Short Story: Forest of Shadows

Meenakshi Jauhari shares a powerful story on environmental degradation and large-scale destruction of key ecosystems.

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This piece is available for free reading this week

I have met many unusual people in my life, as I recall now that I sit down to tell the scribe my life story. He waits patiently. It’s a final lesson, I believe, from an old and now blind teacher to a diligent student, before life’s design sweeps him up and away.

“Have you laid out everything, Buland, my boy?” I ask him, as memory takes wing.

“Yes, ustadji. I’m ready…whenever you’re ready to tell…!”

A hush descends, and I let my mind soar into the vast sky… where do I begin? What is it that wants to be told first? Through the long voyage of my seventy-odd years, which kahani stands out and beckons my heart?

Memory is a bird, now soaking the warm sunlight amid silky clusters of clouds. It tries to identify an experience that deserves to be the first frame of my life story. After some random meanderings, my mind’s eye focuses on an image …hazy at first, then clearer: The jungle of shadows.

“Start writing, my boy…” I instruct, and in response, I hear a soft scraping and shuffling of paper as Buland’s pen positions itself.

Sometime in the late eighties, I was traversing the Aravallis in Haryana. I had hitchhiked my way from interior Rajasthan, through Jaipur, and taken a detour into present-day Mewat, passing through the stony Aravalli range, thick with thorny bushes like keekar and babool, and trees like dhok, acacia, and miles of wild grasses. I wanted to explore the rocky terrain and was in no hurry to return to the madness of the city – at forty-five, you begin to discern the difference between making a living and actually living.

About three years ago, I’d begun going on tours with the sole purpose of learning new things, soaking in new sights, and just being where my heart felt like. This journey had been tiring, but wholesome until now. Today, I followed my usual rhythm: two or three hours of walking, then an hour of rest. Afternoons were especially kind to the walker at this time of the year – sunlight warm and toasty, the winter air crisp and sharp.

Soon it was evening, and I had been walking for several hours. As the sun tilted westward, I started looking for a spot to pitch my tent, so I could grab a good night’s sleep. Up ahead in the distance, I could see a large dark patch; it seemed like a forest. My heart jumped. Forests, dark dense forests, were rare in these parts. My steps quickened; it would be a good place to rest. And perhaps I could explore it tomorrow in the daytime. The sun was dropping fast behind the hills now, and the sky exploded in purples and mauves, lurid shades of red and orange. Like fires were breaking out on the horizon…I imagined I was walking inside a vivid painting by a mad painter. As I walked, the dark patch of the forest came closer, became darker. From behind the hilltop, the evening light fell at such an angle that I could see the treetops swaying in the breeze. Then all at once, the far horizon dipped behind the forest in an enormous bucket of deep maroons and mists, and I could have sworn the mad painter was having a solid burst of inspiration today. I drew closer. Now the forest was only a few metres away, and I saw it stretching luxuriously from left to right across my field of vision with a winding mud path on the right side. I stepped forward excitedly, and in that instant, my foot hit a large stone and my ankle twisted awkwardly.

A stab of sharp agony, and I sank to my knees with indrawn breath. I remained that way for some time, catching my breath and massaging my foot to ease the stinging pain. The sky hung overhead like a charmed mantle, the forest beckoned me, and the birds called with urgency… ‘back to the nest, night approaches!’ ‘The day ends, it’s time for rest!’

I closed my eyes. I’d stumbled into a world I’d never known about. How long I remained that way, I don’t know. When I opened my eyes finally, dusk had fled, and a steely dark was sweeping in, misty waves bringing a faint perfume of wild flowers. Abruptly, I sensed I wasn’t alone. My eyes swept from left to right, and there, just at the entrance of the forest, I saw a man sitting and watching me in silence. It was an eerie sensation… My eyes had been fixed in that direction, and I hadn’t noticed him. Had he been there all along? Or had he appeared just now? I looked away, nonplussed. I turned my foot this way, then that way. It was painful, and I prayed I hadn’t broken anything…

My eyes drifted to the right again, of their own accord… the man sat there still, watching me. The darkness had deepened, and I could see everything quickly getting cloaked in black. I straightened, gingerly testing my balance. The man too rose and walked in my direction. I noticed that he was wearing a long dark cloak, a turban around his head, and long hair swung upon his shoulders as he strode in my direction. He seemed like a dervish, although I’d never seen a dervish in these parts.

“Salaam!” He called as he came close. I nodded a response.

Curiously, I asked, “Do you live here…close by…? Is there a village in the vicinity?”

I waved my hand to indicate the right margin of the flatland where the night had by now unfurled a veil of winter mist.

The man laughed, and I saw a line of dazzling white teeth. He was right in front of me now — an ordinary enough fellow, except for that turban with a pearl necklace tucked in its folds in the front, so that it hung down like a shallow crescent moon. “I’m here today… don’t know where I’ll be tomorrow. But today, I’m here before you…” and he regarded me with a steady open gaze.

I stood there speechless, unsure what to do next. I turned my face to the forest. And immediately, my heart stopped.

“What…where is the forest…?” and my voice trailed off, because there was nothing there. No trees. No forest. Nothing. I was befuddled… Was it the night and the mist playing tricks? In complete disbelief, I gestured toward the forest. “But I’ve been walking towards this jungle for the last two hours! Where has it gone? I’m dreaming…There’s…there’s nothing here…”

Subconsciously, I noted that my arms were flailing, wildly pointing this way and that, my words tumbling out fast, my voice rising.

The dervish stood there silently, watching me. He turned and gestured to me to follow him. “Come with me!” he said, almost a command.

I hobbled behind him, and we walked into what had looked like the forest all along. We walked for some distance, then stopped. Despite the darkness, the place was dimly lit by the purple light of the moon. I cast a searching look all around, still hoping to catch sight of the trees I had seen swaying as I had headed, expectantly this way. There were none… all around, I could only see broken and scaled-off earth, pitted and mined holes, and red gashes in places where the machine-monsters had plundered deeper. I gaped in confusion, and the dervish studied the scene as if he were viewing it for the first time.

“There are no trees here now, janaab. Only the shadows the trees left behind!” He said, finally.

“What do you mean?” Again, I noted that my voice was loud.

“What you saw from a distance was a mirage; what you see here are the shadows of the trees. They felled the trees, and the trees couldn’t stop them, but they left behind their shadows — for testimony. To tell that their home was erased by force, to assure the birds that their habitat was lost, but their space of refuge remained… The forest was killed, but its soul lingers, janaab! Human greed couldn’t erase its soul.”

I listened in utter bewilderment. Was he pulling wool over my eyes? Or perhaps I was dreaming up this whole forest!

Finally, after I had partially processed his words, I ventured, “I’m aware that in this part of Haryana a lot of illegal mining takes place and forests are often decimated overnight. But it’s really the first time I’m hearing of a forest asserting itself in this fashion!”

The dervish stood mutely beside me. Something in his face was profoundly sad. And it saddened me too. My eyes were again drawn to the wounds in the ground, deep vertical cuts that plunged deep into the heart of the earth, crudely uprooted stumps testifying to violent evictions, branches plucked off, and bunches of leaves strewn carelessly on the forest floor – a fairy-tale ogre had passed through, it seemed, and left his brutal imprint everywhere. Suddenly, I felt sick.

“It’s a betrayal of the covenant between humans and other forms of life. We Sufis believe that all life is sacred and all forms of life should be given due respect.” He spoke softly, almost as if he didn’t want his words to carry. I had the definite impression we were not alone.

We advanced deeper into the shadows, only shadows, and I noted, again, the scars and scabs, marks of mindless annihilation, and imagined how it must have been a lush jungle once.

“The men uprooted the trees,” the dervish went on, “But each tree left its own singular print… ‘this is me, the big sal, that waved its arms at the sun every morning’…”

The fragrances were overpowering now – deep, musky, and earthy – scents of a forest, a full forest.

“As I approached, the forest looked so real. I mean, I could clearly see the trees, their verdant foliage reflecting the light, leaves bobbing and dipping. It never felt like… a mirage…!” I repeated, to convince my mind perhaps.

The dervish threw me a sidelong glance, then looked up at the sky and remarked with a small secret laugh, “It’s a boon…”

“Hmm. How’s that?” My curiosity deepened.

We were now seated, and the moon was high above our heads. My foot had begun to throb, and I could feel it swelling up hotly. I took off my shoe and stretched my leg. The dervish leaned in. An owl hooted softly, and another owl answered. Crickets chirped somewhere close by, then everything fell silent, and we waited.

“There’s a myth that this forest was ancient, and initially planted and nurtured by a soldier who escaped from the battlefield of Kurukshetra during the battle between the Kauravas and Pandavas. It is said the soldier was sickened by the bloodlust unleashed on the battlefield, and one night, he quietly made his getaway. Afraid for his life, for he had committed treason and also stolen a horse, he rode during the night and hid himself during the day. Eventually, when he reached this part of the Aravallis, he stayed — exhausted and hungry, and practically out of his mind, afflicted as he was by an indescribable sickness of the soul. One night, instead of his usual nightmares of blood and gore, he dreamt of a yaksha, a benevolent yaksha, who instructed him to plant a forest of sal trees. Your repentance for taking life has to be the giving of life, a hundred times over, a thousand times over, for life is a precious gift from God, and no man has the right to snuff out a life. The soldier accepted his penance with singular gratitude, and the next morning, when he woke up, his face was wet with tears, but his heart was somewhat at peace. He had been given a reprieve – he couldn’t have asked for more. He made it his life’s mission, planting thousands of sal trees over the years, tending to the burgeoning forest till his dying day. The yaksha, protector of the hills and their creatures, watched over the forest and healed the troubled soldier. And ultimately, the yaksha gave him a boon that he and his forest would live forever. The soldier protested that he had no wish to live forever… the yaksha took back that part of his boon, but the forest was blessed with eternal life.” The dervish stopped, and I could almost hear the forest breathe in the tranquil winter night.

