It is the new year already. It does not seem so. At the stroke of mid-might this new year, I was chugging along in a train across the country to be with my family. There were no shouts of 'Happy New Year'... only condolences to be shared and tears to be wiped. It was a homecoming of sorts.. I do not imagine that all of us have been in the house together for more than a decade. The train journey also added to the nostalgia. Wind swept plains, bone racking bitter cold, countless cups of tea devoured to soothe an aching throat and 3 advertisements on the walls lining the railway tracks: sex consultants, underwear & plywood veneers.
I know this landscape all too well. But, I have missed it sorely too. Endless sarson fields that paint the earth yellow! I wonder how they look from high up in the sky.. Human caricatures propped against gnarled tree stumps with the all too familiar (and grossly) painted matka for a face & ragged inners for clothes. The yellow fields seem to be making up for the sun's absence but only so. Here and there i can see the villagers wrapped up in warm woollen shawls and mufflers walking fast to finish their ablutions. They know that the day will end early and they dare not waste minutes of precious daylight. Cakes of cow dung have been stacked neatly besides the fields to be used for 'smokeless' heating during the night. The mist from the Ganga still shrouds the plains and brings life to a standstill as it did aeons ago.
But some things have changed. For the first time today I witnessed village boys playing volleyball on a barren patch in the field. The clothing too seems to have undergone a drastic change. While earlier it was common place to see farmers in their traditional white dhoti, banyan & a turban (to protect their head from the cold), today I can see them in pyjamas and even jeans. Brightly designed shirts and multicolored mufflers complete the ensemble. Bullock carts have been replaced by modern day machinery and the easy farmers' walk is replaced by a steady pace.
I wonder when will I come back next. The plains seem to be locked by time unto eternity at each sparsely spaced marriage or death visit in the family. I wonder whether I will still call it home years later when all whom I know there have perished?
