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Where does habit ever go? As the saying goes, “Even if the husking pedal reaches heaven, it still pounds rice.” My condition is much the same! I thought I should write about my own mistakes—unintentional though they may have been—and the costs they brought, so that my successors might benefit. That is the origin of this writing. Yet since 1979, when I began imparting knowledge to students at various rock-climbing and adventure training camps, the habit has never left me. The students themselves won’t let me stop—so where is my escape!

Therefore, I make an earnest request to my readers: if there is anything to learn from my errors, please do take it. If there is anything to learn even from my endless chatter about knowledge, please do take that too. And if I have been excessive at times, I hope you will look upon it with forgiving eyes.

I have written before: the child who discovers the joy of learning has, without realizing it, already stepped onto a lifelong journey of adventure. Indeed, our entire life ought to be an adventure—filled with surprise, expectation, new experiences, uncertainty, and yet again renewed hope. From this we draw excitement above all, though much else besides!

But excitement will not come if we simply sit and wait for it. We must chase after it, plan for it, even schedule spontaneity itself. Paradoxical as it may sound, the finest experiences occur only when three things align: the right time, the right place, and the right people. And then, possibilities truly become infinite.

Mark Twain once remarked that within each of us lies the material to fulfill our goals and dreams. What is missing is training, education, knowledge, and insight—those tools by which we can unlock the wealth within.

The years after high school (ages sixteen to eighteen) are the best time to begin the journey of self-discovery. This can take many forms. In our fast-paced, short-lived society, the common ways are traveling with friends to historic or tourist sites, cycling long distances, or driving scooters, motorbikes, or cars along highways. None of these are wrong. Yet if someone wishes to do something extraordinary, I would say: leave behind the comforts of the developed world and set out on a greater adventure (if possible, mountaineering)—where one crosses the boundaries of familiar life and discovers the thrill of the unknown. After all, an adventure is not measured by the distance traveled, but by the depth of lessons carried home.

Stay away long enough to feel the ache of homesickness, and then remain longer still until that ache is overcome. This requires maturity and commitment. At the same time, stepping out demands that one be self-reliant, confident, cooperative, sociable, adaptable, resilient, and possessed of a personality both strong and inspiring. And always remember—no great work has ever been accomplished without enthusiasm.

During December to February, local adventure clubs organize 4–5day introductory training camps in forested hill environments for rock climbing and adventure learning. These camps are immensely helpful for beginners. They teach self-reliance, and students learn not only about themselves but also about the nature of adventure. I consider them “emotion-stirring projects.” When love for nature is awakened, that love transforms into passion, and a person becomes inwardly hungry for what they cherish. This, above all, is what one should gain from such camps.

Between the ages of 18 and 23, you begin to acquire real education. At this stage, you are in college. Never again in life will your inquisitive mind carry you so far afield, nor will you receive recognition both inside and outside the classroom as you do now. Some even dream of changing the world during this time! Yet one must always remain kind to the environment—your family, friends, neighbors, the greenery around you, animals, and even insects, all deserve your affection. To do so, you must become more educated. Long-term training camps of 21 days or more await you. Welcome them into your life, and take part in thrilling adventures. Only then will you feel that you have truly grown into adulthood.

Adulthood, however, does not arrive automatically. Many grow older in years but are not adults in the true sense; they remain dependent like children. According to America’s National Opinion Research Center, the average American believes adulthood begins at age 26. In India’s middle-class society, it is much the same—around 25 or 26. This means that in the post-college years (ages 24–30), you still have the opportunity for free exploration. Your twenties are the best time to be independent, materially poor yet genuinely happy. Step outside the comfort of home. Travel teaches that what you read in books is not so far removed from reality. And adventure travel teaches much more—truths that lie beyond books.

After 30, it is natural to become burdened with family responsibilities. Elders then offer various domestic counsels, which should not be dismissed. Yet remember—those who never venture out learn very little about themselves. Do you not wish to know yourself? Surely you do. So do not remain merely a bearer of burdens. Each time you return home from an adventure, carry your responsibilities not as endurance, but with joy.

