When the resounding buzz of cicadas and crickets fade into the night, there is an irregular but well determined "pitt… patt… pitt… patt," tender and rhythmic, mildly soporific, a reminder that life is still beating on a winter night. This is the sound of dew falling on the leaves amidst a thick, smoky mist floating in the dark forest.

　　Every winter, I long to return to the broadleaf forest of the Himalayan foothills, where myriad trees, each towering above the other, bring comfort from the humdrum of urban life. It's a place to look forward to, where the sun rays streaming through the branches, and the thick canopy of leaves, create a kaleidoscopic light and shadow show on the forest floor. This chiaroscuro is magical, even hypnotic.

　　The sharp light makes the giant wood spider's web glitter, revealing a hapless fly caught in its fine trap. If one looks closely, one can see the spider hunter busy on a different twig, spinning another trap of exquisite silk.

　　The silence is broken by laughter, not by my kind but by a flock of white-crested laughing thrushes. Their joy reverberates along the dense corridors only to be picked up by another raucous inmate, the magnificent racket-tailed drongo. I follow its shrill and metallic call but can hardly find it between the clusters of leaves. Its spectacular, long, dangling tail finally gives it away, though it tends to merge with the leaves that create a perfect mosaic of shades, spanning from the brightest of greens to autumnal reds and browns.

　　I make my way through the winding forest road, catching a fleeting glimpse of two yellow-throated pine martens and an animal from the weasel family as it crosses my path and vanishes into the maze of brown trunks in a series of hops, skips and jumps.

　　The birdsong is omnipresent. A magpie robin sings beautifully only to be cut off abruptly by the drumming of a flameback woodpecker. The robin may be cheery but the woodpecker has no time to spare. He needs the sun to tap into the bark where his lunch waits in the form of insects.

　　On the forest floor, it's a different game, set and match. More or less at every clearing, you will find imposing ant hills, like miniature fortresses in a fairyland guarding their precious inhabitants. But they're all too delicate and particularly inviting for the Sloth bear that would slash through the mound for a delicious snack. Had the termites believed in a flattened existence, rather than exposing themselves like a cake platter at high tea, they would probably have had a better chance at survival. But then, food chain dynamics are pre-set. Talking of bears, this forest is a perfect cover for them and the elephants that may creep up on the unsuspecting visitor without warning. To explore such a wilderness is a privilege. Make sure you take the help of trained naturalists, who can show you the fascinating life in the undergrowth with practiced ease. You may hear the alarm calls of the sambhar and barking deer but the big cat moves and stalks silently in between the big-leafed clumps, soft paws on the dead rubble of the forest floor and may just dart like a flash of lightning and be gone before you blink. To spot a tiger in this forest shouldn't be your obsession. It will happen if you have the patience and love for its habitat.

　　As the season changes, the leaves will start to fall off and new ones will emerge. The trees, with their somewhat bald crowns, will spring-clean themselves even as the brown and yellow leaves lay out a rolling carpet.

　　Come spring and the Indian paradise flycatcher will flit across like a white or orange ribbon depending on the status of its adulthood, while the whistling Indian pitta will join the talent hunt with the common hawk-cuckoo to be the loudest of them all. Another grand season will open in the forest. It now has a firm grip on my soul like its most persistent bug, the sal borer. And it's digging deep into my consciousness.