Contentment

-Rajeeva Nayan Pathak

There was no road, no electricity there. People lived in mud houses with thatched roofs. They depended on a large natural pond on the outskirts of the village for drinking water. Pulses would cook easily in the water from that pond. Villagers used the pond for their daily needs as well.

I remember the day I arrived in this village. The public bus had dropped me at the nearest stop, about six miles from my destination. It was a hot summer afternoon. No one else had alighted from the bus, nor was there any passenger to board it. I looked around and spotted a nearby hut. I headed towards it. It was covered with palm leaves. The smoke and smell of burning wood drew me closer, and as I reached the entrance, the aroma of gur and the fumes of mustard oil welcomed me inside. I saw an old gentleman sitting on a khat with some eatables displayed on three large plates before him. There was an earthen water pot covered with a red wet cloth, and a steel lota was placed on the wooden lid of the pot. A trunk from a palm tree served as a bench. 

As soon as I placed my backpack and handbag on the neat, clean earthen floor, I heard him say something. I didn’t understand. I faced him, gestured to greet him, and asked, "I want to go to 'Tigojori'. How far is it?" Indicating the earthen pot, he gestured for me to drink some water. I took the lota, filled with water, and stepping out of the hut, I splashed water on my face—once, twice, thrice... it was so refreshing. I returned to the hut, refilled the lota from the pot, and drank it all.

“Babu, thoda susta lo, tez dhoop hai, thodi der baad chala jana.” I was also feeling relaxed, so without saying a word, I nodded and lay down on the empty khat. The cool, fresh air under the shade of the neem tree was an invitation to sleep, and before I knew it, I had dozed off.

When I woke, the sun had softened a little, casting a golden hue over the landscape. I sat up slowly, feeling the calmness of the place seep into me. The old man was still there, his wrinkled face serene as he busied himself with something I couldn't quite see from where I sat. He must have noticed I was awake, for he gave me a gentle nod. There was no hurry in his movements, no rush in his life. It was as if time itself had slowed down in this forgotten village, untouched by the clamour of the world beyond.

I stood, stretched, and gathered my things. The man pointed down a narrow, dusty path, indicating the way to 'Tigojori'. Before I left, I thanked him in the only way I could, with a smile and a slight bow. He didn't need words to understand; his eyes, calm and kind, spoke of a life rich in simplicity.

As I walked away, I couldn’t help but reflect on the old man and the village. No electricity, no modern conveniences, not even a proper road. Yet, there was a peace here, a contentment I had rarely seen in the cities. The villagers had little by way of material possessions, but they had something far more valuable — a closeness to the land, to each other, and to themselves.

They did not measure life in the currency of ambition, nor did they chase after fleeting pleasures. They had their pond, their homes of mud and thatch, and the endless sky above. And in that simple life, there seemed to be an unspoken wisdom. Happier are those who live with limited expectations from life, who stay close to nature, and find joy in the mere presence of another living soul, even if it wears a different form. Whether it was the rustling of leaves in the breeze, the chirping of birds, or the quiet companionship of a stranger, they embraced the world as it was, not as they wished it to be.

And as I continued my journey, a part of me envied them. Perhaps, in their simplicity, they had found a truth we, in our bustling lives, had long forgotten.

***Jai Hind***