In the past the villagers used the jungle for their cultivation. They still do. They cut down the trees, they clear the land, burn the scrub and plant their chillies and vegetables and grains. They set up watch huts to protect their crops from the animals, wild boar and elephant—in the past those were the only marauders. Their herds of cattle were driven into the jungle at night. In the mornings the herds came out and were milked. The milk was made into curd—there was time for it to settle and grow firm. Now, often, the everyday things of life cannot go on. There are curfews that disrupt life and people have often to abandon their homes. Now humans themselves herd in the jungles. There are deadly poisonous reptiles in the thickets, but perhaps the villagers prefer to have at least this choice, to choose the freedom to die in whichever way they want. I never joined the villagers who called me to spend the nights in the jungle. I preferred to remain in a silent and deserted schoolroom. Though I did not know how much longer I, too, could remain safe. Killing has become a legitimate pastime. At any time, at any point in the road, a land mine could explode. A party of villagers might be travelling in a vehicle, a bus, truck, lorry, van, and they could be blown to smithereens. Not only men, not only army personnel, but women and children too. They may have been going to the market to buy their provisions. People, often innocent people, are dragged out of buses and shot. Massacres, reprisals, horror and violence. Men open fire on those who are praying in mosques, in churches, in temples and refugee camps. And so it goes on, on all sides, among all communities. No mercy, no pity is shown on any side …. And I myself, did I go up to those who had fallen when they got out of their helicopter, touch a still warm brow and utter one word of comfort? I thought I had no enemy. Then whom did I call my friend?