THE RAJBARI BAWALI
A river runs through it
Priyam Biswas, 15th November 2025
My personal travel philosophy is simple: I either travel first class, or I do not travel at all. And if I am being honest, my desire to someday own a Martin D18 guitar easily defeats the idea of spending on an expensive getaway. That guitar, by the way, gets pricier every year — making it the perfect excuse to avoid trips. But this time, the excuse collapsed.
Spectacularly.
We were to receive the trophy of Skål International Sustainable Tourism Award 2025 in the communications category — a proud moment for The Asian Footprints, our not-for-profit publication. The main ceremony held in September at Cusco, Peru (far too expensive for my Martin-loving heart), but a felicitation and trophy handover ceremony was organised at The Rajbari Bawali by Skål International India & Skål International Kolkata.
My wife looked at me with her “I’m-not-negotiating” eyes. “You have to go.” Every married man knows this tone. Even the bravest warriors have fallen before it. I surrendered. Plus, there was a discount on the stay. A massive discount. That made it easier to convince my inner philosopher, who insists that true travel must feel luxurious.
And The Rajbari Bawali was promised to be nothing less.
THE ARRIVAL
The drive took under an hour — we started from Kolkata, the capital of the eastern state of West Bengal of India. The destination is about 35 kms to the south direction. Except for a short 500-metre stretch, the journey was smooth and blessedly free of traffic.
Two women in traditional aatpoure saree (Bengali attire for women) greeted us with a boron dala — the quintessential Bengali ceremony where guests are welcomed as Gods. The moment was simple, sincere, and strangely grounding.
From the outside, The Rajbari Bawali looks humble. Too humble. But the grandeur hides inside.
A valet took our car. At the reception, we were handed our room key along with a note:
Sandhya-Aarati (evening prayer) at 6 pm. Guests are requested to attend. Fireworks and dance to follow.
I was ready to walk to the room, but the receptionist insisted on assigning a porter.
“We don’t have enough luggage,” I objected — internally thrilled to finally find something to criticise.
She still insisted.
The porter insisted.
We insisted back.
A polite stalemate.
Eventually, the porter simply smiled and said, “Please follow me.” Within one minute, I realised why he insisted.
The reception building was merely the tip of the estate. Behind it unfolded a world — a pond with a fountain, manicured lawns, cottages tucked into quiet corners, a swimming pool, performance areas, a gym, a sprawling dining hall, winding walkways, birds’ nests, leafy alcoves, and more Instagrammable spots than I could count.
Actually, scratch that — every square foot is Instagrammable.
We finally reached a cluster of just four cottage style rooms, cocooned in greenery. Our room was a time capsule — the royal era preserved with crisp finesse. The korikath ceiling beams, the king-size bed, and a pristine laal-paar gorod saree (red border white Bengali attire for women) stretched high above to soften the sunlight — everything reminded me of childhood afternoons spent under my mother’s aanchal (loose end of the saree signifying mother’s love and protection).
I was sold. Completely.
The bathroom was modern yet aesthetic — sustainable products, clean lines, warm lighting. No bathtub, thankfully. My wife’s love for bathtubs is dangerous; she has a history of falling in them, and I have a history of rescuing her.
EVENING AT THE THAKUR DALAN
As evening approached, we dressed in traditional attire and headed out. The distant thrum of dhaak, kanshor-ghonta, and chants floated through the air.
The nighttime transformation of the estate was magical. Lights glowed softly along the pathways. And then I noticed something extraordinary: the trees had not been pruned to make way for humans. Instead, the branches that jutted into the path were gently padded with cushioned cloth.
Who does that?
Who cares for a tree branch?
The Rajbari Bawali does.
The Thakur Dalan glowed — heritage columns, exposed brick, flickering lights, chairs arranged methodically. The evening prayer was serene, familiar, and almost cinematic.
A dance performance followed, along with a beautifully made film about The Rajbari Bawali, narrating the remarkable history of the Mondol family legacy - dating back over 300 years. Their connection to Akbar the Great, Maharajah Sawai Man Singh of Jaipur, and Shoba Ram Rai painted a fascinating portrait of Bengal’s feudal past, flourishing through Mughal alliances, and eventually falling into ruin after independence. The estate had once been used for film shoots and even a makeshift movie theatre.
And yet, someone had seen beauty in the ruins. Someone had brought it back to life.
Someone with taste. And heart. I did not know then that I would meet that someone.
Fireworks lit up the sky. For a moment, I felt like Chhabi Biswas in Jalsaghar (The Music Room). (If you have not watched this Satyajit Ray cult classic, you absolutely must.)
RAIN, MUSIC & A STRANGER
A young guitarist and a vocalist began performing, but rain interrupted their set. Most guests shifted to the covered area. I did not mind — I stood listening to the rain, the cicadas, the hissing pond, the earthy smell of petrichor. Nature has its own orchestra.
When the rain subsided, the band resumed. A few Skalleagues joined them. I stayed at a distance — networking terrifies me. I do not drink either, so I was even more out of place.
While staring at the fountain in the pond, someone tapped my shoulder.
“You’re drinking water, aren’t you?” he asked, smiling. I nodded.
He asked if I owned a travel agency. I explained about Whitehat Media and The Asian Footprints. He asked for my Instagram handle.
