My Jungle Book

I half-open my eyes as I stir awake on my open-to-the-forest rooftop dwelling, to the bright, insistent chirping of birds. The sun steams tentatively into the lodge this lush monsoon morning. The gentle showers of the early monsoons have quenched the parched land's thirst, and the jungle has truly come alive. The burrowing insects have emerged from their dwellings within trees, and beneath the ground, to wriggle upon the moist soil. Predatory birds flap  purposefully around, as the ages-old jungle food chain is rained into existence.

 

Decades ago in this jungle country, perhaps Kipling mused upon this vast expanse of untamed forest, its wild inhabitants prowling uninhibited, and felt the glimmerings of a boy-meets-jungle adventure rising faintly his imagination. Perhaps the tale took shape in his mind on a slow Sunday morning such as I am now enjoying. The story of Mowgli, the 'man-cub' adopted by a wolfpack is such a fantasy as can only be dreamed up in these vast green jungles by the valley of Seonee.

In the confines of my jungle lodge upon the fringe of Tiger territory, I am miles away from civilisation. Rather, away from the cacaphony that we call civilisation.

 

This leafy jungle canopy, the gurgling of water in the distance, the muted sounds of teeming life... this was once the one true life, unbesmirched by 'civilization'.

 

I'm soaking it all in while I can.

 

Meanwhile, good hunting, all (that keep the Jungle Law)!