Diwakar Sapkota
Hari’s last days in the village were over. These had been his happiest times—the green forests, the tall mountains touching the sky, the smell of wet soil and fire smoke, the kind villagers who treated him like family. He would miss everything so much.
With sadness, he drank the last of his tea and turned to the house owner. “Thank you for everything. I must leave now.”
“Travel safely,” the owner said with a nod. Hari gave him a small thank-you gift before walking out into the foggy morning.
Heavy rain had hit the village the night before, turning dirt roads into dangerous mud rivers. News came that Hari’s mother was very sick, so he had to go home fast. But the rain made it impossible for cars or buses to pass. His only way was to walk through the forest to the next village by the river, where he could catch a bus.
A light rain hung in the air as Hari started walking, his boots sinking into sticky red mud. The village was strangely quiet—maybe everyone was hiding from the rain. Only the faraway sound of cows could be heard. Hari never liked using umbrellas; he enjoyed feeling the rain on his skin and smelling the fresh earth after rain. But now, his clothes were wet, his shoes covered in mud, and the path ahead was slippery and unclear.
After some time, the road split into two. Hari stopped, unsure which way to go. A villager looked at him from a window, as if he knew Hari was lost.
“Which way goes to the edge of the forest?” Hari shouted over the rain.
“Take the right path!” the man yelled back.
Hari thanked him and kept walking. Soon, the village disappeared behind him as trees surrounded him. He had always loved the wild—the sound of insects, the crackle of dry leaves under his feet. But today, the forest felt different.
Thick fog wrapped around the trees like pale hands. The path became narrow and twisted, covered in slippery pine leaves. Hari’s breathing grew fast. What if a wild animal attacks me? The thought twisted inside him like a snake.
He walked faster, his heart pounding. Every shadow seemed to move. Every leaf rustle made him jump. His body stiffened—sweat ran down his back even though the air was cold.
Then, a sharp cry—“Ow… ow… ow!”—cut through the air. Birds. Their calls sounded like warnings. A chill ran down his spine. Is this a bad sign? His hands shook.
He moved forward carefully, stepping softly as if silence would protect him. “Just birds,” he whispered. “Nothing to fear.”
But then—another noise. Leaves moving. Not from the wind. Something was there.
His throat closed. Two people appeared from the bushes—a man and a woman, holding sticks.
“W-where are you going?” Hari stuttered.
“Back to the village,” the man said, studying him. “Why are you alone in the forest?”
“I—I’m going home,” Hari said weakly.
The strangers nodded and walked uphill. Seeing them made Hari feel a little better.
Clenching his teeth, he kept going, climbing over roots and slippery rocks. His legs ached. Then, luck—a clean stream running through the trees. He bent down, drinking the cold water and splashing his face to calm down.
The sound of the river grew louder. He was nearly there.
“Almost out,” he breathed, dropping his bag to wipe his forehead. The rain had stopped, but he was still sweating. A cool breeze touched his skin.
Then, an idea—“I should take a photo. To remember this.”
He grabbed his phone, turned on the camera—
And stopped.
On the screen, just behind his own face, a leopard moved quietly through the bushes, its yellow eyes fixed on a deer.
Hari’s whole body went cold.
(Diwakar Sapkota is a Forestry Instructor at Panini Polytechnical College, Arghakhanchi. He can be accessed through diwakarsapkota08@gmail.com)
