Most of what I have written about in recent times has been somehow connected to travel. I think a journey often endows us with new perspectives; it molds our perceptions of people and cultures, and of our own self. Travelling helps us explore the marvels of nature and find peace in its numerous embellishments. Sometimes it can transform the way we see the world around us, reconcile us with unknown truths and change our life in a manner which we might never have imagined. It is a necessary component of the cognitive process. A man, however literate, who has never traveled, has not completed his education. In the words of Saint Augustine :
“The world is a book and those who do not travel read only one page.”
If you are reading this post on the internet, or even know the meaning of the term 'blog', you probably live in one of the country's flourishing and rapidly growing cities, bustling with commercial markets and office complexes and automobiles plying on busy roads. You probably dress up in western attire designed by one of the major clothing brands, largely converse in Hinglish, listen to hip-hop rock music and spend your weekends in a pub or a cinema theater, if not in a shopping mall. There is a good chance that you do not know the name of your neighbour who lives next door. And you proudly declare yourself a citizen of 'shining' India. Well, that's pretty much what I do.
The original flavour of India, however, can only be found in its villages. They give us a glimpse into the lives of our forefathers and a peek into our rich and eventful history. They teach us that the charm of skyscrapers in a metropolitan city is dispensable. That we cannot live without the comforts of an air conditioner and a luxury car is merely an illusion. And that amassing wealth is not the primary way of life. If you have never seen life in the village, you are yet to understand the heart of India.
I do not clearly remember the last time I visited my ancestral village, the place where my great-great-grandfather established the family mansion that still stands as a shadow of its past glory. I was still in middle school at the time. And I probably would have never visited it again but for my grandfather's funeral ceremony.
The news had come as a shock. It was only days before that I had sent him a small present via the internet. I still remember the smile that used to light his face when he showed me the letters I wrote to him in my childhood days. A scholar of English himself, he would affectionately pat me on the back for my writing. I imagine he displayed the same expressions upon getting this last present from me. A few days later, when I woke up in the morning, I was told he had departed to the heavens. It was thus, he, who brought me back to my village after a gap of eight long years.
In those few days in the countryside, I saw that most of the people in the village were happy and content. They were self-sufficient and capable, and yet they did not seem to lack ambition. Everybody knew everybody else in the small village and in the settlements nearby. One did not require the television or the internet to while away time, for he would always be in someone else's company. One did not need the ceiling fan or the air conditioner when sleeping in the night, for the breeze would bring cool air laced with the scent of dew from the fields. There was no fear of theft or burglary, and people kept their doors open all the time just in case a guest would drop by. One would treat the entire village as one large family, and express genuine happiness or sorrow in the well being or misery of others.
In the evenings, I would climb to the roof and examine the village from above. Sometimes dad would take me around on a tour of the peaceful hamlet, walking through crop fields and fruit orchards. Sometimes I would go on a stroll alone. Almost every time, somebody I met on the way would ask me - "Tum Thakur jee ke bete ho na?" and invite me for a cup of tea or a snack. More often than not, I gladly accepted. Small children stared and smiled at me when I wandered alone, trying to figure out the right direction on one of my random excursions. I would offer them chocolates in exchange for information, and they would happily oblige, scampering away grinning as soon as I placed a bunch of goodies in their hands.
I spent a major part of the day overlooking preparations for the grand feast that culminates the final ceremony. This included managing the supply of grains and groceries and entertaining guests who arrived unannounced.
In the absence of a pastime, my thoughts would often wander back to the city, and I would miss the fragrance of Gurgaon that I have unwittingly grown so fond of. I missed my little sister back in Gujarat. I sometimes thought of friends from Roorkee. I wished I could have seen grandpa before he left. But it is said you are never far from the people you love. Whenever I wanted to see them, all I had to do was close my eyes.
A fixed set of rituals had been scheduled for each day. The mornings comprised of prayers and daan-dharm and a feast was hosted in the afternoon or at night for the entire village. Every guest was well fed and served, irrespective of his or her stature. I was amazed at the sheer number of people who came to pay homage each day in that small settlement. And each one of them left with a smile and a blessing in return.
