Where Hibiscus Grow in Abundance.

From the huge window of my terrace room , I could see the gulmohar bloom.

I could see the sun kissed ripe fruits perched on the branches of the dates, mango, chikoo and papaya trees waiting to be plucked.  The milkman paddling his old bicycle to the village as the ladies open the huge teak wood doors with a creaking sound, at early dawn to collect the milk and make the first cup of morning tea.

 The twitter of birds and the squirrels atop the tile roofs or jumping from the pillar to the branches into theirs dwellings on the tamarind trees sets the morning in glory. The silence,  the serene calm , fresh air , tiled roof houses, the sugarcane fields , the dust they all rhymed in grace , harmony, peace and tranquility.

From a distance the trees and the summer flowers look like as if the Almighty has set up bouquets in a newly opened flower shop.  The dried lake in the centre of the village becomes a venue for flee market. This happens a week where the village folk from around 10 kilometres  bring their wares like earthen pots, the vegetables they grow in their backyards or in small fields they own. The splendor of colorful wares, fresh vegetables, the men and women in their ethnic tribal attire is a sight to behold. These small entrepreneurs set up their stalls and transform into very shrewd negotiators. It’s pitiable that the rates they fetch is one fourth of the price, their commodity could fetch in a city.  However the most successful venture and busy enterprise is that of the pakora, made from onion and potato which is served with sliced fresh onion, mint chutney and green fried chilies. Every visitor would have a morsel of these fast food at the fair and also take it home for the family. This also becomes the starters or biting for the young at heart toddy ( local brew ) lovers in the evening. To beat the summer heat the runner up enterprise is that of sugar cane juice crushed in wooden mechanism powered by the no other than the farmer’s best friend, the bull. Round and round the bull moves to quench the thirst and provide the fresh sugarcane juice which is blent with lemon and small pieces of ginger.

As the evening sun turns the sky into a vibrant pastel with  fluorescent hues, the cattle make their return journey. The proud farmers return from the fields on their tractors and the tools, their harvest of mangos with the winning team of farm workers eager to collect their daily wages. The elderly in the pure white attire gather around the corner under the huge Banyan tree to head start their daily evening walk to the river which is minutes away from the village.

 As the day ends the supper is cooked on the wooden fire in earthen pots with finely diced fresh vegetables from the fields and some from the backyard filling the air with the aroma of the manually grounded spices and the mother’s recipes.

The day is not over yet and the night is still young, the elderly sit together in their white attire to discuss on issues related to improving the village infrastructure, about arthritis, the knee jerk approach of the government to improve the village, and the headlines in the daily newspaper. They share experiences on how they faced a tough life when young and hide their sorrows and loneliness as their children and grand children do not come to the village as they like the urban lifestyle. Among them are the bachelors who could not find a suitable bride, become the laughing stock and with pride they carry on life with little hope and despair in their eyes of finding a partner as no one would like to offer their daughters to these so called jewels of the village , the 40 plus.

On the other side the woman folk start gathering, discussing about their seldom appreciated hard work and issues related to the community, problems they face in work, food they prepared today and what they would cook tomorrow. Share recipes of the pickles and the papadam they have prepared for the complete year to follow, how they have oiled the rice, wheat and the pulses to store for the future use, tell stories to their grandchildren who sleep in their laps. Their mellow whispers sound like a lullaby for these angels.

 As I step out of the terrace room to the terrace and see the sky full of stars, the moon showering the radiance all over the village and the fields till the eyes reach the horizon. Not a glimpse of modernity, no tall buildings hugging each other in the narrow lanes of my city where I stay. The cool breeze of the Arabian sea caressing not only the skin but the soul within, the sound of drums from the hamlet of farm works although not visible in dark. The breeze carries their sounds some times of gaiety and other times fights when their empty stomachs are filled with the toddy. The ambience in the hamlets truly reveals the joys and sorrows of these poor farm workers can be felt in the air. They are the real souls of the countryside ever smiling and happy mostly left at God's will and very few choices.

As I retire to bed thinking about the return journey to the city the next day.

It is nothing less but like an enchanting novel coming to an end. The fear of misssing the fresh air, to miss the sight of dancing peacocks, the sounds the squirrels make, the songs of the cuckoo bird, the blooming gulmohur, the river, the bouquet of flowers, grandma, grandpa, peace, tranquillity and all the things which rhyme in grace in this mango village.

Tomorrow I return again to the jungle of concrete with a hope to return soon to witness the humming honey bees, the care free Papillion’s,  the exponents of firework the fireflies, as they glow in rhythm in their short hop, skip and jump routines, eat the pakora at the flee market  and where the hibiscus bloom in vibrant shades in abundance.

Life ends journey begins.

" They say as you grow older , you lose your sense of wonder.

The world becomes a habit . 

How tragic that most people have to get ill before they understand what a gift it is to be alive.

Yet we prefer to immerse ourselves in the mundane.

We battle with deadlines, get stressed, complain about lack of time . 

What a waste of a life. "

We just soak ourselves into the dull routine, and forget how beautiful the world is around us in its own simplicity. Wait for a minute, stop running , absorb and soak no more =) 

This post is for the Surf Excel Matic - #SoakNoMore contest organised by Indiblogger.