THE TEESTA VALLEY
This great forest, which extends for hundreds of miles along the
slopes of the Himalaya, reaches up from the plains to the snows. In
the lower part it is a truly tropical forest, and about a tropical forest
there is something peculiarly mysterious. A strange stillness is over
all. Not, indeed, the absolute silence of the desert, where literally not
a sound is heard; for here in the forest, even during the hot noonday
quiet, there is always the purring of insect life. But that stillness
when not a leaf moves and no harsh noise is heard, when an
impressive hush is laid upon the scene and we seem to be in some
mysterious Presence dominating all about us and rousing our
expectancy.
A kind of awe seizes us, and with it also comes a keen exhilaration.
We can see at most for a hundred yards in any direction. But we
know that the forest extends like this for hundreds of miles. And we
realise that if we wandered off the track we might never find it again.
It is all very awe-inspiring, and in some ways frightening. Still, we
are thrilled by the sight of such a profusion, intensity, and variety of
life. In this hot, steamy atmosphere plants and trees grow in
luxuriant abundance. Every inch of soil is occupied. And these
forests are not like woods in England, which contain only three or
four species--oaks, beeches, sycamores, etc. In these Sikkim forests
we seldom see two trees of the same kind standing next each other.
One tree may be more prevalent than others, but there is always
great variety in the forms and colours of the stems, the branches, the
leaves, the flowers, the habit of growth. There are trees of immense
height with tall, strong, straight stems, and there are shrubs like
hydrangeas of every size and description. There are climbers as huge
as cables. And there are gentle little plants hardly rising above the
ground. There is no end to the variety of plant life, and we have an
inner spring of delight as we come across treasure after treasure that
hitherto we had only seen reared with infinite care in some
expensive hot-house.
And what we see is only, we feel, a stray sample of what there is to
be seen. What may there not be in those forest depths which we dare
not enter for fear of losing our way! What other towering forest
monarchs might we not come across if we plunged into the forest!
What other exquisite flowers, what insects, what birds, what animals!
What wealth of insect life may there not be at the tops of the trees
where the fierce sunshine hidden from us by their leaves is drawing
out their flowers! What may there not be going on in the ground
beneath us! We know, that in these forests, perhaps near enough to
see us, though their forms are hidden by their likeness to their leafy
surroundings and the dappled sunlight, are animals as various as
elephants, tigers, leopards, foxes, squirrels, and bats; birds as
various as hawks, parrots, and finches; and insects from butterflies,
bees, and wasps to crickets, beetles, and ants. The forest, we know,
in addition to all the wealth of tree and plant life, is teeming with
animal and insect life, though of this we are able to see very little, so
carefully do animals conceal themselves. In the night they emerge,
and in the morning and evening there is a deafening din of insect life.
But at noonday there is a soft and solemn hush, and we are tense
with curiosity to know all that is going on in those mysterious forest
depths and up among the tree-tops, so close but so impossible of
access.
The great forest is the very epitome of life. Concentrated here in
small compass is every form and variety of living thing, from
lowliest plant to forest monarch, from simplest animalcule to
elephant, monkey, and man. There is life and abundant life all about
us. But it is not the noisy, clamorous, obtrusive life of the city. It is a
still, intense life, full of untold possibilities for good or harm. And
herein lies its mystery: we see much, but we feel that there is
infinitely more behind.
Of this life of the forest in all its richness, intensity, and variety we
shall come to know more as we ascend the Teesta Valley till it
reaches the snows, and tropical plant and animal life changes first to
temperate and then to arctic forms. But first we must note some
beauties of the valley itself.
* * *
The valley of the great Teesta River, the valleys of its tributaries, the
gorges through which the main river and its tributaries rush, the
cascades pouring in succession down the mountain-sides, the
sequestered glens and dells--all these have beauties which the
terrific rain and the mists in which they are usually enveloped do not
hide but augment.
