Ajodhya Pahar: Where The Hills Meet Serenity (Part 2)

 

Day two began with a gentler pace and a mesmerising view of the sunrise from my hotel room window, as if the hills had already decided I no longer needed to be tested.

My first stop was Marble Lake, a striking stretch of azure-blue water tucked amid pale stone and rugged terrain. Unlike the larger dams, this lake appeared breathtakingly ethereal. The water lay utterly still — not even a gentle lap-lap could be heard — framed by smooth, light-coloured rock that resembled marble slabs, catching the daylight softly. The surface reflected the cloudless sky with glass-like clarity, creating a quiet illusion of depth and calm. Standing there, surrounded by raw stone and silence, I felt as though the land itself was reminding me that the most beautiful things are often found hidden from view.

From Marble Lake, I moved towards Bamni Falls, a majestic waterfall concealed within dense greenery. The descent itself was surprisingly even, marked by well-cut stone steps — more than five hundred of them — bordered by laterite soil and forest undergrowth. The maestoso roar of the water announced the falls long before they came into view — loud, dramatic, steady, and persistent. The cascade thundered over layered rock, forming small freshwater pools below. The air here turned cooler, heavier with moisture, and the untouched surroundings lent the falls a secluded, almost mystical presence.

My journey continued further to Ghagkocha Falls, a lesser-known waterfall where the landscape grew more rugged and raw. Unlike the carefully stepped descent at Bamni, the approach here felt untamed. Darker rocks, uneven terrain along an elevated forest path, and the quiet force of water carving its own way through the land gave the place a wild, uncompromising character. The sound of the falls was softer, less insistent, echoing gently through the surrounding forest before emptying into a nearby glazed lake. Standing there, I was reminded that nature always finds a way to soothe even the harshest of wounds.

Later in the day, the road softened as my hired vehicle entered Mukhoshgram, a village that seemed to exist in quiet rhythm with the land around it. Modest houses stood close to the earth, pathways bore the marks of everyday life, and fields stretched calmly in the distance. Yet here, attention was drawn not by scenery alone but by craft. Mukhoshgram is known for its Chhau masks, and the village unfolded like a living gallery of faces, colours, and expressions. It felt like a whirlwind of masks — fierce, graceful, mythical. I found myself unable to decide what to buy, lingering instead to admire the exquisite handwork of these simple, honest, hardworking artisans. Passing through Mukhoshgram felt deeply grounding — a reminder that simplicity is often lived, not sought.

Almost every stop along the way — from waterfalls to hilltops — was gently framed by rows of makeshift shops. Modest stalls selling stone curios, wooden trinkets, local crafts, and small souvenirs lined the entrances, as though the land itself had learned to share pieces of its memory with those who passed through.

This much-needed journey drew to a close at Pakhi Pahar, where carved stone birds emerged from the hillside as if shaped by time itself. Etched directly into the rocks, the sculptures felt less like art and more like silent witnesses to the forest’s memory. As twilight softened their outlines, the hill seemed to fall into a quiet hush — watchful, enduring, complete.

By the end of Day 2, Ajodhya Pahar no longer felt like a destination to be explored. It felt like a living presence — one that revealed itself slowly through water and stone, forests and star-lit nights, through villages and silence. The hills had stopped asking me questions. They simply opened their arms, allowing me to be.