The narrow trail between the mountains twisted and turned like a secret whispered by the earth. For a few kilometres, there was concrete; then suddenly, the path turned broken and uneven, interrupted now and then by potholes that had long stopped pretending to be road, only to become smooth and jet black again a little further ahead. Riding a motorbike through these hilly paths during the late evening, I had never imagined it could be so enchanting, so quietly mesmerizing. It was the end of February. The chill in the hilly breeze pierced straight through the tiny gaps around my spectacles, the only part of me exposed. The rest of my body was layered in a woollen sweater, a thick scarf, and a jacket. I sat quietly on the back seat, holding on. Above us, the sky stretched open, clear, wide, and deep, dotted with stars and constellations I could actually see for once. Not a trace of cloud dared interrupt it. The pine trees along the road swayed slowly in the wind, like they were trying to reach the sky with no rush, just a sacred rhythm. Sukanta Bhaina kept talking, sharing stories of his early days in the locality, about how he and Kalyani Bhauja had moved here soon after their marriage. His eyes, however, never left the narrow strip of light thrown by the motorbike’s headlamp. Suddenly, far off on a distant mountain slope, I noticed a flicker, a tiny patch of light. Curious, I asked. Bhaina smiled and said, “Nah, not a village. It’s a crop field. Farmers stay there at night to guard their harvest. That must be a small fire they’ve lit.” Everything, the ride, the stories, the jungle, the wind, the darkness felt new to me. At times, I was completely immersed in the soundscape: the wind’s music, the rustling of leaves, the occasional sharp cry of insects, and the soft hum of the motorbike engine. Bhaina kept warning me not to uncover my face, but I couldn’t help it. I pulled down the scarf. I wanted to feel the wind raw and direct on my skin and I wanted to fill my soul with the delicate, intoxicating fragrance of Kandhamal’s blooming mango flowers.
Like most of the time, this trip was also made in a hurry. February was about to end. Instead of saying that winter was about to leave my land, I would rather say that summer was trying to enter at its full pace. Though the nights were still longer and lazy, our blankets had already started taking their nap inside the cabinets. It was an usual Wednesday evening. I had planned to go to bed early, as I had morning duty the next day. While I was replying to a few pending messages, I got a sudden call from a senior, he wanted to swap hospital duties for the coming week as he had to attend a training programme. That meant I had no hospital duty for the next five days. At first, I smiled. “Nice,” I thought. I’ll sit quietly and finish those half-written stories. I planned to sleep the next morning, guilt-free. I tugged my quilt up to my shoulders and tried to drift into sleep. But sleep didn’t arrive. My mind, instead, reached for my phone. Scroll. Scroll. And then, Google Maps. A name lit up on the screen: ‘Daringbadi’. My fingertips paused. I checked the distance. The roads. The weather forecast. Something about the name, the air around it, whispered ‘go’. And in that moment, a plan silently took shape and sanctioned itself in my head. So we’re going to Daringbadi, Kandhamal. Tomorrow. And now, as we ride through these winding mountain roads under this wide, star-drenched sky, with this cold breeze brushing against my face, I feel genuinely thankful for that quiet, random moment. That moment of restlessness. That one decision that brought me here, five hours away from my home, and somewhere so much closer to myself! And somewhere in that stretch between Daringbadi and Raikia, in the singing silence of the evening, I found myself wishing I could take a print of every single moment, fold it gently, and keep it forever between the pages of my life.
It was around 2010–2011 when Daringbadi quietly slipped into the news, this time not for its hills or pines, but for something no one expected: snowfall. Despite being nestled within the arms of the Eastern Ghats, Odisha has always been seen as a tropical state, warm, humid, sun-kissed. So when snow graced the highlands of Kandhamal, it didn’t just surprise people it felt like a small miracle. The phenomenon returned to headlines in the winters of 2014 and 2015, when temperatures dipped as low as – 0.5°C and 2°C, frosting rooftops and fields, turning early mornings into whispered dreams of Kashmir, but in Odisha’s own quiet language. Since then, almost every winter, we’d talk about it, plan a trip, imagine the mist, picture ourselves wrapped in woollens and sipping tea under Daringbadi’s cold sun. But each time, something or the other would come in between, work, time, hesitation. Until February of 2025, when the mountains finally called, and we finally listened.