When one is in unfamiliar surroundings, dangers can arise. I speak here particularly of mountain travel—trekking, rock climbing, and mountaineering. Safety is of paramount importance. In my own past, I was often careless and faced many disasters—I even lost many dear friends in the mountains. Therefore, I urge young people: be mindful of safety. Safety is not fear—it is respect for nature’s power. The true meaning of enjoying the freedom of the hills or mountains lies in returning safely. Only through experience, knowledge, and a scientific spirit of analysis does one become a genuine climber vis-à-vis a mountaineer.

The mountains are vast, beautiful, and at the same time fierce in nature, where man is but a tiny particle. Thus, mountaineering is risky, yet deeply alluring. People go to the mountains not merely to conquer summits, but for beauty, the joy of solitude, or self-development. As Edmund Hillary said, “We do not conquer the mountains, we conquer ourselves.”

Strange though it may seem, the dangers of the mountains attract people even more. When confronted with death, one realizes the value of life more profoundly. On physical, intellectual, and mental levels, the mountains reward us continually, offering extraordinary delight. Yet risk and danger must never be neglected. The best safeguard is to strengthen physical capacity, practice regular exercise and yoga, and strive sincerely to elevate oneself intellectually and mentally.

Risks are of two kinds—calculable and incalculable. Calculable risks are the natural hazards of the mountains, which can be reduced through knowledge and experience. Incalculable risks arise from ignorance, arrogance, overconfidence, or superstition. Only experience and a scientific, analytical mind can manage these. Therefore, I repeat: cultivate curiosity and knowledge, make yourself more scientific, rational, and analytical, increase your endurance, and turn cooperation with others into a habit. The rewards will surely follow.

Leadership and team selection are also crucial. Members of an expedition must possess adaptability, self-control, cooperation, and tolerance. With the right leader and sound planning, dangers can be greatly contained.

Finally, let me say: it is the smallest differences in people that bring the greatest results. That difference is called attitude. A positive attitude fills life with adventure, sees life always as a journey, accepts responsibility for mistakes, and offers no excuses. It always says “Let’s go,” not “Let’s begin someday.” Those with such positive attitudes enjoy life—they do not merely endure it. They are accustomed to seeing roses even behind thorns.

No, enough of theory! Let me now turn to an incident.

On the Balarampur–Baghmundi road, about 14 kilometers from Balarampur near the village of Srirampur, lies Bhuchungdih More (a junction)—just two kilometers before Mathaburu. To the right stands Muraburu (elevation: 525.30 meters / 1,723.51 feet above sea level; coordinates: 23°07’10.33” N / 86°06’12.66” E). Thanks to the monumental creations of sculptor Shri Chitta De and his team—over sixty rock-cut bird figures adorning the southeastern slope—the site now commands attention from a far and has earned the name Pakhipahar (“Bird Hill”).

In brief, Pakhipahar is:

• A domain for advanced climbers.
• Compact granite walls, steep faces, overhangs, and technical crack sequences adore it.
• Generally, UIAA grade IV–VII routes, with existence of higher grades of course.
• Rope protection and endurance are essential.
• For Bengal’s climbing clubs, it once served as a testing ground for skill and discipline, though used less frequently for various reasons now.

I recall a memorable incident from January 1988. With a few companions, I spent several days climbing the known rock sites of Mathaburu and then moved eastward toward Muraburu (not yet named Pakhipahar). On the final day of that trip, we reached a beautiful bowl-shaped area behind the summit of Muraburu (northwest side, elevation 520 meters / 1,706.12 feet). Amidst green trees and shaded woodland, we were overwhelmed by the compact granite walls, steep faces, and overhangs surrounding us. In that cool, tranquil setting, one detail especially captivated me: while examining the climbing possibilities on various walls, I noticed nine large beehives. Perhaps there were more hidden in rock crevices or trees, but these caught my eye. To me, they were an “added attraction.”

