Recollections of a beautiful past…

A distant blue sky portrays the fast fading moon which gives way to a rising golden sun. A couple of birds fly in the far horizon, welcoming the break of dawn. Among the lush green hills lies a house canopied by the early morning mist.

 

This used to be my childhood retreat. My grandparents’ humble dwelling, set in the highlands of Sri Lanka.

Down through the rear stairs of the house lay the barn, empty and neglected. Hens cackled, while their chicks followed them in a maze of marching procession. A further flight of stairs led to a tank, where rain water was collected for washing purposes. Goats bleating far away could be heard through the general sounds as the sun seeped out through the snowy white clouds in the blue, blue sky.

At the end of the barn you could see coffee trees that abounded the woods behind. All sorts of greenery that hold splendid beauty in my mind flourished right here in the very heart of my grandparents’ backyard.

A long winding path, carved along the years, led to a well in the very depths of this thick wilderness. It was like trespassing into a fairytale, setting off to that bottomless well, where I was not allowed to go as a child, which in turn made it more exciting and thrilling when I did get the chance to slip off.

Frogs croaked into the blessed silence, birds chirped, tiny flowers cluttered the long grass, and beams of sunlight filtered in through the trees. It was like a perfectly orchestrated Mozart symphony. Looking back, it feels unreal to imagine such wilderness as truly natural.

An aroma of fresh chicken cooking in the wooden stove, would assail my nostrils and lure me back to the kitchen where my grandmother would be preparing our breakfast. I have yet to this day, find a restaurant that beats her cooking. She had no running water, no electricity, and yet her meals were fit for a king.

The cool evening breeze would play through my hair as I rambled through the wild rocky path at the other end of the house, which led to the woods behind. A mango tree which my grandmother’s eldest sister had planted when she was a child, stood tall, a little way down this path. It used to bear mangoes as sweet as wild honey-suckle.

The tree is now dying out with most of its branches bare of leaves. