A Tale from the Jungle

It was late in the day. The dusk sought release among the unkempt leaves of the massive tree. The pale moon seemed to bide its time. The giant tree though, seemed at peace. It was home to a million insects. And a zillion emotions. Unerring to the minute, the dark cheeked nightjar flew noiseless around the foliage. It sat on the forked branch in familiar comfort, its distinctive call breaking the chaotic silence.

The ashen owl blinked. The dung beetles on the ground kept burrowing, as if in haste, for eternity’s sake. The sun was past its prime, the smooth transition almost second nature, from orange, to crimson, to green, yellow, violet and purple. A blink and miss. It was gone.

It was as if the jungle was a stage and every living species was an actor. A Shakespearean tale re-invented, reimagined, and reborn, every single minute. The fireflies were still in wait. To light themselves in gay abandon. To the untrained eye, there is a lot that you can miss. Trees whispering to each other. The panther hiding in the outgrowth. The huge gentle elephant by the nullah. His silhouette darker than the darkness. A wild dog pack resting in a ravine. The nocturnal actors were just getting warmed up. The night was still young.

She lay by the jungle pool, resting, reminiscing. She had to pull her act together today. The last two days she had to rush her charge. The chase ended nowhere. The lantana ambush did not work. It irked her. She was not a bounder. She liked to stalk but her final charge always worked. She licked her wounds. Time was running out. It was a tough ask.

The moss-laden cave was perfect cover for her young ones. Yet the jungle was unforgiving territory. Till they grow older, there was no place for complacency. Maybe she should change her beat. Maybe advertise her presence less. The long-throated call that echoed across the sholas was her trademark callout. Her DNA. Her forefathers have taught her that. To ramp walk while the denizens of the forest froze in fear. Whatever be, she better act fast.

The four little bags of fur had no qualms though. They lived in the present. All that mattered was the presence of their mother. Some ancient wisdom in their veins kept telling them directives. They were creatures of instinct and habit. Learning was breathing in, breathing out. They were growing bigger. Yet they did not understand why their mother moved them to a safer abode when her partner was around in the thickets nearby. It did not matter. Time was of no essence. They wrestled each other with impunity.

The watchman on the giant tree had his task cut out. It was something he liked to do. His ilk and loved ones needed him to do his job well. In fact, the whole neighbourhood. All shapes, sizes. Of course, his team would take turns, but he wanted to be the best. A motley crowd of his brotherhood were on different branches, sleeping. Little pesky ones. The frisky teenagers. The gung-ho adults. The weary oldies. Rest was a weapon too. To be ready for the morrow. He peered through the darkness. Stilled but alert.

It was time to move. She liked the sudden rush of adrenalin. The hunter instinct ruled supreme. Her familiar beat it was but some innate calling grew louder. She turned course abruptly.

It was not according to the script. Maybe she decided to broaden her territory. Right up to the shola forest by the river. A stone’s throw from the giant tree. The track by the nullah bore her huge pugmarks. She was quiet. Stealth in motion. The soft web of her foot stepped on a small loose rock. She gently clicked it back in place. And looked up.

Then all hell broke loose.

The watchman on the tree called out. She just simply charged. Years of jungle wisdom and cunning instinct. She uttered a series of angry growls and tried to bound up the tree. She slipped twice and roared. The crescendo was terrifying. He was unnerved. He clambered higher. The roars echoed. He totally lost it. He made an attempt to leap up to the next tree. For the first time in his life, he felt himself falling. Stunned, he hit the ground running. He did not remember anything any more.

The cubs too did not remember the vanquished in their wresting bouts. They lay tired, defeated, one atop the other in sheer exhaustion. A low familiar growl brought them to their feet. Framed in the moonlight at the cave’s entrance was their mother. There was food too.

The theatre of the night replayed its favourite scenes. At many a beat across the vast languid landscape. The script was the same. The actors switched roles though. Sometimes the jungle surprised itself. A few rules were broken. It was about birth, procreation, recreation, and death. Nature as always had enough. For everyone’s need but not for everyone’s greed.

The dawn broke its fast as if on cue. The giant tree awoke with its resident dwellers scurrying around. The breeze seemed lost in thought. There was a new watchman. He was on the topmost branch. The birds chattered to each other. Stories of the present. Dreams for the future. The past never existed. It was a new day.

A vicious snarl woke her slumber in the cave. She recognized the unwelcome intruder. She bounded a few yards and stared him down in anger. He was the male of the species. He was a threat. She had her task cut now again.

She needed to move them to a safer abode. Till they were bigger and ready.

To be part of nature’s theatre. A new script each day. To play their roles to perfection. Like their mother. Like the langur watchman.