It was a quaint village, with thatched houses sparsely spread across the lake, about three miles off the town where I spent a few years of my childhood. The village appeared farther than it actually was, thanks to the lake. There was neither a motorable road nor vehicles. As a child, I used to be in awe of this pristine, laid-back village with isolated houses nestled in lush paddy fields. Village folks walked on the embankment to reach our small town; so did we children when we accompanied our senior friends who went fishing to the lake.
We younger ones in the group would venture into little-known wild areas in search of berries, while the seniors busied themselves with fishing. Berries with a yellowish rind and greyish juicy pulp smelled and tasted sweeter than the mango varieties the region was famous for.
We not only ate the berries but also carried pocketfuls to eat while walking home.
On the day of the weekly farmers’ fair in the town, the villagers sold the berries for money or bartered them for foodgrains. Though there was a huge demand for berries, they never exploited the buyers; perhaps, they believed that it was unethical to sell anything that was not cultivated. They would not give them for free either, but sold them for a pittance.
My mother’s repeated attempts to grow them in our home-garden went in vain. The day my father decided to move to a city, we knew that the thing we would miss the most was the berries.
Whenever I spoke about my childhood days at home and about the berries, my wife and children insisted that we visit the place.
We set off one rainy morning. My narratives had enthused my children so much so that they posed many questions and I was happy to answer them as I drove.
The town had metamorphosed. I pinched myself to make sure that I was in the right place. I knew there would be changes, but I did not think of it to be of this gravity.
The roads have been widened so much so that I could see pupils sitting in the classrooms while I drove by my alma mater. The school playground has been reduced to almost third of its original size. The lake had turned into a housing colony.
There was no trace of the village as it had long merged with the town as its extension area.
My wife enquired with some women about the berries. No one seemed to have understood what she was speaking about. Later, I managed to locate the horticultural department office to get some information about the berries.
The person in-charge was more serious in offering us snacks than telling us anything about the berries. Perhaps, he would have had some idea had the genome of the berries been preserved.
The so-called development had buried once a beautiful place and its wild berries deep into mother earth’s womb. I felt sorry for my children.
Needless to say it was quite a quiet journey all the way back home.
sujith_sandur@yahoo.in