According to village folklore, a happy spirit displays its pleasure by summoning rain from the clouds. On the 11th day, after all the invitees had been served and after they had left for their own homes, I sat down in the pandal for lunch. As I started digging into the sumptuous meal of dahi-chooda, a faint drizzle began to fall from the sky above.
“The world is a book and those who do not travel read only one page.”
If you are reading this post on the internet, or even know the meaning of the term 'blog', you probably live in one of the country's flourishing and rapidly growing cities, bustling with commercial markets and office complexes and automobiles plying on busy roads. You probably dress up in western attire designed by one of the major clothing brands, largely converse in Hinglish, listen to hip-hop rock music and spend your weekends in a pub or a cinema theater, if not in a shopping mall. There is a good chance that you do not know the name of your neighbour who lives next door. And you proudly declare yourself a citizen of 'shining' India. Well, that's pretty much what I do.
The original flavour of India, however, can only be found in its villages. They give us a glimpse into the lives of our forefathers and a peek into our rich and eventful history. They teach us that the charm of skyscrapers in a metropolitan city is dispensable. That we cannot live without the comforts of an air conditioner and a luxury car is merely an illusion. And that amassing wealth is not the primary way of life. If you have never seen life in the village, you are yet to understand the heart of India.
I do not clearly remember the last time I visited my ancestral village, the place where my great-great-grandfather established the family mansion that still stands as a shadow of its past glory. I was still in middle school at the time. And I probably would have never visited it again but for my grandfather's funeral ceremony.
The news had come as a shock. It was only days before that I had sent him a small present via the internet. I still remember the smile that used to light his face when he showed me the letters I wrote to him in my childhood days. A scholar of English himself, he would affectionately pat me on the back for my writing. I imagine he displayed the same expressions upon getting this last present from me. A few days later, when I woke up in the morning, I was told he had departed to the heavens. It was thus, he, who brought me back to my village after a gap of eight long years.
In those few days in the countryside, I saw that most of the people in the village were happy and content. They were self-sufficient and capable, and yet they did not seem to lack ambition. Everybody knew everybody else in the small village and in the settlements nearby. One did not require the television or the internet to while away time, for he would always be in someone else's company. One did not need the ceiling fan or the air conditioner when sleeping in the night, for the breeze would bring cool air laced with the scent of dew from the fields. There was no fear of theft or burglary, and people kept their doors open all the time just in case a guest would drop by. One would treat the entire village as one large family, and express genuine happiness or sorrow in the well being or misery of others.
In the evenings, I would climb to the roof and examine the village from above. Sometimes dad would take me around on a tour of the peaceful hamlet, walking through crop fields and fruit orchards. Sometimes I would go on a stroll alone. Almost every time, somebody I met on the way would ask me - "Tum Thakur jee ke bete ho na?" and invite me for a cup of tea or a snack. More often than not, I gladly accepted. Small children stared and smiled at me when I wandered alone, trying to figure out the right direction on one of my random excursions. I would offer them chocolates in exchange for information, and they would happily oblige, scampering away grinning as soon as I placed a bunch of goodies in their hands.
I spent a major part of the day overlooking preparations for the grand feast that culminates the final ceremony. This included managing the supply of grains and groceries and entertaining guests who arrived unannounced.
In the absence of a pastime, my thoughts would often wander back to the city, and I would miss the fragrance of Gurgaon that I have unwittingly grown so fond of. I missed my little sister back in Gujarat. I sometimes thought of friends from Roorkee. I wished I could have seen grandpa before he left. But it is said you are never far from the people you love. Whenever I wanted to see them, all I had to do was close my eyes.
A fixed set of rituals had been scheduled for each day. The mornings comprised of prayers and daan-dharm and a feast was hosted in the afternoon or at night for the entire village. Every guest was well fed and served, irrespective of his or her stature. I was amazed at the sheer number of people who came to pay homage each day in that small settlement. And each one of them left with a smile and a blessing in return.
According to village folklore, a happy spirit displays its pleasure by summoning rain from the clouds. On the 11th day, after all the invitees had been served and after they had left for their own homes, I sat down in the pandal for lunch. As I started digging into the sumptuous meal of dahi-chooda, a faint drizzle began to fall from the sky above.
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