Dakhooo

Source: Sanjida Jui

Trees as big as this one litter the forest. Note the man standing beside.

We walked in silence, not by any agreement but by some unconscious, natural understanding. Slowly and slowly we were getting sucked into a fairytale world. The creepers turning into serpents. The trees transforming into trolls and gnomes. We could hear the forest’s voice. Every forest has its own voice; here it spoke in murmurs and sighs. Here it breathed heavy. Its rustling whispers we cannot understand.
The partridges were calling again. “Dakhooo, Dakhooo.”
We heard the soft rasping of a big bird flying out. The squirrels clucked. Suddenly a brown hawk owl broke its slumber with a sleepy, gurgling call. And then fell silent again.
We sat on the trunk of a fallen tree and felt the presence of life around us. We felt the trees. Their symphonies in their highest branches. Their search for infinity with their roots. Their own fulfilment.
I touched the trunk and felt its kernel. I touched hundred years of stories and whispers. I felt both eternity and end of eternity. I felt trust and strength. And I felt sleep creeping over me.
About two hours later, we came to the edge of the forest. A stream ran across here with crystal clear water.
In front of us lay a different view. In the afternoon light, we could see a valley flooded in golden rays. For a vast stretch, ripened Jhum paddy swayed in gentle breeze. The sun reflected on the paddy to produce a golden glow. Carcasses of tall trees stood still against a deep blue sky sprinkled with white clouds. There was a distinct smell of ripened paddy, Tishi and other all sorts of unrecognizable seeds. In the distance we could see a bamboo lean-to.