The pine forests of Dautiyal

Pine trees swaying in Dautiyal; when Manila mata calls - her temple bells piercing through the oak forest- they sway. When a leopard climbs a tree, when water fills shale digs in Buransh forest, they sway. When little girls play on road back home from Rajkiya Mahila college, when a stranded tourist sits by roadside dhaba, when migrant labour arrives from Ram Nagar swaying their luggage of utensils and stoves, when horticulture department plants a water retention nonnative plant, when Rawat ji closes his tin roof tailor shop after sewing 4 white shirts for a funeral...it sways for the seasons, for the menial tasks that change its environment around.

Take for example, yesterday, when a lonely cow meandered from nearby hills, her neck rope tingling with a battered tumbler, it swayed. Years before her ancestors were planted here, there are memories of old oaks , blurred images of childhood days as a sway sapling. As she ages, she swings to all that moves her and stirs her belly.

They now talk about a metallic road to reduce distance between Ratikhal and batrojkhan. It will steer through ancient pine groves and oak clusters. Someone smoked a bidi and talked of driving a jeep through the new scenic route. A brief moment she did all she could not to stir in anger and disgust.

But the wind kept calling, the forests of Manila swayed all around her. Won't you join the dance, they asked. Yes, she said sadly, yes I will. While I can. While I can.