
Its always fun to win the day, to have the last laugh, to be the last man standing: But, wouldn't that be a lonely day, to be the last man standing? I wonder.
FALKA, pronounced as Folka, is a name of a village deep in the interior jungles of West Tripura. Located at the hill top bordering Amarpur, the area lies inaccessible by roads, and as time passes, it has become the safe refuge of the so called militants. Few dared to go there unprotected.The hill is clearly visible from a distance, alluring and mysterious. Ever since my eyes fell on the lonely hill, I felt the call of the wilderness deep in the heart...and as days passed, by a stroke of luck I somehow made arrangements with the Assam Rifles and got a ticket to the long awaited journey to Falka...it was an exhilirating journey, long and ardous, almost daunting task to climb to the summit ...ooh, what a walk, what an effort, what a great feeling behind all the risk and the dangers that could have befell us that day..we reached the summit after a long long walk, and took a long long rest. The events that took place still remains clear to me...the prisoner and his crying wife, the fear and awestruck villagers, the coolness of the man apprehended, the hard cold eyes of the jawans and the long journey back home, into the jungle, thru the long cold streams, the food we ate, and most of all the great escape of the young father who could not bear the thought of being behind bars for several years, maybe...The risk he took, the search and all the confusions, the angry jawans and their polished Kalashnikovs..ohh i watched with rapt attention...it was over a soon as it began, the prisoner has escaped and is not found.
