The road that led to my village was

a track over land that had once been plowed.

A slightly bent trail led to the front of my

brown thatch roof house, on top of a small

 hill. Here and there were thin groves of baby birch trees

and thick tufts of grass showed everywhere.

The wind would bend the grass flat.

 

At break of the day, the sound of a Cock would

drift in through my windows.

The fresh smell of cool morning air of my Village, and

the colors of sunlight in the morning sky,

would bring delirious frenzy into my life for starting the day.

The days of my life would saturate with serenity,

stirring effusion of chivalrous sentiments,

 that I would never forget.

 

Nearby, the vast green paddy fields of mine  would sway in the wind,

And the song of birds would fill the air during Spring.

Out in the fields, on the bottom of the small hill

I would fly kites ‘til the dusk.

I wouldn’t return home ‘til I heard my Grandma calling.

The smell of the local chicken gravy,

would waft from my Grandma’s kitchen and settle over the house.

 

When the incessant rainy days would come,

The local bridge would be drowned, water overflowing onto the road,

Roof tops, cows, hens, goats, dirt, and trees,

the angry river would take everything with it.

I would never forget times like those.

The raindrops would tap on the  rooftop of metal making its way into my room.

I would put a metal container to catch the droplets in the corner of my room.

The sound of the rain drops and that of frogs would keep me awake all night.

The gust of cold air would squeal the broken windows while the tree leaves screeched.

 

During cold nights, I would sit near the open fireplace,

with hands outstretched in front of my body ‘til the Old dry logs burned to ashes.

 

In the evening, I would hop on my squeaky bicycle wherever,

my mind took me to cool myself off from melting summer nights.

 

One day, when I ran into the deep pond of water,

I thought I would never return home that day.

I hung on to a guy’s underwear, trying to get out.  

Thank God, he saved my life.

I would never realize the things I should not do.

I would not forget the chaotic Jeep ride full of dirt, broken rooftop,

and of strong human smell.

The Jeep would jerk on pot holes; the broken road led to my Mama’s Ghar.

The village would disappear in the distance as the dust started rising behind us.

 

Near my house, the Wednesdays’ local market would be welcoming and lively for everyone.

People would come from far villages and put up kiosks for

locally produced foods under weather beaten tents, pigs, chicken, and birds in coops,

and homemade millet liquors in jerkins waiting for customers.

The village atmosphere would spread vibes as hundreds of people

celebrate the very best of folk culture and music during the day.

The local market offered something for everyone.

The squeaky old-fashioned rickshaws would carry people all day long.

 

This late afternoon I sit near the window— that looks to the open fields—

recollecting those moments where my bucket of dear memories reside. 

I want to go back to my early childhood days once and stay there,

for that moments have lingered in my heart forever.