The land here breathes differently. Kandhamal, carved gently into the lap of the Eastern Ghats, rises and dips like an old song. Sung slowly, line by line, in green and stone. Daringbadi, perched at over 3000 feet above sea level, feels like the sigh between verses, cool, clear, lingering. The air is always touched with something, the mist, breeze or the soft scent of pine and turmeric. The climate, even in February, carries a mild chill that wraps itself around your fingertips and settles quietly on your cheeks. Summers are forgiving here, and winters, oh, they arrive like a soft hymn, sometimes humming with frost, sometimes even dropping little pearls of snow on the sleepy ground. Everywhere you look, there is green. Not just trees, but stories. Pine, sal, mahua, turmeric shrubs, bamboo, wildflowers, they grow not to impress, but to belong. The forests are home to a shy kind of wilderness: leopards, spotted deer, giant squirrels, porcupines, and birds that sing only if you truly listen. Waterfalls hide within these forests like well-kept secrets. They don’t roar, they whisper. Whether it’s Putudi, Midubanda, or one of the unnamed ones, each carries the sound of old rocks and younger dreams. You don’t just see them, you feel them cool your thoughts. And the hills, they are never distant. They walk beside you. They change colours with the sun, disappear with the fog, and return with the stars.
It’s not just the colours of the mountains or the silence of the trees that take you by surprise. It’s the way Kandhamal holds its cultural contradictions gently. It’s the way Kandhamal lets its contrasts live side by side, not because there’s no conflict, but because the land knows how to carry them together, still breathing, still standing. In one place, you might find a Kandha tribal family bowing reverently before a bare stone beneath a sal tree, offering flowers, rice and silence. And just a few bends away, you’ll stumble upon a majestic church, its cross rising like a quiet prayer above the forest canopy. What fascinated me most was the presence of an old church built in 1931–32, near Mandasaru. Even today, the roads to Kandhamal remain stiff and unpredictable, the ghats often under repair, shifting like the landscape itself. And yet almost a century ago, people had travelled through dense, roadless jungle, on foot or by bullock cart, carrying nothing but faith and determination, to build not just churches, but schools, hospitals, and communities that still breathe. And when you stand before the statue of Mother Mary near that quiet, timeworn church, your heart full of questions about effort, sacrifice, and purpose, she responds with the softest smile. The kind of smile that nature wears at every turn in Kandhamal. A smile that says; “you don’t need to understand everything, just feel it.” But if churches are one facet of Kandhamal’s soul, then its festivals are the fire. Especially during Meru or Danda Jatra, the air itself feels enchanted. Colours explode. Movements blur into trance. You don’t blink. You can’t. Your mind slows down, almost numb, trying to hold on to everything at once. That’s exactly how I felt, speechless, utterly silenced, as we crossed Kalinga Ghati. If you ever plan to visit Daringbadi, pause at Kalinga Ghati. Don’t rush. Don’t speak. Just stand still. Slowly turn your head from left to right. Watch the hills breathing. Let the cool breeze touch your face, your skin, your thoughts. Don’t close your eyes. Don’t click a photo. Just look. That moment will be more than enough.
After crossing Kalinga Ghati and entering G. Udayagiri, my mobile network quietly vanished. At first, it felt irritating even concerning. But believe me, over the next three days, it became one of the most precious gifts Kandhamal offered me. No phone calls, no notifications, no blinking screens, only the presence of hills, quiet streams, unfamiliar plants, and the changing moods of the sky.
