In the Jungle

  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...