THE POND

I had something in mind which I’m not sure, but I’m all worked up mentally, an excitement to drive deep into the forest which I visited a year ago. I still recall the eerie silence of the completely canopied place only shattered by muted whispers, fearful glances, suppressed tension. Sweet sounds of moving waters cascading through slippery rocks sparkle of sun rays struggling to reach the damp earth, the whole dense surroundings clothed in greens.

A week before, when I rode there, joined by two of the former students I’m in for a disappointment, the month-long incessant rains damaged the bumpy pathway leading to the forest.

The two amigos quickly took a decision, and the next one hour I drove in second gear on a very steep, zigzagged and badly damaged road. Both of them lured me that there is a small pond once we reach the hilltop. A good enough rendezvous to gladden my camera, they added.

I was slightly hesitant but thrilled enjoying the morning sun and flashy wooly white clouds sprinkled across the sheet of the blue sky hovering above us as the car heaved and grumbled to navigate the five-kilometer steep road.

The pond, as though hiding the treasures among the hills, which has tantalized me since morning lay shrouded among thick trees, wild bushes and a column of rocks. A big chunk of the hill framing it at one side so smoothly weathered that one misstep we may tumble down into the tranquil oval-shaped pond fully covered by green aquatic weeds. While I was hurting my way, camera in hand, through the bushes, slippery rock, and thorny branches, the pond resembled a giant-size cradle. The watery green surface as its cushiony bed.

POND

POND

POND

POND

POND

POND

POND

 

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