By Prajakta Hushangabadkar The road into Kanha National Park did not hurry. It curved through tall sal trees. Women walked home with bundles of firewood. Children waved at passing vehicles. Dust rose slowly and settled just as quietly. The villages seemed to grow from the land itself. Mud houses painted in blue color. Courtyards swept clean. Grain spread out to dry in the sun, an old lady was often seen shooing her chickens, a lazy dog and Life moved at its own pace. And in a