Samardha
It was a visit that was so long deferred
That I had quite forgotten the place-name.
I thought of the village as Bamhori.
Whereas it was actually called Samardha.
A forest village with an old rest house
Close to the state capital, yet with a forest
That was said to be almost pristine.
One Sunday morning I decided to check it out.
I had misplaced my topography map
But there was a signboard where I expected,
With an arrow pointing left which said--- Samardha
10 kilometers.
“How is the road?” I asked,
A local who was sauntering alongside.
:Bhannai”* he said, “black-top upto Hirapur,
Thereafter it’s a forest road, a moorum track
But no problem for your car, its bhannat.”
So we were off, heading for a low ridge
Crowned with a sparse growth of forest trees.
Beyond the ridge was the village of Hirapur,
And beyond it, standing stiffly in line
Like an arboreal army, stood the forest.
It was fenced by an undulating wall.
Of piled up stones, a low wall which seemed
Almost a part of nature, being overgrown
With grass and sedge. And within this wall
The forest flourished.
We were only half an hour from the city
Yet it might have been another world, so far
Removed from the urban bustle it appeared.
Soon we came to a valley, verdant and alive
Though which flowed a jungle stream.
There was a hill covered all the way with forest.
Began calling from somewhere within the jungle
And kept calling, I stopped a kilometer
From Samardha, suddenly, and turned back.
Hoping to come back another day and fellow
The track to its end, wheresoever it led.
For the time being, well content
To watch the forest and here the green barbet
Sounding its head off, till it fell silent