Our first stop was Raikia. After a bit of refreshment and a warm lunch, we continued toward Mandasaru. Locally known as ‘Kutti’, Mandasaru means a deep slope or gorge – and it truly is that. A silent, breath-holding kind of depth that humbles even the air around it. It doesn’t announce itself like a canyon or roar like a river. It simply exists, vast, ancient, unmoved, and sacred. When you stand before it for the first time, something inside you pauses. Not out of fear, but reverence. A small eco-cottage stands near the edge. Modest, wooden, and perfectly in sync with the forest. The rooms are clean, the meals simple and warm, and the people carry the quiet kindness of the hills in their voices. Just beside it, there’s a small park, not trimmed or overly manicured, but natural, like a meadow that grew around laughter and stillness. Then came the echo point, a sudden burst of joy in this otherwise meditative space. Being the youngest in the group, I was naturally chosen to test it. With half-embarrassed courage, I called out something silly. A pause. And then, as if the hills had been waiting all day just for this, my voice came back, playful and clear. We laughed, the kind of laughter that spills out of you and bounces around until it finds a place to rest inside your chest. They say Mandasaru changes with every season, and I understand that now. In the rains, clouds sink so low, you feel them wrap around your face. You don’t just walk through them, you carry them with you, long after. The forest sings differently when it’s wet, and the earth beneath smells sweeter, deeper. Even silence, here, feels alive; soft, textured, breathing beside you. Near the park, a few local women sell fresh mulberries (Tut berries) in little leaf bowls, still warm from the sun and cool from the breeze. Their hands, stained purple, hold out the fruit with a kind of pride that doesn’t need words. One bite, and you know – it’s not just fruit. It’s a piece of the mountain. And then, if you walk further down into the Kutti, another marvel waits quietly. The hidden ‘Piso Glundu’ waterfall. They say monsoon is the best time to witness it (and isn’t that always true for waterfalls?), but the path is not easy. No vehicles can reach it. You have to step off the road, into the green, into the wild, letting the forest claim your pace. But once you reach it… oh, once you reach it….. the weariness dissolves. You dip your feet into the water and feel your worries leave you, one by one. The coldness doesn’t shock; it heals. You sit there, saying nothing, just listening to the water falling, the forest humming, and your own thoughts finally quieting down.
Our visit to Mandasaru ended with steaming sips of coffee, warm, strong, and just perfect for a tired, cool evening. But what made it truly special wasn’t just the flavour. It was the story in the cup. The coffee had been grown right here in Kandhamal, harvested from the quiet, mist-wrapped slopes of Daringbadi, about 20 km away. Spread across nearly 50 hectares, the Daringbadi Coffee Garden lies under the filtered light of silver oak trees, where Arabica coffee thrives in the cool, shaded conditions. Alongside the coffee bushes, slender black pepper vines curl gracefully around the tree trunks, a companion crop that adds both aroma and livelihood to these forest farms. The plantation, managed by the Soil Conservation Department, has long been nurtured by local tribal communities, who treat the land not just as farmland, but as inheritance, something sacred, something quiet.
By the time we left Mandasaru, the sun had already dipped behind the mountain at the far western edge of the valley. The sky in that direction wore soft layers of faint yellow, melting into orange, then fading into red, like a slow exhale at the end of a long day. The birds were in a hurry now, darting toward the trees with scattered chirps, finding their way back to stillness. The last rays of sunlight had already slipped off the Date palm leaves, leaving them in a quiet silhouette. I stood there, trying to catch it all, the colours, the hush, the disappearing light through the lens of my camera. Just then, Bhaina smiled and said, “Don’t worry… the final stop of this trip is going to be the Sunset Point of Daringbadi. That view will live in your memory for the rest of your life.” I looked at him, surprised and a little thrilled. None of the travel reviews I had read, none of the friends who had visited Daringbadi, had ever mentioned this place. It felt like a secret the hills had kept for us. And yes, on the last day of our journey, Bhaina took us there. The Sunset Point is perched on a small hilltop, quietly sitting above the town’s gaze. The road to reach it isn’t easy. Unpaved, dusty, and steep, with loose stones scattered like forgotten steps. There’s no constructed path yet, just a raw trail leading up, as if the mountain itself invites only those who truly wish to witness something rare. The road that leads there is rough, loose, sandy soil, scattered stones, a steep incline that tests your grip, as if the hill itself wishes to know how much you really want to reach the top. And yet, once you do, it all dissolves. Because what stands in front of you is not just a view, it’s a painting still in the making. A small, open platform has been built at the peak, simple and metallic, with stairs that let you rise just a little higher to catch the sky in its full breath. From here, the world lies stretched out like a vast canvas. Rolling hills overlapping into the horizon, their edges dipped gently in shadow. The sun, now nearing its end for the day, hangs low and round, golden at first, then slipping into orange, and finally sinking into a red so soft it feels like the mountain is blushing. You don’t need filters here. You don’t need angles. You just need eyes wide open and a heart that’s willing to pause. As the light melts down the slopes and the air cools your skin, time slows. You notice the last golden highlights on the treetops, the quiet reflection in faraway ponds, the winding roads below now turning blue with shadow. People around you talk softly, some take pictures, some just stand still, letting the moment hold them. And somewhere inside you, something settles. Something you didn’t know needed settling. It’s not famous on travel sites. Most don’t even know it exists. But Sunset Point in Daringbadi doesn’t try to impress you. It just opens itself slowly, patiently like the hills of Kandhamal always do and waits for you to notice.
