I often think of my early life in my village. There was no electricity or protected drinking water or even a motorable road. As such, the village was not connected by bus service. Only a couple of people owned a bicycle. At that time my only aim was to become a graduate, find a suitable job and leave my village for good. I fulfilled my desire. I got a job in the city. But the anonymity of city life brought me the pleasant memories of my village. There were enough vacant lands which served us as playgrounds. In the evening, the shepherds returned to the village from the forest and the hills where they had taken the cattle for grazing. We assembled at our village temple. The shepherds had a fund of stories about their encounters with the denizens of the forest – how they chased the wild animals and saved their charges. Undeniably, some of their stories were true. The bite marks of a leopard were visible on the skin of the cattle. Their stories continued into the night. Forgetting my home work, I continued to listen to their stories. Imagine a village where there was no electricity and we listened to the horror stories in pitch darkness (There was an oil lamp in the temple. But that only helped increase the effect of darkness). Those stories by the shepherds kindled my interest in the hunting stories of Jim Corbet, Kenneth Anderson and many other hunters. Now I visit the village once a year. The shepherds are not there. The tractor has replaced the farm animals. Farming as a calling has failed miserably. People have left the village in search of other work. There are no known faces. Most houses are either in ruin or have changed hands. Only the pleasant memories of the good old days are left with me.