The Frozen frame

Trudging on the narrow path, the car finally comes to a halt. We are all relieved to reach, and instantly descend and free ourselves from the confines of the vehicle. The drive was a long one and nobody likes to sit chained in one corner, especially when the surroundings promise a vast, lush green panorama which is waiting to be explored, to be admired and embraced.

I have returned to my village after two years. Education and career took me further away from what I had anticipated. Now as I gaze at the slope ahead of me, which leads to our ancestral house, I exclaim, for it seems that nothing has changed. It’s like a frame being frozen in time, the same banyan tree stooping to one side, the faint smell of dry leaves crackling under my feet. I look to my right, at what used to be a natural pond at one time. It seems like they tried to cement the sides but the young trees, found out a way to erupt and grow anyway. Just like the people of this place, who though have adapted themselves to the new technology, computers, flashy cars and expensive phones and yet, resisted overt lifestyle changes. Their farmlands are still dear, so are the cattle and kitchen gardens. A marriage ceremony is still some 7 day long affair; a death in the village is mourned for 13 days. Everyone knows everyone else, kids play in the common verandah, have meals at the neighborhood “chachi’s” place( aunt) without much ado. Food is simple; one can eat as much without feeling too full or bloated. Life is sweet and simple. No suffocating ambitions, it’s blissfully still.

I look around, it feels like home. Everything about this place soaks me in nostalgia, it’s like watching oneself grow. The kind of satisfaction one gets, going back to roots is inexplicable. The familiar old building, our ancestral house that has witnessed the evolution of the four generations of our family. The smell of the rooms, the dust in the furniture, which seems to dwell deeper every year. I know, Mom will soon open our locked room, which is on the first floor and “air” it. Bedsheets will be changed, blankets will be “beaten” with sticks until the dust flies all around like a cloud.

As the dust engulfs me, I see my childhood. Good old days, when nothing except happiness mattered. It’s a frame which will remain unchanged, as Keats says, “A flowery band to bind us to the earth”.

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