The dervish went on, his voice dropping even more, “When the contractors and illegal mafia felled the trees, they had no idea that they wouldn’t still be able to utilize the land as they pleased, because during the daytime, the forest always appears to be present and whole…nobody dares to come in.”

I smiled inwardly… a deviant forest… a yaksha and a runaway soldier… the reality of the world is more unbelievable than a dream!

I awoke the next morning to a moist breeze softly brushing my face and the dawn mist swirling upward. The sun was a molten ball on the eastern edge. The dervish had prepared a hot brew for me.

“You were groaning in your sleep!” He said, pointing to my foot, “This will help you!” He added, “Do you know this forest teems with many kinds of medicinal herbs?”

He applied a poultice to my foot, and I rested. As the sun grew warmer and the pain in my foot abated, I shuffled around, taking in the daytime sights and sounds and perfumes. A whole kingdom of birds animated the shadows, huddled amid the broken bushes, behind fallen trees, and in holes in the ground, calling, chirping, singing their tunes of life. At the base of a tree-stump, a large orange-pink hibiscus opened up as I looked on in amazement. Cracking apart its tightly-packed flaming petals, shyly at first, then more self-assured, it spread out and released a heady scent that attracted bumblebees, followed by butterflies. My heart soared in pure joy!

Sometime in the afternoon, a flock of white long-necked egrets descended into the clearing with a great deal of swishing and sashaying – about a hundred majestic creatures, strutting about proudly. Later, I got to know they were migratory and regularly visited the forest at this time of the year, on their way to warmer nesting spots further south. The visitors stayed through the day, and as evening closed in, they took to the skies again.

It fascinated me how the forest thrived in all its fullness. “You’re the forest of light…and like light never dies, only fades or brightens, you’ll never die…” I whispered, overcome.

A voice answered me softly: The rhythm of the world echoes through all living creatures. All forms of life are part and parcel, and the symphony of creation progresses through the ages. Every time a life is harmed, the rhythm falters, and a silent pain passes through all, the same way musical notes pass down the strings of a sitar or veena. Killing a forest is no different from killing a loved one. The pain propagates…

A curtain of silence fell, deeper than before.

The dervish had gone away somewhere and reappeared only in the evening. “How’s your foot doing, janaab?” he asked, as he dropped a heavy bag with a thud.

“Much better. The potion and the poultice… all working well.” An unexpected bonhomie brewed as the shadows leaned outward.

The dervish dug holes in the ground with a large shovel and put in sal saplings he retrieved from the bag. He spoke as he worked, “It’s my life’s mission. To replant this forest… to give them back the home the trees have saved for so many decades.”

He dug a dozen odd holes, dropped the long-limbed sal saplings in, and in the end, smoothed down the earth. Soon his bag was empty. The sweat was gleaming on his forehead. A bunch of birds engaged in a raucous conference, and all around, peace reigned…

“Then?” The softly uttered question from Buland brought me back.

I had stopped speaking. The memories kept going… the past was vividly present. And the present? … It felt absent. Do journeys really ever end? Or do they just go on at some deeper level, moving us beyond our wildest dreams?

I took a deep breath. Yes, I needed to finish this story.

“Then…? I stayed there for many weeks – I don’t exactly remember, it might have been months even. In a forest, time loosens its chokehold on the senses, even if the forest is only shadows. I didn’t feel like returning to the city. We, the dervish and I, would go to the village and get saplings, then plant them. Do you know how huge a forest can feel when you’re planting it, one sapling at a time?”

Buland sighed and asked, “Who was the dervish, baba?”

“I don’t know… I never asked… He’d come and go, and we’d share meals, and talk, and sleep on our mats with the stars above us.”

I paused and added, “Sometimes the thought comes to me that maybe he was the modern-day yaksha of the forest… I wonder…!”

I saw in my mind’s eye, again, the dervish planting saplings, carefully measuring out the distance between them, mindfully watering each new plant, and cleaning the forest floor so the plants could flourish.

I heard Buland exhale softly. He began putting away his things as today’s session was over.

“Same time tomorrow, Baba?” He asked.

“Yes! Tomorrow, I shall tell you about the navaab’s mango bagh that was stolen… .”

End

Author’s Bio

Meenakshi Jauhari has been writing and translating for several years. Her poetry volume, The Fish Who Flew, came out in 2019. In 2024, her book-length translation of Farhatullah Baig’s famous Urdu work was published as Delhi’s Last Mushaira in 1845.

Her original stories, translations and essays have featured in literary journals such as Indian Literature (Sahitya Akademi), The Little Magazine, Out of Print, IIC Quarterly, Gulmohur Quarterly, The Chakkar, and others. She is currently working on translating a children’s book in Urdu to English.