This is the final photograph taken before our forest camp was eventually eroded and washed away by the relentless force of the water. In this frame, we stand like a group of old friends at a station, waiting for a train that only goes one way. We knew the camp was becoming a part of the river’s history. Yet we smiled for the lens, capturing a moment of defiance before the landscape reset itself.
Next to the camp had stood a jujube tree. It was a generous thing, dropping its tangy sweet berries for anyone who bothered to look up. During my inspections, I would fill my pockets with berries. The sharp tang of the fruit a brief distraction from the weight of administrative worries. Occasionally, I would also carry a few back to make pickles.
We called the camp “New Nano”. A name that suggested something small, yet sturdy, and perhaps a bit too modern for this ancient forest. There is a certain quiet irony in calling it “New” now that it has become a part of history.
To reach the camp, one had to commit to the journey. It was a rhythmic boat ride followed by a long, contemplative walk through the deep green silence of the woods. It was a place where the world felt held in a delicate balance. But nature is not particularly interested in balance; it prefers transformation.
The staff there were however men of a rare, quiet breed. They lived with the sound of the river beneath their floor, a low growl that never quite ceased. A constant reminder of the soil erosion threatening their post. Yet, they stayed. There is something profoundly moving about people who continue to sweep a porch that they know will be underwater by the next moon. It wasn’t just duty; it was a form of dignity and their refusal to let the inevitable ruin the present.
I tried my hand at some minor innovations. We offered the river sandbags and wooden stakes. But these were the sort of humble gestures humans make when they are not yet ready to say goodbye. Looking back, we were like children building sandcastles against a rising tide. The river, with the indifference of a giant, simply swallowed our efforts and asked for more.
Today, the camp exists only in this photograph and in a small, glass jar on my shelf. The camp is gone and the tree has followed it into the silt. But as I taste the jujube pickle,I realize that while the river can take the ground from under our feet, it can’t quite swallow the memories we’ve managed to preserve in jars.
