They left. Both the vehicles vanished under the thick canopies. The noise of the engines dissolved gradually. There was a moment of silence. My ears were adjusting to the new situation. Then it followed. The silence gave birth to the sounds of birds chirping somewhere on the trees, cicadas chorusing somewhere unseen, and leaves hustling with an occasional blow of wind. It was around seven in the morning and the entire forest was slowly waking up from the goodnight sleep.

I stood there alone. The sun’s rays were trying to touch the ground whenever they could pass through the branches. Some barking deer and a herd of spotted deer were there behind the bushes. I was thoughtless yet aware. I was conscious yet lost. I felt my presence there was as organic as the trees. I was there that day, the day before that day, and all the days before that day. “Let’s walk back to the beat house”, the forest guard said from back. I returned to my usual self.

It was in the year 2016. I consider that year as my rebirth. That year I discovered in myself a strange new fondness for nature- a new sensation. I felt a new yet old connection with trees, streams, grass, and birds. The morning light felt new. So did the shadows behind the woods. I could hear new sounds, perceive new things to which I was unresponsive previously. Though I already had nature in form of the grand Bay of Bengal in my hometown, I was introduced to nature’s grander version at Phulbani where I had stayed for a year in childhood. The Salunki river behind our colony, the tall Sal Forest near my school, the incessant rain of Kala Baisakhi (Nor’westers) and the mellow sunshine that follows, and the full display of rainbow on the horizon just before the sunset were hidden behind my consciousness. A 2012 English film ‘The Tree of Life’ made me conscious of those hidden sensations after which I tried to find the little wonders of nature in concrete city life. The professional assignment of exploring and visual-documenting various forest and wildlife sanctuaries of Odisha in 2016 finally landed me in the Eden Garden.

That morning we went out with the intent to shoot some wildlife. The forest officials were on one vehicle and the camera crew was on another. I was with the forest staff along with one camera person. Since the sound of the vehicle was causing the wildlife to flee before we could film them, the forest ranger suggested keeping the camera on and capturing whenever the opportunity allows. The back side of the vehicle was overcrowded and didn’t have the space to mount the tripod. The forest ranger called another team which was patrolling nearby to come and take two men out from our vehicle into theirs. In that situation, I deemed myself unnecessary in that vehicle so I suggested being transferred. Thus, I got out of the vehicle along with one forest guard and waited there to be picked up by the patrolling team.

“They will arrive in a few minutes, let’s walk till then.” I said okay and started to move as the forest guard suggested. He was behind me and never uttered a word for the next ten minutes. The sound of our footsteps was creating a rhythm in what can be called nature’s music of silence.  A variety of birds were busy in their morning routine. I was unaware of their name back then but now after six years, I could recognize them as Parrakeets, Myna, Bulbul and Bee-eaters. Several Peafowls were strolling here and there with others being usually vocal in other parts of the forest. Some spotted doves were there on the floor having their breakfast along with a Eurasian Hoope who seemed to be untroubled by our presence. Though I could not find it, a jungle owlet was doing its mellower version of kaaaooo-kaaaaooo-kah-ow somewhere. Its resonating voice had a calming effect. There are so many species of birds of which many are called singing birds for their extraordinary musical calls, but the sound of the Spotted Dove and Jungle Owlet became my absolute favourite from that day.

The sun was getting brighter slowly. A strange breeze was sweeping across the forest. I could hear the breeze approaching me from behind – the sound of the rustling of leaves was getting louder and louder and louder and louder, the quiet leaves on the trees over my head gradually jumped into action and then the breeze touched me and moved forward animating all the quite front branches. The shy barking deer seemed confused about whether to avoid me or continue grazing. One of the most beautiful sights in the wild I discovered that day is a backlit tree. Our cameraman proudly phrased this occurence as ‘lighting done by God’ or DOP God (where God is the Director of Photography).

It was around one kilometre of walking after which the forest guard started talking in a very low voice. He informed me about the forest, the villages in the vicinity and how it affects the area. He narrated his encounter with a leopard and a herd of elephants and how the animals are largely harmless. Many do forest guarding as a job and few enjoy the responsibility. The forest guard who was there belong to the latter. He seemed to be reliving the memories while telling.

It must be twenty minutes after which two vehicles rushed from behind and stopped. The forest ranger started scolding from his seat- “I told you to wait there. How did you dare to walk alone in the forest! This is not an amusement park. This is a leopard territory.” I looked at the forest guard being puzzled at the sudden change of atmosphere. “Don’t look at him. He is a guard; he knows how to escape wildlife attacks. You risked your life. If something would have happened, we had to be answerable.” Then the ranger went on scolding the humble forest guard for allowing me to walk. I offered my sorry and silence and got into the vehicle.

It was a mistake – a grave mistake, I acknowledge. The mistakes, however, reward you with the greatest lessons, the greatest experiences of life. And that mistake became my greatest ‘a walk to remember’.

That was Raigoda- a forest core in the Angul district of Odisha forming a part of Satkosia Tiger Reserve. This is the infamous site where translocated tigress ‘Sundari’ was living in an enclosure. The forest density of Raigoda is difficult to guess from the outside. This is a moist deciduous forest, but at some places, it felt like a rainforest. Some of the grasslands were so rich that I felt I was in a foreign country shown in nature documentaries. I often wonder how this beautiful small forest is doing nowadays.