Our car meandered down a forgotten road, like a fawn hesitantly exploring the forest. This was the path we’d always bypassed, victims of hasty planning and sudden whims. But today, a twist of fate, or perhaps a touch of serendipity, led to this archaeological site, as the signpost suggested, an artifact of a forgotten quest we’d often dreamt of pursuing. It stood defiant, a silent sentinel against the relentless tide of our forgetfulness. Today, however, its call wouldn’t be ignored.
With hearts racing in anticipation, we got out of the car, and there it was – a vista straight out of a forgotten epic. The ruins, bathed in an ethereal glow, whispered tales of a bygone era. Crumbling arches hinted at grand entrances, and moss-covered stones spoke of forgotten grandeur. It was a scene that could ignite the imagination, a portal to a world shrouded in mystery.
But for now, we chose a different path, leaving the silent storyteller to beckon us back later. We spied a man standing near a vast, shimmering pond. As if sensing our unspoken desire, he approached, his eyes sparkling with a tale waiting to be told. Eagerly, we hung on to his every word, a thirst for knowledge quenched with each sentence.
He spoke of the King ,his voice imbued with reverence for this forgotten ruler. The ruins, he revealed, were the remnants of a glorious fort, a testament to the King’s glory. But beyond the might, there was compassion. The two ponds, the one before us being the “Bara Sagara,” were built by the King for the well-being of his people. Their primitive knowledge of water management by modern standards still ensured that the ponds never went dry as both the ponds were interlinked to capture rain water and provided water, fish, fruits even in the peak of summer. My father-in-law’s tales whisper of a time when Southern Odisha’s Kings, like guardians, protected life-giving ponds. As the scorching sun threatened, they dug deeper, their resolve mirroring the ancient banyan trees. This unearthed earth, imbued with the region’s spirit, became the potter’s canvas, molded into beautiful vessels with each spin of the wheel. The man’s words painted a vivid picture – a benevolent ruler, a majestic fort, and a life-sustaining water source, all woven into a string of pearls .
Fueled by this newfound knowledge, we decided to return to the ruins, yearning to hear the stories etched in stones. As we approached, a figure emerged from the shadows – a solitary priest, his weathered face beaten with the passage of time. He sat quietly beside a Durga temple, seemingly a guardian spirit of the forgotten past. What tale would he weave for us, we wondered, as he gazed at us …
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