A tryst with nature
K S S Pillai
When I hear about the poor air quality and the increasing number of people with breathing problems in the national capital, and in other cities to a lesser extent, I congratulate myself for settling in a village with clean air.
Ours is a large country with lots of land, only part of which is inhabited and cultivated. Villages and cities exist far apart, leaving vast stretches of open land between them.
While undertaking long journeys by train and road, I find nature close to me. Most people still live in villages, with some youngsters migrating to cities for various reasons. The village lifestyle has not changed much over the years.
People generally cook food on hearths as in the past, not worrying about the smoke they produce, and burn bonfires with family members sitting around them when the temperature drops at night.
To a great extent, villagers still reside in houses with tiled or thatched roofs. They sleep on mats spread on muddy floors, splattered with cow dung. Paddy fields with ripening yellow plants swaying in the gentle breeze are not far. Tethered cows graze lazily nearby.
Far away, there are ranges of mountains with tiny-looking trees where birds build their nests and bring up their young. The rays of the rising sun paint the sky with multiple colours, and wake those still sleeping.
Villagers sitting on wooden benches in front of old teashops or on culverts built over canals with flowing water, exchanging news, are usual sights. In some areas, the upper parts of those men are naked, with thin towels tied on their heads.
Some enjoy smoking beedies now and then. Buses and other vehicles move along narrow roads, while electric trains move fast in the distance, hooting at intervals. Telephone lines and wires carrying electricity pass high over the roadside.
Devotees in damp clothes clinging to their bodies take rounds of temples, their lips moving in silent prayer. At regular intervals, the image of the garlanded deity is carried around the temple through stone-paved paths in the company of men without shirts walking fast with lighted bronze lamps, drums, nadaswaram, and cymbals. The leaves of some old banyan trees rustle in the gentle breeze.
Sometimes, we pass through winding roads among tea gardens. Women workers in shirts cut the tender leaves of the plants with hand-carried machines and put them in the cloth bags on their shoulders. The only sound comes from far-off tea factories whose chimneys emit columns of smoke.
When we drive at night, millions of fireflies light the valleys in the distance, creating an otherworldly atmosphere. We come across rivers with coconut palms and areca trees on both sides. Sometimes we see toddy tappers climbing coconut trees, collecting the toddy and replacing the mud pots to receive the dripping sweet sap from the flower spathes.
Travelling by road during the monsoon gives us a different picture. There are areas with heavy rainfall, with occasional thunder and lightning. The rainwater from the roofs tumbles down to large vessels below, before flowing into fields and streams.
People wash their utensils and clothes in the clear water, and consider it a gift from heaven. There are wooden planks across the rivulets for people and animals to cross. They usually enjoy the cold climate, and even sleep on the veranda, covered with thick sheets, lulled by the sound of rain.
Rajasthan villages present another picture. Clusters of round, mud houses with vast stretches of loose sand and sparse trees around are seen at intervals. Camels roam freely, while some cows, goats and buffalo are tied to trees. Children in uniforms walk fast to their schools.
Men and women prepare tea with lots of milk and other ingredients, pour it into shallow plates, and drink it while sitting on the ground. Men sport bushy, grey moustaches, colourful pagris, white shirts and dhoties. Some hearths are in the open air, and thick rotlas are cooked by men and women and eaten with a liberal quantity of ghee. Men ride motorcycles with large bundles of hay behind. Women churn yoghurt for butter.
It is a pity that people migrate to cities to realise their dreams.
(The author is a retired professor of English. A regular contributor to ‘The Kashmir Vision’, his short stories and articles have appeared in several national and international publications)
