bhaskar saikia

Today, I’m speaking with schoolchildren on the occasion of International Day for Biological Diversity. I spent some time thinking about how best to help them connect with this year’s theme: Harmony with Nature and Sustainable Development. One thing I know for sure—traditional speeches rarely excite kids. So instead, I decided to tell them a story.

It’s about a curious little boy who loves wandering through the forest, wide-eyed at the wonders around him. He can understand the language of the forest—a magical gift that helps him uncover the secrets of nature. Through his journey, I hope to help the children understand how every living creature, no matter how small or strange, plays an important role in the ecosystem.

With this story, I wish to spark in them a sense of awe for the natural world and inspire them to dream of a future built in true harmony with nature.

---

The Whispering Forest and Bahduh

In the heart of Meghalaya, nestled between green hills and misty clouds, was a small village beside a mysterious woodland known as the Whispering Forest.

Here, everything seemed to have a voice—the wind through the trees, the bubbling streams, and even the frogs that sang at dusk. Most villagers just heard sounds. But one boy—Bahduh—heard whispers.

Bahduh loved the forest more than anything. Every evening, he would sit quietly by the pond and listen.

Then one night, as the fireflies blinked like stars, a tiny frog with a green back and blue spots croaked gently: “We are going quiet… our homes are drowning in garbage and light…”

Bahduh jumped back. Was he imagining things? But then another voice—softer than a sigh—came from under a leaf: “Our homes are disappearing. The humans don’t know. They don’t listen.”

Bahduh’s eyes widened. The frog was speaking. Not in words, but in feelings. He could understand them.

The frogs told him of concrete roads cutting through the forest, bright lights near the streams and garbage that poisoned their ponds. Their songs—the music of the forest—were being silenced.

Worried, Bahduh decided to tell the village elders. But when he said, “The frogs are talking to me,” the people laughed. “He dreams too much!” they said.

But then something strange happened. The villagers noticed more mosquitoes than ever before. Crops didn’t grow as well. Birds were fewer. The forest felt… quieter.

Night after night, Bahduh listened. And it wasn’t just the frogs. One evening, a voice echoed from above:

It was the Owl: “Without the trees, where will I perch? If the mice disappear, who will I hunt?”

The tiger roared: “If the frogs vanish, who will eat the insects that ruin the forest?”

The Elephant, deep and gentle, added: “I clear the forest paths so sunlight can reach the soil. I carry seeds across the jungle. Without me, trees won’t travel.”

The Bee, buzzing nervously said: “I visit a thousand flowers a day, and pollinate them. If I vanish, fruits won’t grow. Your food depends on me.”

The Blue Earthworm, wiggling in the soil, spoke meekly: “I make the soil rich, so plants can grow strong. I work silently, but my job is never done.”

The Bat, gliding overhead, squealed: “I spread seeds and eat insects. I’m nature’s farmer and night guard.”

And then, glowing gently under a log, a soft light flickered in the darkness. The Glowing Mushroom, from the deep Jaintia Hills said: “I grow on decaying wood. I turn death into life. I light the way in the darkest nights—reminding the world that even we have magic to offer.”

Bahduh realized that every being—no matter how small, silent, or strange—played a part in keeping the forest alive.

But the animals were worried.

The frogs croaked: “Pesticides are killing our eggs…”

The bees buzzed: “We can’t find wildflowers anymore…”

The owl hooted: “Lights blind us at night…”

Even the mushrooms dimmed.

So, one stormy night, the Forest Council met beneath the old Jingkieng Jri—the wisest being of all.

The Jingkieng Jri spoke in a voice like the wind: “Our forest is sick. And only humans can heal it. But who among them still listens?”

The animals all turned to Bahduh. The Jingkieng said: “You heard our whispers. Will you carry our voice to your people?”

Bahduh nodded.

With a heart full of determination, Bahduh ran back and gathered the village. This time, he didn’t speak of whispers. He showed them. He took them to the drying ponds, the silent forest, the plastic waste. He reminded them how the frogs once sang, how the fireflies danced.

The villagers finally listened. They cleaned the ponds, planted trees, and turned off lights near the forest at night. Slowly, the croaks returned. Birds came back. The streams ran clear.

And on the next full moon night, as Bahduh sat near the pond, the frogs sang—not whispers of fear, but songs of joy.

The forest was alive again. The fireflies blinked again. The frogs sang their full-throated songs. Even the Glowing Mushrooms lit up the forest floor like tiny stars.

And every year on May 22, Bahduh would gather the children by the forest pond and say: “In this forest, everyone has a voice. You just have to listen.”

Moral of the Story: Biodiversity isn’t just a word—it’s a living web, where even a frog’s croak or a mushroom’s glow matters. Protecting life means listening to all its voices, especially the quiet ones.