The Changing Village 1

With rapid urbanization everywhere, there are some sections of society which are left behind in this race. Reflecting on such a story this time The Story Villa brings to you "The Changing Village"

About after 10 years, I am returning to my maternal village. A light of charm and lantern identification is in my eyes. Every nook and corner changed, releasing a perfume of foreignism to me. But, the banyan tree in the starting of our road was as it is. It was standing exactly with the same strength to handle our weights for swinging and the only one present to greet and welcome by bowing his lush green branches. I could still remember my gully cricket over those edgeless, pebble type stone roads, today over which my each rejuvenating steps are progressing. Although the road had been metalled still the way to our house has not changed. The way still goes crossing our Dhobi da’s house. We used to see clothes hanging daily in several rows in his home. The numbers of clothes today are covering just one row. The number of rows has been minimized to a great extent. My homesickness pulled me more intensely now. Aborting the uncover of that memory, I moved. There was a wooden bench before our family ration shop. Munna da was the only so-called man of parts in that village who was the owner of the shop. A gracious man who extended credits for all the products he had in his stock to offer us. He wrote about every transaction in his red khata in a seemingly correct way. That was the place where our Pandit ji used to come and sit. He was a perfect pan eater. He knew the exact quantities of each commodity which could release the best possible taste of the pan. My ear still echoes with the promises he used to make while zooming away with his cycle to pay the money later. Today the plank of that bench is used as fencing for Munna da’s kitchen garden. His mud house has been replaced by one of the bricks. Gradually I reached the turn from where our house was clearly visible. The spot engulfed me with the sound of cutting of logs of wood. The axeman was a familiar image, but I couldn’t recall his name. When he saw me, he stared blankly. Suddenly his name, “Mrigo da” stroke me. I shout his name in the topmost pitch I have, after the irresistible gap of muteness. The man came near me but, his face suggested that he still could not recognize me. Finally, he remembered and a decisive smile crossed his face, smearing mine too. After a lively conversation about my past, our family and all sort of topics I marched towards my destination. I was not now in a mood to face his never-ending pile of questions. My desire to get into my home was at its highest peak. But suddenly everything was melted down with a single stroke of the sentence. As I advanced, giving him an assurance to meet later, he told “gharat kunu nai!” (There’s no one at home).The sentence pierced the emotional neuron in my year, killing my exciting pulse ratio. The glitter of my face paled and the cloth bag loosened from my grip. A deadly silence followed that Mrigo da spoke to break the silence. He said that they had shifted to Guwahati, to their own flat. My cousin brother god a job there which demanded the families’ migration. Now it is only he looking after our property and farming in our ten-acre land.

The Changing Village 2