Walking through the castle felt like being enveloped by a part of history itself. Where everyone saw old, eroded bricks, empty gardens, and ancient rooms, I saw so much. I saw the local artisans who lovingly designed the soft, yet firm floor, and painted the beautiful designs with loads of detail. I saw memories of joy, with the women roaming around the garden, stopping by to pick up flowers. I saw Amar Singh going to evening parties, choosing one of his four carriages. Most of all, I saw the glory of the castle that got both British aristocrats and proud Rajputs together. It wasn’t the words that got the experience alive. It was my imagination.


The air was icy cold, goosebumps covered my sweater-clad arms, the roaring sound of the jeep was all I heard with small intervals of a bird’s tweet. We had all come to the reserve expecting to see the elusive tiger, Whenever I heard the word I ignored the cold and scanned the grassy landscapes for signs of orange and black, stopping the urge to talk, afraid to scare it away. Everytime we cross a kilometre, failing to spot any signs of orange and black, a pint of disappointment fell into my cup of hope. I suddenly felt a rush of sympathy to this animal, the royal tiger trying to survive in this tough world.


A strange smell filled the air as we approached lines of cow dung mixed with worms. The farmer dunked his hands into the still moist cow dung to reveal numerous worms wandering in and around it. My classmates began to pick up the worms and a new feeling in me pushed me to do it as well. The worm was slippery, its slimy body moved smoothly on my palm until it was put back down into what was now its home. The worms were able to slowly turn the cow dung into manure and this gushed a feeling of curiosity in my head and  left me wondering… unless we were forced to, would we, as humans help others knowing it was of no benefit to us at all?



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