In the Jungle

  The boy had always measured his childhood in pawmarks. Every evening after school, he would run out into the wide, golden grasslands that stretched beyond his village. The wind would whistle across the tall grasses, and somewhere in the distance, the grey shadows of wolves would flicker, hunting, playing. He had grown up with them, as if they were kin, watching pups stumble over their paws, watching the older wolves keep sentry against the horizon. For him, the grasslands were alive because of their presence. But slowly, that horizon began to change. First came the rumble of machines, chewing at the earth. A new road carved itself through the belly of the grassland. Then came the flyover, tall and indifferent, cutting across the sky like a scar. Complexes rose like grey fortresses where grass once swayed. The wolves grew uneasy, their howls more distant, their hunts disrupted by headlights and the never-ending din of traffic. The boy, now older, still visited the grasslands...

  Long ago, when the world was still forming, the Great Spirit of the Forest gave birth to a pair of twins.  One emerged striped—he was the Tiger. The other was bare-skinned, with eyes like stars:  The Baiga. The spirit whispered: "You share the same blood. One guards the woods; the other cares for people and their balance with the Earth." From then, Baigas and Tigers walked as kin, bound by a promise. Even now, the Baigas regard the tiger as elder brother, protector, unseen spirit. Every pugmark, every roar is a message, and the stripes—the script of the forest, written so the land remembers its story. Once, a young boy named Jhamu walked with his grandfather through the forest at dusk. The air was heavy with the scent of mahua, and from far away came the low rumble of a tiger’s roar. The boy’s heart pounded with fear, but the old man placed a steady hand on his shoulder. “Do not be afraid,” the elder said. “That is not the call of danger; it is the voice of your fami...

  In a small village nestled at the edge of a lush forest, lived a boy named Unni. He was nine years old, with twinkling eyes, an infectious laugh, and a heart so full of joy it seemed to overflow into everything he touched. Unni had Down syndrome, which made him see the world in a way others couldn't—brighter, deeper, and less complicated. Unni’s days began with the rising sun and the soft notes of his favourite bamboo flute carved out of Bamboo by his father. Every morning, as birds burst into song and the forest awakened slowly, Unni would stand at the edge of the trees and play, a single simple note, and one that he played every day, but also one loved by the forest, where the monkeys chattered, the peacocks called, and sometimes even the elephants seemed to listen while on their morning patrol. The forest was Unni’s sanctuary. He hugged the towering Sal trees who he called his “giant friends” and loved to run barefoot on the soft mossy ground, chasing the butterflies and...

  The monsoon mist hung low over the emerald canopy of the Western Ghats, turning the forest into a dreamy realm where the lines between the real and the magical blurred. I had ventured deep into these ancient mountains as a curious traveller with a notebook, a camera, and a heart open to wonder. The constant patter of rain on leaves had become a comforting rhythm. The forest pulsed with life—drenched vines curled around mossy trunks, and unseen life chirped and croaked like an orchestra hidden behind green curtains. As dusk approached, the trail narrowed, leading me to a clearing framed by knotted roots and glistening ferns. There, at the edge of an old log of wood, I paused. Something shimmered on the ground, catching the last flickers of twilight. I squatted down and blinked—was it a trick of the light? No. It moved. A small frog sat perfectly still. But it was unlike any species I had ever seen. Its skin was jet-black but speckled with iridescent spots—tiny galaxies swi...

In the heart of rural India, nestled on the edge of a dense jungle, lay a small village. The forest stood like a living giant, both feared and revered by the villagers. Among them was a young boy named Deenu, just twelve years old, with curious eyes and a happy spirit. His world shattered one evening when his mother never returned from gathering firewood in the forest close to the village. A search party later found traces of a tiger’s presence—and her scarf, lying near some lantana bushes at the edge of the jungle. The grief that followed was heavy. Deenu stopped speaking. He sat beneath the Jamun tree, where his mother once sang songs of her tribe, staring into the forest as if trying to summon her back to life. The villagers whispered about the tiger with anger. Some spoke of revenge; others demanded that the forest be cut down. But Deenu remained silent, his heart filled with sorrow and anger. One morning, a new figure arrived in the village—a tall, weather-worn man in green. His n...

  Beneath the soft, golden light of dawn, the grasslands stretched wide like a golden ocean. Nestled amidst the tall grasses, hidden from prying eyes, a female hyena lay still—her ears twitching at every whisper of the wind.  She was a fierce matriarch, a skilled hunter, and above all, a vigilant mother. Her den, dug deep into the hillside, cradling two pups.  As she suckled them, a distant temple bell rang in the distance. This centuries-old temple crowning the landscape, was renowned for its architectural beauty and revered as a sanctuary of mothers due to the presence of female deities that adorned every stone and wall.   Villagers believed the goddesses watched over every beast and blade of grass, their stone eyes ever vigilant.  One morning, however, something felt different. As the pups played and the mother hyena groomed herself, she caught the scent of something unfamiliar. A smoky odour was accompanied by the sounds of vehicles. Her muscles coile...

  Long ago, in the heart of Central India, where the jungle whispered secrets that only the souls of the forest could understand, stood a majestic Sal tree. Towering and wise, the Sal had rooted itself in the earth for over a hundred years. Its gnarled branches stretched out like arms that had witnessed countless monsoons, scorching summers, and mist-laden winters.   One twilight, as the orange sun dipped low behind the hills, a regal tiger padded silently into the clearing beneath the Sal tree. A great beast with stripes like molten gold, the tiger was old. Alone after many years of companionship with his own kind, he sought solace in his final years among the trees.   The Sal tree, sensing the tiger’s need for solitude, rustled its leaves softly in welcome. The tiger settled, easing his weary muscles against the cool earth and roots, and for the first time in many moons, he felt truly rested and comforted. As night deepened and stars blinked into the velvet sky, a sof...