Nostalgia is the underlying thread of my life. I am nostalgic about the paddy fields that were plenty in my village; I am nostalgic about the indigenous flora and fauna that were everywhere around my village; I am nostalgic about the ponds and creeks in which we used to bathe and play; and I am nostalgic about the village life which has been irrecoverably shattered by the so-called development that snaps the symbiotic connection between Nature and living beings.
In my childhood, we used to hear the hooting of owls, screeching of bats and howling of foxes at night, fearful but exciting. The croaking of the water hens, chirping of the lapwings, cooing of the spotted doves and the sounds of myriad other birds were heard always in daytime. Our villages were rich in biodiversity at a time when the subject was not discussed in conferences or seminars.
Till some years ago, when there were no tarred roads in and around my village, we have had no water shortage. The endless tracts of paddy fields conserved rainwater and our wells never depleted. But now the wells in my village deplete even before the summer arrives and in the hot months, we face drought-like situations. This is the result of converting paddy fields into real estate and rubber plantations.
There was a little creek near the endless paddy fields in my village. One of its banks was a steep embankment. The other one is a footpath. Often I used to walk along this footpath watching the waters rolling down. The crystal-clear pebbles under the gurgling water; the long, twisted and entangled roots of the trees and creepers which clung to the steep embankment; the sound of the running water, everything enchanted my little soul. There were plenty of screwpine bushes alongside the creek and they were the habitats of water hens.
In summer, the little twine-like streams of water would be visible coming down from underneath the steep embankment. To this creek, we would bring our cattle to be washed. We would also jump into the water and play by splashing water into each other’s face, by catching little fish using our towels as nets, and climbing onto the wallowing buffaloes. Where the creek was the widest, there was a big rock and the creek created even a little waterfall while crossing over the rock.
Recently my nostalgic mind forced me to go and see the present state of the creek and the paddy fields. Alas what terrible sights I witnessed! The endless paddy fields stretched to the horizon are no more. The place of the rock is usurped by a tar road and the creek is confined to a ditch. There is no screwpine bush, no water hen, no little fish, and no water snake. What development it is! It is really ‘breathtaking’ and it reminds me of what Rachel Carson says in the first chapter, “A fable for Tomorrow”, of her pioneering work on environment, Silent Spring.
“There was once a town where all life seemed to live in harmony with its surroundings. …In autumn, oak and maple and birch set up a blaze of colour …foxes barked in the hills and deer silently crossed the fields… The countryside was famous for the abundance and variety of its bird life. …Then a strange blight crept over the area and everything began to change … There was a strange stillness. The birds, for example — where had they gone? It was a spring without voices. On the mornings, that had once throbbed with the dawn chorus of robins, catbirds, doves, jays, wrens, and scores of other bird voices, there was now no sound; only silence lay over the fields and woods and marsh. …No witchcraft, no enemy action had silenced the rebirth of life in this stricken world. The people had done it themselves.”
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