Three Famous Puri Pandas
By Lokanath Mishra
Raghunath, Jagannath, and Bansidhar—three legendary pandas of Puri—were men of routine, ritual, and respectable reputation. But during Anavasar, when there was no darshan of Shri Jaganath in Shri Jagannath Temple, destiny handed them something far more dangerous than responsibility—free time.
“Fourteen days of freedom!” announced Jagannath, spreading his arms like a film hero.
“Fourteen days of enjoyment,” corrected Bansidhar, already chewing something he couldn’t identify.
“Fourteen days of peace,” added Raghunath… though his tone suggested he didn’t believe a word of it.
Peace lasted exactly twelve minutes.
Within hours, the trio packed their bags and zoomed off to Gopalpur-on-Sea. But these were not the traditional pandas people recognized. Oh no. They reinvented themselves.
Out went dhotis—
In came sunglasses, bright shirts, jeans, and hairstyles that confused even the wind.
They looked less like pandas and more like a low-budget Bollywood trio named “The Three Storms of Odisha.”
Their fourteen-day plan began with six glorious days of chaos: prawn curries, paneer feasts, endless snacks, beach walks that turned into debates, and yoga sessions that ended with all three stuck in positions requiring public rescue.
At one point, a local tourist asked, “Are you actors?”
Bansidhar replied confidently, “We are… spiritual influencers.”
By the seventh day, their money had reduced to dangerous levels.
“Time for practical life,” said Raghunath.
“Time for shopping,” corrected Jagannath.
“Time for eating while shopping,” finalized Bansidhar.
They drove to Berhampur and parked their car by the roadside before marching into Bada Bazaar like conquerors of commerce.
Four hours later, they emerged victorious—and heavily loaded. Mixtures, pickles, hengu, badam, cashew nuts, mysterious snacks, and at least three items none of them remembered buying.
Sweaty, tired, and proud, they returned to their car.
And froze.
Inside the car sat five young men. One had already started the engine.
For three full seconds, silence ruled.
Then instinct took over. Or maybe drama.
The three pandas dropped their bags in slow motion.
From their pockets, they pulled out their fruit-cutting knives with the confidence of action heroes.
And shouted together:
“WE ARE PURI PANDAS AND GUNDAS! WE HAVE A GUN! AND WE KNOW HOW TO USE IT! GET OUT OF THE CAR!”
It was not entirely true.
But it was entirely effective.
The five young men didn’t argue. They didn’t negotiate. They didn’t even blink properly.
They erupted out of the car like firecrackers—running in five different directions, leaving behind one slipper, two screams, and possibly one unfinished life plan.
Raghunath stood panting.
Jagannath whispered, “Do we actually have a gun?”
Bansidhar replied calmly, “No. But we have personality.”
They gathered their shopping bags and climbed into the car like victorious warriors.
Raghunath inserted the key.
Nothing.
He tried again.
Nothing.
“Try harder,” advised Jagannath helpfully.
“I am trying harder!” snapped Raghunath.
Meanwhile, Bansidhar had already opened a packet of mixture and was eating peacefully, because priorities must never be disturbed.
After several failed attempts, Raghunath frowned.
“Why is there a volleyball on the seat?”
“And a Frisbee?” added Jagannath.
“And… two cases of beer?” said Bansidhar, suddenly deeply interested in social research.
Silence.
Slowly… very slowly… all three turned their heads together.
Raghunath whispered, “This… is not our car.”
They stepped outside.
And there it was.
Their actual car.
Parked just a few feet away.
Looking innocent. Judging them silently.
Another long silence.
Jagannath finally said, “So… we just threatened innocent people… in their own car?”
Bansidhar replied, “At least we maintained discipline.”
Trying to look normal—a task completely beyond their abilities—they shifted their bags to their real car and drove off.
But guilt is a stubborn passenger.
After ten minutes of awkward silence, Raghunath said, “We should go to the police.”
Jagannath nodded, “Before the police comes to us.”
Bansidhar added, “Let me finish this snack first.”
At the police station, they narrated the entire story with folded hands and nervous smiles, requesting forgiveness before any official action.
The police officer listened carefully.
His face remained serious.
For five seconds.
Then it began to shake.
On the other side of the room sat five pale young men, speaking at once:
“Sir! They came out of nowhere!”
“Three dangerous men!”
“They said they were pandas AND gundas!”
“One of them looked like he could bless you and stab you at the same time!”
At this point, the officer lost control and burst into laughter.
Raghunath coughed.
Jagannath studied the ceiling like it contained divine answers.
Bansidhar quietly opened another snack packet.
The officer wiped his tears and said,
“Would you gentlemen like to explain… or should I enjoy this story a little longer?”
After much discussion, apologies, and a surprising amount of shared laughter, the five young men finally forgave them and withdrew the complaint.
Peace was restored.
Reputation… slightly adjusted.
And thus, in the grand unofficial history of Puri, it was recorded:
That on one unforgettable day, three respected pandas became—purely by mistake—the most polite, confused, and snack-loving carjackers Odisha had ever seen.