In adventure training camps, we often speak of forest biodiversity but rarely can we show direct examples. Here, however, such living evidence was right before us. My mind immediately mapped the site: all those rock faces should be climbed as soon as possible and scheduled into training courses.

At that time, Chitta De was perhaps still contemplating his creations at Muraburu, not yet begun. Later, on several train journeys and at the Academy of Fine Arts, I had discussions with him on various subjects. His ideas left a deep impression on me, though I was uncertain how far his efforts would succeed. Around 1995–96, he obtained permission from the Government of West Bengal but struggled with severe financial constraints. By 2008, with support from the central government, he could finally begin his work in earnest.

With extraordinary resolve and perseverance, sculptor Chitta De trained local youth, forming a capable team for stone carving. Through decades of dedication, patience, and hard labor, they created more than sixty rock-cut artwork of birds, shaping today’s Pakhipahar. To conceive a project across decades and then bring it to life is not merely an expression of artistic identity—it embodies many other values as well. Truly exemplary! And, he is indeed worthy of respect.

…Now let me return to that incident.

It is important to state at the outset that, at that time I had no formal study or knowledge about bees. Only a little experience, of the kind many people have. My experience was this: since childhood I had seen beehives in the orchard surrounding our Barasat home, shaded by large mango, jamun, jackfruit, litchi, and coconut trees. Never did I see the bees behave aggressively. If ever a bee landed on us, we were taught not to be afraid—just a gentle tap of the finger would send it flying away. This was a lesson passed down from the elders of the household.

From school textbooks I had learned that bees are industrious, beneficial, social insects. They play a vital role in maintaining nature’s balance and in food production through pollination, beside producing honey.

There was another incident that made me deeply fond of bees. Just five minutes’ walk from my home was one of my maternal uncle’s houses. My cousin brother (Sri Mridul Dasgupta), five years older than me, was like a close friend. Often, whenever I had free time, I would sit with him in a room where a large beehive hung from the ventilator. Another hive was on the litchi tree just beside one of the windows. The bees buzzed constantly. My cousin, then a student of botany, had love for living beings in his very marrow. Bees often landed on us and flew away again. We never harmed them; with affectionate minds we observed their comings and goings.

One day, in conversation, he told me: “Do you know, research shows that nearly 90 percent of wildflowers, 75 percent of crops, and 35 percent of agriculture worldwide depend on this beautiful little insect for pollination?” Yet many people, if they find a hive in or near their house, panic and burn it down. Though there are about 250 species of bees in the world, only about ten percent collect honey and perform pollination. Bees are not aggressive insects; they rarely sting. For when they sting, they themselves may die. They sting only in self-defense. The sting lies at the end of their tail. (Most unfortunately, my cousin, my trusted partner in many himalayan expeditions, my most beloved friend Mridul Dasgupta, who later became a famous Photographer, Mountaineer and a very dear teacher to the Adventure and Rock-climbing students, succumbed to death during Corona time on 16.05.2021).

Thus, in the first week of February 1988, with a few days in hand and twelve companions, I reached that beautiful bowl-shaped place. Amidst green trees and shaded woodland, we began climbing a rock face nearly 75 feet high. I had this confidence within me: since we would in no way disturb the bees, they would surely not be angered with us, and therefore there was no danger. The bees would remain busy in their own work, moving about, and gradually become accustomed to our presence.

……At that time, I was nearly sixty feet above the ground, anchored on a small stance, belaying the second climber, Prashanta (Ray). He was about fifteen feet up from the base, changing his first runner. Suddenly I noticed two bees circling around my head within a radius of about two feet, buzzing loudly. They darted across to the first hive some twenty-five to thirty feet away, touched it several times, then moved from hive to hive—of the nine hives I could see—and finally returned to hover near the first.