Panic.
I began scanning the place for my wife.
But the conversation flowed. He spoke about how the estate was a ruin fifteen years ago. He was not trying to sell anything. He was simply a man who loved the place. I liked him instantly.
He walked away politely.
My wife approached. “I was looking for you! Someone just asked for our Instagram handle. We will have to upload our work soon…” She stopped me mid-sentence.
“Do you know who you were talking to?” I shook my head. “That’s Mr. Ajay Rawla — the owner.” My jaw dropped.
Before I could recover, our names were announced. We received the Skål International Sustainable Tourism Awards 2025 trophy as an Indian entry to the global competition. All Skål members call themselves Skålleagues, my wife is one. So, I was sweetly called “Mr.” to my wife’s name - we all broke in laughter! A proud moment — for us, and for The Asian Footprints as Skål International India President Mr. Sanjeev Mehra and Skål International Kolkata President Mr. Amin Asghar together handed over the trophy to both of us in the presence of distinguished Skålleagues of Kolkata. Thank you is a small word for Mr. NSN Mohan, the first Indian President Elect 2027 of Skål International, who received the trophy on our behalf at Cusco, Peru, and brought it to India.
Dinner was exquisite. I behaved myself and did not embarrass my wife by overeating.
MORNING MAGIC
The next morning, sunlight filtered through the draped saree overhead. I woke up earlier than usual — something unheard of. The room felt peaceful, almost sacred.
Outside, a hummingbird was building a nest right in front of me. She did not flinch at my presence. She simply worked, confident that she was safe here.
Soft strains of Rabindra Sangeet drifted through the air. I followed the music to find a group of musicians performing purely for the joy of it.
As I explored, every staff member greeted me with a smile. I learned that over 300 locals work here — some now managers with MBA degrees, empowered by the estate’s revival. No wonder everyone on the road had guided us warmly.
Breakfast included a stellar five-star spread, but I surrendered to my weakness — luchi-torkari. Served piping hot from the kadhai, each luchi was a puff of heaven.
I visited the local temple, chatted with villagers, and watched a nervous groom pose awkwardly during a pre-wedding photoshoot.
THE CURIOUS CASE OF DISAPPEARING NARU
Before we left for lunch, something unexpectedly tender happened — the kind of moment that stays with you long after a trip ends.
Two women stood near the gate with a plate of narkel naru (tradition Bengali sweet used for festive purposes), ready to bid us goodbye in the most Bengali way possible — with sweetness and affection. My wife, who is famously diabetic only when it comes to doctor’s prescriptions and not when it comes to sweets, had already finished one by the time I reached the gate. But the moment she saw me, she arranged her face into perfect innocence, as if she had been patiently waiting for me to arrive so we could take the treats together!
As I reached for my naru, she too stretched out her hands — wide-eyed, angelic, pretending she had not already committed the crime. Instinctively, I said to the girl offering the sweets, “She’s diabetic.” What happened next genuinely surprised me.
The girl did not laugh awkwardly or step back politely. She responded with the kind of gentle firmness only found in old Bengali households. She tapped my wife’s hand lightly and said, with absolute affection, “Didi, you shouldn’t have this.”
Not as an employee performing a duty. Not as a stranger. But as if she were family — someone who genuinely cared. Of course, in the end, I surrendered and let my wife have the naru (marriage is an exercise in knowing when to lose gracefully). But the way that girl handled the moment moved us deeply. It felt as though we were not checking out of a resort — we were leaving a home where people genuinely wished us well.
It was reminiscent of a bygone era, when guests were sent off with blessings, sweets, and a sense of belonging. For a fleeting moment, it felt as if Durga herself were returning to her in-laws’ house — and they would deeply miss us.
That simple gesture touched us profoundly.
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THE RIVER LODGE
Lunch was to be served at The River Lodge — an extension of The Rajbari Bawali by the river Hooghly. When we reached, I felt as though someone had curated my exact fantasy of riverfront peace.
White curtains swayed in the wind, singers softly performing live, and a wide ghat stretched elegantly into the river.
We reached before others. We sat by the river. Just the two of us. As if renewing our vows. As if the river was washing away old fatigue. As if the universe whispered, slow down. Then someone quietly sat beside us.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” he said.
This time, I recognised him — Mr Ajay Rawla.
We spoke again — not as guest and owner, but as two people moved by the same place. He shared ideas for a musical confluence by the river. I wanted to offer my help, but the moment felt too pure to taint with business talk.
Lunch was extraordinary. The hospitality flawless. But the experience — that stays with me even now.
I have always felt that holidays are stressful lies:
More planning.
More expense.
More chaos.
More work when you return.
But Bawali changed something in me. I have not argued with my wife since. I feel calmer. Fresher. More creative.
TILL WE MEET AGAIN
This memoir is not sponsored. We paid for our stay. We had our own transportation.
What you just read is simply what I felt. It aligns with our advocacy – SLOW IS THE NEW SPEED.
If you ever choose to go — do not go looking for luxury or nostalgia. Just go with the decision to be happy. Factually speaking, no river runs through The Rajbari Bawali. But what flows through, is a river of emotions.
Priyam Biswas, 15th November 2025