these rooms, that he wrote Pather Panchali (Song of the Little Road, 1929). A novel that gave us not just a story, but an entire world. Apu and Durga — their joys, their hunger, their wonder at the simplest things — all first came alive within these very walls. Later, Satyajit Ray would immortalize them on screen, twenty-six years later. But the seed was planted here, in the silence of Ghatsila, in the solitude of a writer deeply attuned to the rhythms of rural Bengal.

 

When I visited, I wondered — what was it like in 1929? Rural Ghatsila, where literature and life blended so seamlessly that even cracked walls seemed to whisper fragments of prose. Ghatsila’s green silence outside; inside, the hum of memory and pen scratching paper. Perhaps it was in this very verandah that he paused, looked out, and dreamt of Nishchindipur.

 

Today, when I think of Pather Panchali, or watch Ray’s Apu Trilogy, I rarely stop to think of the room where it all began. And so, on his birth anniversary, I felt compelled to share.

Photo: Bibhutibhushan Bandyopadhyay with wife Rama Bandyopadhyay (Photo Courtesy: Trinankur Bandyopadhyay).

In the Heart of Darjeeling: Step Aside, Where Deshbandhu Chittaranjan Das Breathed His Last

On a recent trip to Darjeeling, I stumbled upon a house with a name that almost read like a metaphor — “Step Aside.” I paused. Read the board. Stood quietly.

Turns out, this was the place where Deshbandhu Chittaranjan Das — freedom fighter, reformer, political activist, lawyer and one of the strongest voices of the Swaraj movement — spent his last days. He passed away here on 16 June 1925, exactly 100 years ago today.

The house is also known as the Deshbandhu Museum now. It was closed when I went, so I could only take a few photos from the outside. But there was something about that quiet corner — almost as if the echoes of Mahatma Gandhi’s footsteps and C. R. Das’s final conversations were still hovering.

They say he invited Mahatma Gandhi here in his last days. They say they spoke of Swaraj, not knowing time was running out.

A century later, “Step Aside” still stands. Not just as a structure, but as a reminder — of service, sacrifice, and a life lived for something far greater than self.

I didn’t expect to find history that morning. But I did. And maybe that’s how we’re supposed to remember.

193 Years of Rebellion and Rabri: The Untold Story of a Barrackpore Mishtanna Bhandar

Tucked right opposite the Barrackpore railway station in West Bengal—where British boots once stomped and the 1857 rebellion simmered—stands a structure with peeling walls, exposed brickwork, oil-stained grills, and the faint aroma of kachori battling centuries of dust. Welcome to Satyanarayan Mishtanna Bhandar also known as Jalua Mishtanna Bhandar.

Established in 1832, a full 193 years ago, this sweet shop isn’t just old—it’s practically a relic. One that claims to have outlived empires, watched revolts unfold, and allegedly served the likes of Mohammad Rafi, Mukesh, and a few fleeting stars of Tollywood’s golden dusk.

Until recently, it didn't even bother with a nameboard—just word of mouth and the power of nostalgia. Now, a modest red signboard hangs above the arched entrance, as if reluctantly acknowledging the present while clinging to a stubborn past.

But here’s where things get... complicated.

Let’s address the rabri in the room.

Yes, it’s old. Yes, it’s legendary. But is it good?

Well, that depends on what you’re expecting.

If you arrive seeking a glorious bite of Bengal’s culinary heritage, you might be disappointed. The famed Dal-Kachori—once rumoured to have been a favourite of the late President of India, Shri Pranab Mukherjee—now feels like it’s running on memory rather than masala. Or as Akshay Kumar cheekily said in Hera Pheri: “Maine daal banaya hai. Agar kisi ko mil jaaye toh kha lena.”

The Rosogolla and Rabri—items that should hum with tradition—come off more like faded photos in a family album. You see what it was. But you don’t quite taste it.

Worse still, the unhygienic conditions are hard to ignore. The kitchen, soot-covered walls, oil that looks like it's been through several revolutions of its own, and a visible absence of basic cleanliness might unsettle even the most forgiving foodie. Romantic decay is one thing. Public health hazard is another.

Yet—and this is important—it still matters.

Because Satyanarayan Mishtanna Bhandar isn’t just a sweet shop. It’s a site of resistance, a culinary witness to the 1857 Sepoy Mutiny, a mute observer to colonial fury and indigenous rage.

Its chulha was probably burning when Mangal Pandey fired that first historic shot, mere footsteps away. The same stove might’ve seen freedom fighters, partition refugees, Naxalites, and the common commuter all break bread—or kachori—together. While no record places Pandey directly at the counter munching on kachori, the possibility simmers quietly, like rabri on a low flame.

In 2025, it serves not just food, but memory, however diluted. And while its flavours may have dimmed, its story hasn’t.

So, should you visit?

Absolutely—once. For the history. For the contradiction. For the faded echo of a Bengal that once stood tall and frying.

But maybe, just maybe, ‘eat somewhere else afterwards’.

Pice Hotel: A Slice of Kolkata in Mumbai

Recently, I was pleasantly surprised to discover a Pice Hotel — Shri Ganesh Prasad Hotel at Parel, Mumbai. A Bengali haven with authentic flavours, basic seating, and ridiculously low rates. It felt like stepping back in time, where good food didn’t need fancy decor or a hefty price tag.

 

Pice Hotels are a unique and historic dining tradition that began in Kolkata, India, over a century ago. The name "Pice Hotel" comes from the old Indian currency "Pice," a small denomination that stood for affordability. These hotels were originally set up during the British colonial period to serve the working-class population — office-goers, students, and travellers. A “Pice Hotel” simply meant a place where you could enjoy a hearty meal without spending much.

 

Fish Thali

Despite their simple setup — basic seating, handwritten menus, and a focus on fresh, traditional Bengali cuisine — Pice Hotels have a charm of their own. The food is the hero here, with dishes like fish curry, dal, rice, and a variety of Bengali delicacies served on banana leaves or metal plates. It’s all about authentic flavours, made fresh and served with no fuss.

 

Chicken Thali

Over the years, modern restaurants and cafes have come up everywhere, but Pice Hotels still hold a special place. They are more than just places to eat — they are a taste of the past, a reminder of a time when dining out was about good food, not fancy decor.

 

Finding a Pice Hotel in Mumbai was like finding a piece of Kolkata far from home. It reminded me that good food doesn’t need to be expensive, and true flavours don’t need to be complicated. They just need to be real.

(All photos in this album are from Shri Ganesh Prasad Hotel, a classic Pice Hotel in Parel, Mumbai.)