A Promise in Passing: My Journey to Sleemanabad

 Sleemanabad: A Visit Long Overdue

I had been wanting to visit Sleemanabad for years.

Each time I passed the station on my numerous train journeys to and from Jabalpur, I felt a tug of curiosity. Once, while travelling from Bhopal with my Rita Mausi, she again brought up the place’s history — something all of us who grew up in Jabalpur are somewhat familiar with. That day, she mentioned that there used to be a beautiful church in Sleemanabad. I was intrigued. “Let’s go there someday,” I told her. She smiled and agreed.

But we never made that trip. She passed away soon after. And every time I crossed that place afterward, I remembered the unfinished promise and the mysterious church.

Over time, I searched online, asked around, but no one seemed to have heard of a church in Sleemanabad. William Sleeman’s story was well-documented — the man who led the campaign to eliminate the Thuggee cult — but the church remained elusive.

Then, after my mother’s birthday on May 19th, I casually said, “We should go somewhere nearby. At least explore the places around our city.” As always, I mentioned Sleemanabad again, not expecting anything.

To my surprise, my mother immediately called the driver and asked him to come by 8:00 a.m. the next day. “We’re going to Sleemanabad,” she said.

Now that the visit was real, I didn’t quite know what I would do there. I frantically Googled “Things to do in Sleemanabad.” Not much came up. A few temples — some ancient, others relatively new — and not much else. Still, the decision had been made. We were going.

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The Road to a Memory

With the petrol tank full and bottles of water and snacks packed, we set off on Highway 30. The road was surprisingly good, and green fields stretched endlessly on both sides. I couldn’t tell what was growing in them. The lush greenery swayed in the breeze, a welcome sight, but a mystery nonetheless.

It was a short drive — just over an hour — before we reached Sleemanabad. Just as we entered the village, we saw a sign for a resort. I quickly asked the driver to take the turn. The village itself was small, and we soon found ourselves on a narrow, single-lane road, again flanked by the same green crops.

Curious, I asked the driver to stop near one of the fields. Two young boys were working there. I asked what crop it was. “Urad dal,” they replied.

I was surprised. I had never seen a urad plant before.

I asked one of the boys if there was a church nearby. He looked puzzled and said there was a small mosque not far away, but he had never heard of a church. I then asked if he knew the history behind the name Sleemanabad. He gave a sheepish smile and shook his head. I began explaining who William Sleeman was, but I could see it meant nothing to him — and he had little interest anyway.

We moved on.

The Unexpected Resort

About 12 kilometers ahead, we reached the resort mentioned on the signboard. At the gate stood an elderly guard. Hoping for better luck, we asked him if he knew anything about an old church nearby — but he, too, looked blank.

The place looked rather desolate, and for a moment, we wondered if it even got visitors. But as we entered, we were pleasantly surprised. The reception area was clean and welcoming, though unmanned. I opened a door to the side, hoping to find someone. Soon, I heard the sound of hurried footsteps.

A young staff member appeared and welcomed us warmly. Contrary to what we had assumed, he told us the resort was quite popular — especially during festivals like Holi, when it was packed with revellers.

He led us to the dining area, which was simple but charming. We had some delicious pakoras and some terrible tea, and then walked around the premises. There were monkeys everywhere, and an interesting machaan-like structure offered views of the surrounding jungle.

We also checked out the rooms — neat, clean, and well maintained. The resort even had good internet and its own Wi-Fi — a small but appreciated surprise in the middle of nowhere.

Whispers of Wilderness

On our way back, we took the road that continued past the resort — just to see where it led. It took us into a dense, serene jungle — untouched by commercial activity. A signboard caught our attention: “Origin of River Katni”.

I had never even heard of the Katni River starting from there. I would have loved to explore more, but without Anhad around — my usual partner in all slightly-adventurous decisions — I decided against walking the final half-kilometer into the forest to see the river’s source.

Still, the calm of the forest, the unfamiliar yet fascinating geography, and the quiet made the whole experience feel like a revelation.

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A Story Half-Finished, A Visit Well-Worth

It was already 11:30 a.m., and the heat had begun to creep in — even with the AC on — so we decided to return. I was a little disappointed that I hadn’t found the church, but I was content that I had finally made it to Sleemanabad.

There is still more to uncover.

I hope to go back again — maybe visit the memorial at the railway station, talk to people in nearby churches, and see if anyone, especially among the older generation, remembers a church or remnants of one.

On our way back, we stopped at a bridge over the Hiran River. Children splashed in the water, and urad fields stretched lushly along both banks. From where I stood, I could see the railway bridge in the distance — the very same one I had crossed so many times by train.

The scene was picturesque — the flowing river, the green fields, the echo of children’s laughter, and the distant tracks where memories still lingered.

It’s a sight I will carry with me for a long time.

Author’s Note

This visit wasn’t about ticking off tourist spots. It was about stories — remembered, half-forgotten, and still unfolding. If you’ve heard anything about the church at Sleemanabad or remember stories from elders about William Sleeman’s time in the area, I’d love to hear from you.