With the mist rises the village under the warmth of the red sun blended with the chill of the morning. If morning shows the day, then a glorious day is bound to follow.
Cows moo for fodder and also as milk is being sucked out from her body by the lord of the house. He also busies himself tearing a large tree trunk apart for firewood with his sharp axe, swinging up and down which makes a beautiful arc in the air. As the pigeons in the attic of the wooden house or the pigeonholes in the concrete edifice brood with their fluttering voices, time seems to have stopped under the sun vibrant and still. Daughters and wives get their brooms and clean their houses before sitting at a corner of the kitchen covered by smoke to cook food.
Children walk down to their schools in typical blue pants and white shirts, most on foot while some on the cycles. These latter ones are the main means of transportation for the people. Vendors use them to transport their goods. Customers hang their shopping bags on the handle on the way to and from the bazaar or hatia, children learn to cycle by putting one foot through the frame to reach the pedal on the other side, and buddies carry each other on the rod connecting the handle and the cycle.
A group of people are huddled beneath the shade of the pipal tree, some slapping their floppy thighs, some chewing betel leaves and all talking about the village happenings. Dust rises to meet the sky as the result of the local bus rushing over the muddy road with the roof filled with people. Tiffin, well, it is as rare as activity during noontime in the village as meals for most people are limited to two a day.
As the sun dips below the horizon, a cool afternoon envelops the village. It is more heart quenching in the context of the thirst the hot day went away leaving. The greasy smell of grey smoke emerges from firewood burnt around the mud-built houses.
An orange hue is cast across the full length of the sky under which gleam tin roofs, and the lush green leaves and paddy sway to the tunes of the wind. All of their essence can only be captured by the clinking of the Binayo and the rattle of the Jhyali brought to life with the blending of the crisp voice representing people of bygone days that is played by the radio at the tea shop.
While the sweetness of a village lies in its raw aspects, its ultimate glory lies in progress. A village is what a Nepali is, hard-working, persistent, jovial; and yet it is also subtly sad.
- Prajjwal Dangal
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