Within seconds, swarms of bees attacked me. In an instant, the upper part of my body became like a giant hive itself, covered with stings. I shouted to everyone, “Run, we are attacked by the bees!” and, half-mad with pain, I unclipped my waist rope, slipped it over a sharp rock beside me, and began leaping downward, clinging to the rope blindly. It was pure guesswork—for the swarm covered my eyes, nose, mouth, and head so completely that I could not see. That I did not fall to my death from that height was, at that moment, my greatest success.

While most companions fled downhill to save themselves, two did not abandon me—Sweta (Mukherjee) and Abhijit (Mitra). Sweta held my hand, guiding me down from the wall’s base, while Abhijit broke a leafy branch and tried in vain to drive away the swarm circling my head, all the while helping me descend. Yet the bees continued stinging my face and scalp so fiercely that I could not open my eyes. Soon I collapsed. I told Abhijit only, “Light a fire, make smoke.”

I had fallen beneath a tree, entwined with dry dhudhul creepers. Abhijit struck a match, the creepers caught fire, and smoke rose. Sweta tried to shield my face, but bees still found gaps and stung me. I may have lost consciousness for a few minutes at that time. What astonished me later was that, through all this, the bees attacked only me; Sweta and Abhijit were spared. Prashanta, climbing behind me, was stung too, chased by a swarm. To save himself, he unclipped his knot and leapt to the base, then ran straight to Srirampur village, bursting unannounced into the first open house and bolting the door. The startled villagers, hearing his story, quickly rallied others, who came up with mashals, bucket full of water, and leafy branches to drive off the bees. They escorted the three of us to Bhuchungdih More, laid me on a bench, and gave everyone hot milk. Their help was unforgettable.

Without delay, they stopped a bus bound for Bagmundi, asked all passengers to alight, and carried our almost entire group to Balarampur Primary Health Centre. Priyatosh (Chakraborty) and Debashish (Acharya) stayed behind to recover our climbing gear. Beside me, except for Prashanta, everyone’s injuries were from falls while fleeing, not bee stings. Only Priyatosh was unhurt! My condition was grave. Thanks to the doctor’s efforts and the generosity of then Superintendent of Police Mr. K. R. Sengupta, I was rushed in a police jeep to Purulia District Hospital—there being no ambulance. After five days, at my request, I was transferred to Durgapur Steel General Hospital.

During recovery, I marveled at the bees’ social unity—their relentless collective attack once an enemy was identified. I even fell in love with them. Later, I bought books on bees from College Street, purchased two hives from Canning, and began beekeeping to study their nature more deeply. The common Indian hive bee (Apis cerana indica) is gentle, but those bees were Apis dorsata (the Giant Rock Bee)—larger, superb honey producers, but fierce. They even don’t spare an enemy who jumps into water for survival! Even the largest creature of jungle, the elephants keep their safe distance from them. Because an elephant’s trunk is extremely sensitive, the simultaneous attack of hundreds of bees throws it into a desperate “let me go or I’ll die” state. That is why wild elephants fear bees. Scientists have taken advantage of this vulnerability through the RE-HAB project (Reducing Elephant–Human Attacks using Bees), which has achieved considerable success in preventing elephants from entering human settlements. In Kerala, India, this method has been in use for several years. However, in the Ajodhya Hills, villagers call them “lele.”

I still recall the nurses at Balarampur Primary Health Centre. As they removed dead bees from my ears and extracted stings from my face and scalp, one of them said to the doctor: “Sir, this man has life in him. I’ve already removed over a hundred stings, and there are many more. I’ve seen people die from fifty or sixty. Please act quickly, or he won’t survive.” She thought I was unconscious, though I felt little relief as the bees (two each in both the ears) were removed from my ears and sensed their earnest effort to save me.

I do not know where those compassionate nurses are today. But to every villager who helped, to the doctor, to Mr. Sengupta, to the bus driver, his helper and passengers who gave up their seats for us, and last but not the least, to all my team members—I offer love and reverence from the depths of my heart.

