Spectrum: What we found when we lost our way in the forest reserve

Some memories do not fade; they ferment. Neither a scandal nor a triumph, it is a small transgression from youth that has travelled with me for over four decades, from the rain-dark forests of Coorg in 1984 to the reflective stillness of retirement.

I was then a probationer of the Indian Forest Service (1983 batch), learning to read forests as one reads texts — patiently, humbly, alert to what lies beneath the surface. On a study tour to Medikeri, our guide was Dr SN Rai, whose authority needed no raising of voice. He taught silviculture not merely as a discipline but as a way of seeing: ordered, restrained, attentive. In classrooms and under forest canopies alike, he carried himself with a quiet exactness. On field days, dressed in khaki, sturdy shoes and an umbrella in hand, he seemed designed to blend into the landscapes he revered.

That particular morning began badly. The duty officer announced the wrong assembly time and dress code, and we arrived late — awkwardly dressed in ties and blazers instead of field gear. Our teachers stood waiting in khaki, their displeasure unmistakable. Once breached, discipline appeared to unravel the day itself: delayed buses, sharp words for drivers, even a burst tyre. The forest, when we finally reached it, seemed to receive us under a cloud.

Medikeri Biosphere Reserve, nestled in the Western Ghats, was our classroom. Beneath its dense canopy, Dr Rai spoke of layered abundance — evergreen forests, grasslands, streams alive with orchids, elephants, civets, macaques, and birds rare enough to make silence feel sacred. Yet beneath his measured lecture ran an undercurrent of reprimand, and beneath our attentive listening stirred restlessness — the impatience of youth, the itch to test boundaries even in a place that demanded reverence.

After the introductory talk, the batch was split into two groups, led by Dr Rai and Dr Dilipkumar, walking about 250 metres apart to allow focused discussion. It was here, in the spaces between authority and attention, that mischief quietly took root. Four of us — young, overconfident, and foolish — slipped away under the pretext of call of nature. What began as momentary evasion soon became indulgence: a smoke, a discreet sip of rum hidden in a water bottle, and the heady thrill of being unseen.

For nearly an hour, the forest seemed to cooperate. Thick undergrowth swallowed sound; winding paths erased sightlines. We timed our movements between the pauses of the leading group and the approaching footsteps of the trailing one. It felt clever then, almost elegant — a choreography of avoidance played out in green, buoyed by the illusion that the forest was vast enough to forgive small rebellions.

Then, without warning, the forest withdrew its consent. The murmurs faded. Footsteps vanished. The canopy appeared to close ranks. An unnatural silence settled — dense, alert, unsettling — as if the land itself had noticed our trespass. In that instant, bravado drained away, replaced by fear. We realised, with sudden clarity, that we were lost. Every snapped twig sounded like accusation. Paw prints of big cats, boar tracks pressed into soft earth, towering trees and ancient tree ferns — all seemed to lean inward. Our freshly acquired knowledge deserted us.

We guessed directions from the sun’s angle, the slope of land, the imagined course of a stream. Voices dropped, tempers frayed. For half an hour that felt far longer, the forest reduced us to helplessness. Catharsis, I later learnt, often arrives disguised as fear. Relief came on a bicycle. A man appeared, pedalling carefully along a narrow forest path, a polystyrene box tied behind him. Language failed us, but gestures did not. He was carrying lunch for our group. With nods and signs, he conveyed that both batches would meet near a waterfall just ahead. He pointed the way, then guided us like one might shepherd errant children back to safety.

The sound of voices returned first, then laughter. We pressed five rupees and a few cigarettes into his hand and asked, again in gestures, for silence. He replied with the familiar Kannada sideways nod — wordless, reassuring. One by one, we merged back into the group by the waterfall, unnoticed.

Cool water washed sweat and fear from our faces. Lunch was served. The vegetable biryani tasted extraordinary — not for its spice, but for what it represented: return, survival, forgiveness unasked. Around us, the forest resumed its role as classroom, serene and indifferent to our private reckoning. Our teachers never knew. Or perhaps they did, and chose silence. Among ourselves, the episode became a shared secret, retold years later, always with laughter edged faintly with shame.

Now, at 68 and retired from service, I understand what that day truly offered. The forest disciplined us more effectively than any reprimand could have. It stripped away arrogance, reminded us of scale, and returned us humbled. To retired senior IFS officers Dr Rai and Dr Dilipkumar, this is a belated confession — and an apology. The forest has long forgiven us. It is only now that we forgive ourselves.

— The writer is a retired Indian Forest Service officer