The Woman Who Stopped Going to the Jungle

The road to Daodhara curls through the gentle folds of Manas National Park — past sal groves whispering in the afternoon wind, through fields still warm with the scent of harvested paddy, and into the quiet hum of village life. The closer one gets to the Bhutan border, the more the lines blur — between forest and field, between wilderness and habitation, between survival and renewal.

It is here, at Lwkhi Bazar, that a modest bamboo-and-tin tea stall tells a larger story of change. The woman behind it, Bibari Bala Basumatary, doesn’t call herself a conservationist. Yet, her life mirrors the very rhythm of Manas’s revival — a story of slow, deliberate transformation rooted in dignity and hope.

A Life Once Tied to the Forest

The market is alive with voices — traders haggling over vegetables, schoolchildren tugging at packets of puffed rice, and the metallic clatter of cups and kettles. Amid it all, Bibari stands by her stove, pouring tea into steel cups, the sweet aroma of rice flour and smoke blending with laughter.

“Before, life was very hard,” she says, her voice steady yet softened by memory. “I used to go into the jungle to collect firewood. Sometimes I worked as a daily labourer. My children grew up like that — we survived, but barely.”

The jungle was once her lifeline — and her burden. It fed her, but it also trapped her in dependence. Each dawn, she would walk miles under the sal canopy, axe in hand, eyes alert for signs of elephants. “There were days when I would come back empty-handed,” she recalls. “And nights when I couldn’t sleep, wondering how to feed my children the next day.”

The forest loomed large over her life — both giver and taker.

A New Beginning at the Edge of Manas

Eight months ago, things began to shift. With support from Aaranyak’s livelihood initiative, Bibari started her tea and pitha stall near the market. It was a simple idea — one stall, one stove, and one woman’s determination to step out of the cycle of dependence.

“Now Bhutanese traders come to eat my pithas,” she smiles, her eyes bright with quiet pride. “I earn enough to live, and I understand now why protecting the forest matters. If the forest stays, we stay.”

The change isn’t just economic — it’s emotional. For women like Bibari, earning from their own hands restores a sense of control long denied. The tea she pours now carries more than warmth — it carries agency.

A Bhutanese woman sitting nearby joins in: “When we come to this market, it feels like we are among our own people.”

In Daodhara, borders dissolve into belonging. The forest, once a wall, has become a bridge.

From Fear to Faith

Daodhara, like many fringe villages of Manas, has seen its share of turbulence. The scars of the Bodo movement linger in memories — years of unrest, displacement, and silence. The forest that once sheltered them also watched them suffer. But over time, the wounds began to heal.

Today, the same landscape that once echoed with gunfire now hums with conversation, trade, and small acts of hope. It is women like Bibari who lead this quiet revolution — not through grand declarations, but through persistence.

Her pitha stall may look ordinary, but it represents a shift in consciousness — from extraction to coexistence, from dependence to stewardship.

The Changing Heart of Conservation

For decades, conservation was seen as something that happened inside the forest — the work of guards, scientists, and rangers. But here in Daodhara, it begins with a kettle of tea.

When livelihoods become secure, forests heal faster. When dignity is restored, the idea of protection becomes personal. Bibari’s story, in its simplicity, reflects a truth conservationists have long grappled with: that people are not outside the forest — they are part of its living system.

Aaranyak’s initiatives across the fringe villages have enabled many like her to find new ways of living — weaving handloom, running homestays, growing vegetables, or selling tea. Together, they form the fragile yet powerful human web that keeps Manas alive.

Between the Forest and the Future

As dusk settles over Daodhara, the light turns the sal leaves bronze. Smoke rises from Bibari’s stove in a slow spiral — a signal, perhaps, that something is changing. Children run past with plates of steaming pithas. The day’s trade winds down, but her story lingers.

Manas still carries its scars — of conflict, of loss, of long-forgotten promises. Yet, it also carries its strength. Between the forest and the future stand people like Bibari Bala Basumatary, who have learned, patiently and painfully, that survival and conservation are not two stories, but one.

Here, the forest is not just habitat. It is history, livelihood, and home.

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