The one hour journey finally ended on top of a small hill -- all around us is pure untamed forest. Below sat a small bungalow our abode in Rema Kalinga. Inside we found it a neat small thing powered by a solar panel, a sprawling courtyard in front. It was past 12 and we decided to have our lunch first. Abdur Rahman, the caretaker, was ready with his chicken curry and radish salad. And of course, we had Raju, the official guide of the bungalow, to take us out.
We were still on the outskirts of the forest and would take a two-hour trail. And even before we could find our trail, we came upon a beautiful lake. Fallen logs were rotting, half on the shore and half out into the water. Mushrooms, ferns and moss had grown on them. The lake silently reflecting the green of the trees, like a true mirror. There was a watchtower beside the lake and we climbed it. The view was breathtaking. The lake glinted through the trees on one side and on the other side, we found a long snaking line of yellow paddy field frilled by the forest. The paddy had been harvested and only the stumps were standing lonely. The bright yellow contrasted with the green of the forest. A perfect blue sky made the canopy. Then we noticed the caped langurs. A group of the primates jumping from one branch to another while the leader sat solemnly on the top branch and observed us with curiosity. A mother langur found us frightful and grabbed her baby tightly. Then she jumped to a distant branch. The baby shrieked and squirmed and got free from its perilously acrobatic mother. It chose to climb the tree itself. But the mother collected her baby by its tail.
We crossed a small wedged part of the forest and then found a paddy field. Again, harvest was over and only the hay remained. I have never seen such a desolate place before. Once this place must have been buzzing with farmers tilling and collecting sheaves. But now not a soul could be found here. As if this field appeared by some magic -- this was not a human handiwork. A dull sun shining over the field and just then, as if it was destined to be like this, a few crows flew across, instantly recreating Van Gogh's "Crow over wheat field" painting. We were mesmerized. We climbed a small hillock and found an Orang neighbourhood. The Orangs are a handful of ethnic community. Here in Rema Kalinga, there are about 15 families living and their number has not increased over the year, Ganga Orang told us. The Orang children and women eyed us with unabashed curiosity. Their huts and surroundings looked incredibly neat. Not even a spec of dust could be found here. They may be wearing torn clothes, but these were clean. They may not manage hair oil, but they had combed neatly. A heap of paddy lying on the courtyard indicated the Orangs farm the fields.
It was getting dark now and the Van Gogh field was getting covered by a fine mist. We needed to go back. As we were crossing the field, we suddenly noticed a movement by the forest. A small figure jumped down to the field and was looking for something on the ground. We silently approached it and then knew what it was -- a pig-tailed monkey. The fierce looking primate with a short tail sticking up is very rare in Bangladesh. But the light was too poor to take a snap. We watched it as long as it was there. When it again disappeared into the forest, we headed back to the bungalow in the sylvan shadows. We keep listening. Who says forests die by night? ©thedailystar.net 2008 |
H
A quick lunch and then we were on our way to explore the forest. The sun shone brightly but without its heat and glare on this winter day. Ten minutes' walk and we were down a hill into the forest. The orange sunlight glanced down the leaves of Garzan and Chapalis trees. A cool breeze brushed our face and ruffled our hair. We wrapped our jackets tighter.
Their panic stopped after some time and they put their minds to their own business. We took some more photographs and then climbed down. We were again on our trail. We found an empty village road running through the forest. Beside it was a grave, encased by white tiles. A plaque was showing on the tiles. We were curious. Why on this lonely place should there be such a grave? We came close to it and read the plaque. Here lies a freedom fighter -- Nayek A Mannan, who fought valiantly in Kalinga against the Pakistan army in 1971 -- who was fatally wounded on September 24 and died. We stood there in silence for some time and tried to reconstruct the scene 37 years ago, how his body was carted down here and buried. His fellow fighters all standing round there, tears rolling down their cheeks to bade goodbye to this wonderful person. A sudden sadness descended on this lonely forest. One of us picked up a bunch of wild flowers, some small pinkish ones, and placed them on the grave and then we hit the trail again.