Amodini, oblivious to Matongini’s concerns, was busy in her own world. It was a simple, carefree and happy world. She nestled cozily in the gnarled cradles of the Chalta[1] trees that grew abundantly in the green thickets of the Chilapata forests and felt peace pervade her being. She noticed the beautiful mosaic of dried Sal leaves on the damp forest floor and reveled in its beauty. She lay on her back facing the blue sky above and watched with boundless glee as the branches, tired from bearing plump ripened fruits,…