And now, let me share a lighter episode. My face remained so swollen for weeks that I was unrecognizable. At that time, I was posted at Durgapur. After discharge, I returned to work, living alone in my office quarters—my wife had gone to her parental home just before our trip to Muraburu. We had a plan to attend the forthcoming wedding ceremony of one of our close university friends. In fact, both she and my wife shared the same room for years in the hostel. Since my in-laws had no phone, no one knew of the bee disaster, and I had not wished to burden them with the news.

A month later, that was on 06.03.1988 wednesday, at the wedding in Lauhati (North 24 Parganas), I arrived a bit early. My wife was in the bridal chamber with the bride. The bride’s parents, who knew me, failed to recognize me in my swollen state. With my wife’s uncertain glance from the window, they asked me bluntly: “Tell us truly, who are you? Where have you come from, and what is your purpose?” Later, when they learned the truth, they were astonished and apologetic. Naturally, I took no offense.

Another rumor amused me even in pain. When I was brought to Purulia District Hospital in the police jeep, word spread among the crowd that a notorious Maoist leader had been captured and after severe police beating, was near death. During visiting hours, curious onlookers crowded near my bed, and the nurses had to drive them away repeatedly. In fact, I heard about it from the nurses only and felt really amused!

Anyway, let me return to the bee disaster. After that incident, I became curious and learned that in many countries—even in the Alps—every year climbers die from bee attacks. To guard against such unexpected assaults, climbers there often set up a large mosquito-net shelter close to the climbing site, so that in case of a sudden swarm attack they can quickly retreat into its safe enclosure. The same precaution applies to us as well.

Statistics are sobering. Over a 23-year period (1994–2016), 1691 fatalities were recorded across 32 European countries due to stings from hornets (Bhimrul), wasps (Bolta), and bees, with the highest concentration in Germany and France. The primary cause of death was usually acute allergic shock, not the toxin levels from a few stings. More recently, in 2026, a climbing guide in Greece died from a bee sting. Though deaths from bee stings in the European Alps are less reported, at lower warmer altitudes, during July and August insects can pose a risk—especially if a sting causes a climber to panic and lose control on difficult terrain.

An American survey shows that between 2011 and 2021, a total of 788 deaths occurred from bee, wasp, and hornet stings—an average of 72 per year, in USA. Annual deaths ranged from 59 in 2012 to 89 in 2017, with 84% of fatalities among men. Many such examples could be cited, but my purpose is not to burden you with statistics. Every statistic hides a story. Every precaution saves one! The point is clear: in almost every climbing area, in West Bengal and elsewhere, visibly or invisibly, there is the possibility of attack by bees, wasps, or hornets. We must remain alert, carry necessary medicines and safety equipment, and be ready to use them promptly.

Bee stings are highly toxic and painful. Moreover, bees usually attack in swarms. If stung suddenly, do not lose composure. The sting contains formic acid (also known as methanoic acid, HCOOH or CH₂O₂). When injected under the skin, it causes burning, pain, and itching. The honey bee’s stinger is covered in tiny backward facing barbs. When a bee stings a human or other mammal through their thick fibrous skin, its sting detaches along with the bee’s venom sac and lower digestive tract because of its barbed backward facing hooks and the bee itself dies for the fatal rupture. However, this does not happen with small exoskeleton insects, whose membranes are thinner. This mechanism is actually an evolutionary defense: by leaving the stinger behind, the detached venom sac continues to pump venom automatically into the skin, maximising the defense of the hive even after the bee is dead. Therefore, as the first step in treatment, remove the stinger immediately. A study has shown the amount of venom delivered does not differ whether the sting is pinched or scraped off but even a delay of a few seconds leads to more venom being injected. Once the stinger is removed, pain and swelling should be reduced with a cold compress. A topical anesthetic containing benozocaine will relieve pain quickly and menthol is an effective anti-itch treatment. Itching can also be relieved by antihistamine or by a topical steroid cream.

