Bastar calling

If you were planning a holiday in India, Bastar likely wouldn’t make the list. It may not even crack the top 100 — and understandably so. The region has endured decades of conflict, bloodshed, and neglect. There are far more picturesque or accessible destinations. But that’s precisely what makes Bastar so surprising.

Long infamous as part of India’s Red Corridor, Bastar is only now opening up to curious travellers.

Located in Chhattisgarh, Bastar’s gateway is the Maa Danteshwari Airport at Jagdalpur. Our first stop was the modest Maa Danteshwari Temple within the old palace premises — not to be confused with the larger Shaktipeeth at Dantewada. This temple is at the centre of Bastar’s famed 75-day Dasara celebrations, where a giant wooden chariot crafted by tribal artisans carries the goddess through the streets, symbolising tribal unity.

Bastar was once a princely state founded in the 13th century by Annamaraja, brother of Kakatiya ruler Prataparudra II. It’s believed the goddess Danteshwari herself blessed the kingdom, hence her patronage. We couldn’t explore the palace as it was being whitewashed for the titular king’s wedding, but we managed a glimpse into the main audience hall and even spotted H H Maharaja Kamal Chandra Bhanj Deo stepping out. We wished him well.

The next morning began at the local archaeological museum, home to intricate Bastar Dhokra metal figurines. Then we headed to Chhotebodal village to stay at the Bastar Tribal Homestay run by the ever-resourceful Shakeel Rizvi. The homestay lies close to the villages of the Gondi, Dhurwa, and Bhatra tribes. Shakeel bhai, fluent in local languages, acted as both cultural translator and guide, ensuring our interactions were respectful and immersive. We first visited a Dhurwa village, where we stopped by an Anganwadi. The cook was dressed in traditional Dhurwa attire, and Shakeel explained the differences in draping styles, tattoos, and jewellery between tribes. We continued to the village shaman’s house, where a ritual was underway. The shaman’s movements were wild and entrancing. A fellow traveller sought healing advice, and through Shakeel’s translation, received a response steeped in mysticism.

From there, we journeyed into the forest to the Gond village of Gudiya Par. Villagers welcomed us with a cleansing water ritual, followed by tilak, garlands, and a slow dance procession into the village. I was paired with Ramsheela, a Class 12 student dreaming of city life. We bonded quickly, our awkward conversation punctuated by shy smiles and laughter.

Lunch was a revelation — served in sal leaf bowls, it included sautéed wild greens, bottle gourd sabzi, rice, dal, and the most flavourful wedge of lime I’ve ever tasted. One of the Gond women there had worked in Hyderabad and spoke Telugu. She recalled enjoying her time in the city, but said life was better in the village, for the air, the water, and the peace.

Later, by a stream, the villagers sang for us while we soaked our feet. Back at the house, the men brought down a red ant nest. The matriarch calmly gathered the angry ants into a basket with her bare hands. We each tried carrying the basket — none of us lasted a minute. The trick, we were told, is to keep tapping the basket to prevent the ants from biting. Around a fire, we watched as the ants were cleaned, roasted in a sal leaf packet, and pounded with ginger, chillies, and spices to make the famous red ant chutney. Popcorn was popped in a clay pot stirred with a broom. The ant chutney, served with popcorn, was crunchy and tangy, though I couldn’t quite finish my share. Some mental blocks are hard to shed. That evening, we helped pound rice into flour, watched the cows return from the forest, and visited a memorial pillar outside the village. These structures, made of wood, stone, or concrete, depict a deceased person’s life story. One even had an ambulance painted on it — a nod to its subject’s cancer treatment, and proof that even traditions evolve.

The next morning, we visited Maheshji, a local Dokra artist. As he worked on a tree-of-life sculpture, he asked us endless questions about our lives and cities. His wife, meanwhile, showed us jewellery she had crafted using glass beads and Dokra pendants. His curiosity about us matched ours about him. We then headed to Nangur Haat, a weekly tribal market. The air buzzed with energy and aromas — dried fish, mahua flowers, Salfi beer. At one stall, men sold Salfi in shared steel lotas. Thanks to Shakeel’s advice, we carried our own glasses. The haat was a visual feast — women from different tribes wore distinctive sarees, hairstyles, and jewellery. I’m afraid I stared more than I should have.

That afternoon, we reached Dhurwa Dera Homestay near Kanger Valley National Park, a serene stay run by a Dhurwa family. Dinner was simple — rice, dal, and a sabzi, all cooked with minimal oil and served in sal leaf bowls. We sat around a fire in the cool forest night. At dawn, a registered local guide — also the homestay owner’s brother — took us to the nearby Kanger Dhara, a pristine waterfall we had entirely to ourselves. He was training to be a naturalist and excitedly told us about the local flora and fauna. On our return, we watched a Salfi tapper collect sap and even got a taste of the fresh, milky beer. Next, we explored the Kotumsar limestone caves, known for their eerie stalactite formations and a species of albino, blind fish — evolution in real time. Our final stop was the dramatic Chitrakote Falls, the “Niagara of India.” We stayed at a government resort overlooking the river, ending our trip with a dawn boat ride to the base of the falls. In just a few days, Bastar offered so much culture, nature, warmth, and wisdom. The smiles of the villagers, their generous hospitality, and the patience of our guides made the region feel not remote, but intimate. Bastar doesn’t promise luxury, but it rewards you with something far more lasting: the joy of slowing down and rediscovering the simple pleasures of life.