A Journey Back to the Roots.

Sowing stories, reaping nostalgia, and cultivating connections in the heartland.

The journey back to my homeland felt like stepping into a dream I had long held close to my heart. The day when that dream turned into reality, I found myself overwhelmed with gratitude towards Sakshi and Vikas, whose support made it possible.

Returning to one’s birthplace holds a unique importance, for it’s far stated that the land in which one is born is more sacred than heaven.

As I contemplated where to begin this journey, I was torn between starting anew from today or retracing the steps from where my life first began.

The beginning of this particular day was marked by a ride on the tractor with Vikas and Sakshi, traversing through the fields of mustard, each swaying stalk a reminder of childhood memories.

Arriving at the village, we were met with the sight of the house where I took my first breath — a house now left to the mercy of time, its walls echoing with the silence of years gone by.

Yet within those crumbling walls lay recollections so bright that it felt like they had been woven into the very fabric of the residence itself. I found myself drawn to the images of my grandparents, captured in photographs that I longed to share with others.

Despite the absence of many familiar faces in the village today, certain things remained unchanged — the haunting call of the peacock and the timeless tranquillity that enveloped the town like a warm embrace.

The landscape had undergone subtle changes over the years, a testament to the march of progress that spared neither houses nor streets.

People may have left the village, but some things remain common, like the call of peacocks and the tranquil peace that fills the village’s heart. The roads have changed a bit, progress altering the landscape of houses and streets.

It had been fifty years since our joint family had made its home on these farms, turning the once-thriving village into a ghost of its former self.

My father had been among the first to leave for Delhi in search of work, a journey that my siblings and I would later embark upon with my mother.

Our visits to the village during summer vacations held a special place in my heart, each moment cherished as we gathered with relatives for meals and stories.

Evenings were filled with the sound of my grandmother’s bhajans and my grandfather’s tales, stories that seemed to breathe life into the very walls around us.

In those days, entertainment came not from screens or devices but from the simple pleasure of conversation. Radios, TVs, and phones were not even known. we could only dream of, replaced instead by the warmth of human connection and the thrill of solving riddles and math problems together.

Our lives were intertwined with the rhythms of nature, from the early morning chores to the milking of cows and buffaloes — a venture that required both talent and endurance. My grandfather’s ability to read the stars was miraculous; a talent often proved invaluable in locating lost animals.

Despite our hardships, a sense of contentment permeated our lives — contentment born from the simple pleasures of shared meals and stories.

Festivals have been a time of partying, a threat to coming together as a community and experiencing the joy of togetherness.

As the world around us continued to change, one thing remained constant — the need for love and attention, the things that had sustained us through the trials and tribulations of life on the farm.

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