bhaskar saikia

I often think about where science ends and feeling begins—if it does at all.

Science asks for structure: measurements, names, carefully recorded facts. Feeling arrives differently—through silence, through dusk, through the way a forest changes its voice before rain. For a long time, I believed these two belonged to separate worlds. Time in the field has taught me otherwise.

When I walk through a forest, I collect data—temperature, habitat, calls, movement. But alongside these notes are moments that resist measurement: the stillness of leaf litter in winter, the pause before a frog calls, the soft shift from light to dark. These moments do not weaken science; they give it context.

Names matter. To name a species is to recognize it and place it within shared knowledge. But without narrative, names remain distant. A checklist tells us where a frog occurs. A story tells us how it lives.

This is the bridge I return to—between data and dusk. Science grounds us in evidence; feeling reminds us why that evidence matters. Together, they offer a fuller way of seeing.

In conservation, this bridge becomes essential. Numbers can show decline, but connection inspires care. Forests are not only mapped spaces; they are living rhythms of sound, moisture, and time. Amphibians are not just indicators—they are lives shaped by seasons.

I do not believe science loses strength when it makes room for narrative. Narrative carries knowledge beyond journals, into everyday awareness.

At dusk, boundaries soften. Day becomes night without announcement. Perhaps science and feeling can meet the same way—not in conflict, but in quiet transition.

This is where I try to stand: between what can be measured and what must be felt, between names and the stories that allow them to breathe.