It is also important to know about wasps and hornets, since they too inhabit our climbing areas. Wasps are comparatively small, yellow (sometimes with black stripes) insects of the Vespidae family, related to ants and bees. Villagers call balla in some areas. Hornets resemble wasps but are larger, with reddish-brown head, strong mandibles, black with yellow stripes across the back. Among stinging insects, hornet venom is the most potent. If a bee, wasp, or hornet clings to the skin, remove it carefully. They usually grip at skin level. Never pinch or squeeze them, as that forces the venom sac to empty into the sting wound. Instead, gently stroke around the insect with your fingertip, then flick it away suddenly. Remember that wasps and hornets can sting repeatedly, as their stings do not detach because of their smoothness, unlike backward facing barbs found in honeybees.

Here’s the side-by-side photograph of — a Bee, a Wasp, and a Hornet, each shown clearly with their distinctive features.

Bee: Fuzzy, golden-brown body with pollen sacs on hind legs.

Wasp: Smooth exoskeleton, long legs, and a sharply defined waist between thorax and abdomen. That is, a slender smooth body with sharp black-yellow stripes (some are complete yellow coloured, as shown above) and a narrow waist.

Hornet: Larger, reddish-brown head with strong mandibles and bold black-yellow abdomen stripes.

This composition makes it easy to compare them visually and recognize their differences at a glance.

Symptoms of stings can include headache, vomiting, breathing difficulty, itching and welts across the body, swelling, and severe abdominal pain. Antihistamine, epinephrine (for allergic reaction) and painkillers are often required. In such cases, the patient must be taken quickly to a doctor or hospital.

Any journey or expedition, however small, can yield joy and self-discovery. In other words, from the delight of learning comes the nourishment to carry forward life’s adventure. As such, learning itself is the beginning and the driving force of a lifelong journey. In the wilderness, even pain can become a teacher. The swarm of bees that blinded me also opened my eyes!

As I said earlier, when the right time, the right place, and the right people come together, possibilities are infinite. In fact, that is exactly what happened on that fateful day—otherwise it would not have been possible for me to share this experience with you.

In adolescence (ages 16–18), self-discovery takes shape—overcoming the pain of homesickness; cultivating self-reliance, confidence, cooperation, and adaptability. All these are of immense importance. In college life (ages 18–23), the inquisitive mind, enriched by experience, awareness of the environment carries you far and wide. On the path to adulthood (ages 24–30), these lessons help you grow responsible and mature.

Responsibilities will inevitably come into your life—as they do for everyone. Accept them gladly. Fulfill them with dedication. Never become escapist or detached from reality. Yet, alongside family duties, do not abandon adventure. Each time you return home from an adventure, carry your responsibilities not as a burden to be endured, but as a joy to be embraced. See life as an adventure, not as a test of endurance. And always, behind the thorns, seek the rose.

Every adventure, whether grand or modest, is a mirror in which we glimpse ourselves. The bee disaster was not merely an ordeal of pain—it was also a revelation. It taught me that nature, in all its beauty, carries within it forces that demand respect. It reminded me that courage is not the absence of fear, but the ability to act wisely in the midst of it.

Adventure, at its heart, is not about conquest. It is about discovery—of landscapes, of companions, and most importantly, of the self. The mountains, the forests, the rivers, even the smallest creatures like bees, all become teachers. They test our patience, resilience, and humility. They show us that life’s journey is not a straight path but a series of encounters—some joyous, some perilous—that together shape our character.

And so, I say: let every expedition be embraced not only for its thrill but for its lessons. Let us carry back from each journey not just memories, but insights—about cooperation, endurance, and the delicate balance of nature. Responsibilities will always await us at home, but adventure gives us the strength to shoulder them with joy rather than weariness.

To live adventurously is to live fully welcomeing challenges as companions, and to accept both triumph and trial as part of the same grand narrative. That is the spirit I wish to pass on.

The Final Lesson

Adventure is not about escaping responsibility, but embracing life fully. It is about learning from danger, respecting nature, and carrying back insights that make us stronger, kinder, and wiser. The bee disaster was horrible, but profoundly educational. It showed me that life’s journey is not only in summits conquered, but in lessons endured.