A Frog of the Western Ghats
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...