23.871914 N 85.305774 E


In Hazaribagh, between the hills of Barkagaon and Charhi lies a small valley carved by Domuhani river.

Or maybe it’s a different river – no one can tell for sure. Placid in winter after the exuberance of monsoon, the river pushes through its own creation as an association of small streams, and as the plateau of Hazaribagh drops into the trough of Damodar, the water descends the escarpment – part in cascades and part in a sheer fall. The legend says that often, bulls would fall with the water too.

No road goes here for tourists, and for an explorer it's easy to lose way if not helped first by a visibly concerned tractor driver who takes you the farthest to his abilities, and says, if you find the place, take those photos and leave quickly. Then, by an unassuming man living in one of the last huts before the rocks appear, and who hesitates, in a post-demonetized country, to accept money in exchange for his guidance.

When an Alto travels through the valley, people look at its occupants surprised, taken aback by the audacious presence of townsmen, who, for the past four days have scanned their land living by a lake back home in Google Earth projections.

Quietly and through their eyes, they wish them luck and hope that they find whatever it is that their minds have set out to uncover. What would it be, if not a stream of peace?

*