The River Teesta itself, though only a minor contributor to the
Brahmaputra, is nevertheless during the rainy season, when it is fed
both by the falling rain and by the melting snows and glaciers of the
Kinchinjunga region, impressive in its might and energy. With a
force and tumult that nothing could withstand it comes swirling
down the valley. Before its rushing impetuosity everything would be
swept away. For it is no little tossing torrent: it possesses depth and
weight and volume, and sweeps majestically along in great waves
and cataracts. In comparison with the serene composure of the lofty
summits here is life and force and activity to the full--and
destructive activity at that, to all appearance. Yet as, from the safety
of a bridge by which the genius of man has spanned it, we look upon
the turmoil, a strange thrill comes through us. There is such splendid
energy in the river. We are fascinated by the power it displays. It is
glorious to look upon. Alarming in a way it is. But we know it can
only act within certain strictly defined bounds. A foot beyond those
bounds it is powerless. And while it is already confined by Nature
within these limits, we know the day will come when it will be
completely within the control of man and its very power available
for our own purposes. So in the end it is with no sense of terror that
we watch the raging river in its headlong course. Rather do we enjoy
the sight of such exultant energy, which will one day be at man's
disposal. We rejoice with the river in a feeling of power, and herein
lies its Beauty for us.
* * *
As we look at the tremendous gorges through which the river clears
its way we again are filled with awe and wonder. Straight facing us
is a clean, sheer cliff of hardest, sternest rock. It cannot be actually
perpendicular, but to all appearance it is. And the mere sight of it
strengthens our souls. Here is granite solidity, and yet no mere stolid
obstinacy. For these cliffs have risen--so the geologists tell us
--through their own internal energy to their present proud position.
They have, indeed, had to give place to the river to this extent that
they have had to acknowledge his previous right of way and to leave
a passage for him in their upward effort. The river is careful to exact
that much toll from them year by year. But having paid that toll,
they have risen by a process of steady, long persistence, and have
maintained themselves in their exalted position by sheer firmness
and tenacity of character. And as, dripping with warm moisture and
carrying with them in any available crevice graceful ferns and trees,
they rise above us high up into the clouds, and form the buttresses of
those snowy peaks of which we catch occasional glimpses, we are
impressed not only with the height of the aspiration those peaks
embody, but with the strength and persistency of purpose which was
necessary to carry the aspiration into effect.
Overpowered, indeed, we feel at times--shut in and overshadowed
by what seems so infinitely greater than ourselves. The roaring river
fills the centre of the gorge. The precipitous cliffs rise sheer on
either hand. We seem for the moment too minute to cope with such
titanic conditions. But sometimes by circumventing the cliffs and
after a long tedious detour appearing high above them, sometimes
by blasting a passage across their very face, we have proved
ourselves able to overcome them. They no longer affright us. And as
we return down the valley after a journey to its upmost limit, it is
with nothing but sheer delight that we look upon these cliffs. They
simply impress us with the strength that must go along with
elevation of purpose if that purpose is to be achieved. Unbuttressed
by these staunch cliffs the mountains could never have reached their
present height. We glory, then, with the cliffs in their solidity and
strength as they proudly face the world. And we recognise that in
this firmness and consistency of purpose lies their especial Beauty.
* * *
In contrast with the swirling river and hard, rugged cliffs we, quite
close to them, and hidden away in a modest tributary of a tributary
in the quiet forest depths, will happen upon some deep sequestered
pool which imbues us with a sense of the delicacy and reserve of
Nature. We here see her in a peculiarly tender aspect. The pool is
still and clear. The lulling murmurs of a waterfall show whence it
draws its being. A gentle rivulet carries the overbrim away. It is
bounded by rocks and boulders green with exquisite ferns and
mosses. Overhanging it are weeping palms with long straight leaves.
Trees, with erect stems as tall as Nelson's Column, strain upward to
the light. Butterflies in numbers flutter noiselessly about. The air is
absolutely still and of a feel like satin. Clouds of intangible softness
and clean and white as snow float around, appear, dissolve, and
reappear. Through the parting in the overhanging trees the intense
blue sky is seen in glimpses. The sun here and there pierces through
the arching foliage, and the greens of the foliage glisten brighter still.
The whole atmosphere of the spot is one of reticence and reserve.
Yet quiet though it be and restful though it be, there is no sense of
stagnation. The pool, though deep and still, is vividly alive. Its
waters are continually being renewed. And the forest, though not a
leaf moves, is, we know, straining with all the energy of life for food
and light, for air and moisture. So by this jewel of a pool in its
verdant setting we have a sense of an activity which is gentle and
refined. The glen's is a shy and intimate Beauty, especially
congenial to us after the forceful Beauty of the river and the bold,
proud Beauty of the cliffs. But it is no insipid Beauty: in its very
quietness and confidence is strength.