If you’ve planned to visit Daringbadi in search of wild, untouched nature, expecting only the sound of streams, dense forest, and the hush of solitude, then pause for a moment. Because what once felt like a quiet secret of the Eastern Ghats has, in recent years, emerged as one of Odisha’s most sought-after hill destinations. The rising wave of travellers, curious feet, and selfie sticks has slowly transformed parts of Daringbadi into something more familiar, a little busier, a little louder, and a little more like the cities people came here to escape. With this growing attention, Daringbadi has bloomed into a small yet bustling tourist centre, complete with hotels, eco-resorts, parks, and food stalls tucked at every scenic bend. From family-run stays to government-supported Nature Camps, the options now suit every kind of traveller, whether you seek warm cottage stays, group tours, or quiet hill-view corners for reading and writing. There are resorts like Panacea Eco Retreat, Deers Eco Home, and a handful of budget-friendly hotels in the town’s heart, catering to both wanderers and comfort-seekers. A few even offer guided treks, bonfires, and local food as part of the experience. While some places still carry the softness of the hills in their hospitality, a few have grown into more commercial setups, buzzing with lights, music, and check-in desks. To accommodate this growing love, parks like Hill View Park and Butterfly Nature Park have been carved into the land, places where children can run, couples can sit, and families can gaze out over valleys without straying far from the car. The parks are neat and inviting, but if you’re someone who listens for the raw pulse of the forest, you may still feel a quiet longing for the days before the benches and railings arrived. Still, Daringbadi hasn’t lost its soul, it’s just learning to share it. And if there’s one place that still holds that original magic, it’s the pine jungle. Tucked quietly on the edge of the town, this forest stands tall and still, towering pine trees, their trunks painted faint white at the bottom, whispering to one another in the wind. The path through them isn’t paved or polished. It crunches beneath your shoes, soft with dry needles and the occasional fallen cone. The light filters in like a faded photograph, yellow, slanting, and sacred. The air smells different here. Not of tourists or traffic, but of resin, soil, and something older than language. But not just this pine forest, Daringbadi and its surrounding pockets still hold on to pieces of raw nature, quietly preserved for those who come not to consume, but to feel. There are corners untouched by advertisements or itineraries, waiting for someone to simply notice. As a voracious traveller, I would only whisper one humble suggestion to every reader: be a slow driver. Don’t rush. Let the road lead you through layers of mountains, past trees blushing in flower, and along faces of strangers walking home with stories in their silence. It’s the journey, not the checklist, that will paint your heart in deeper colours. You might, without warning, spot a wild stream cutting through the hills, unnamed, untagged, untouched. Halt there. Walk along it. Take off your shoes. Let your feet greet the wet stones, let your palms graze the breeze. Lie down on bare grasslands, feel the sun on your skin, hear the earth hum underneath. Watch the trees leaning toward you like old friends, look up through the branches, follow the birds and bees and let every sense you own be claimed by Kandhamal. Keep your eyes, ears, nose, and soul open and let nature pour its nectar into you.
Kandhamal is not just a destination, it’s a feeling that lingers long after the trip ends. A valley that calls you back, again and again, with the same tenderness each time. As I left, I carried its scent in my scarf, its silence in my breath, and a quiet promise in my heart, to return. On our way back, as we reached G. Udayagiri, the network on my mobile blinked back to life. A flood of missed calls and WhatsApp messages poured in, reminders of a world that had waited outside the hills. I slipped the phone quietly into the side pocket of my handbag and looked out of the window. There, in a field by the roadside, stood a huge mahua tree, its branches heavy with buds. Bou (my Mom) pointed toward them, her eyes soft. As I watched the reddish-brown tender leaves, I heard her murmur a prayer, not to me, but to the land itself: “May this land, with all its wild grace and sacred stillness, stay untouched by human greed. May its forests remain dense, its waters pure, and its people rooted.”
And if you ever wish to meet nature in its truest form come to Kandhamal. But come gently.
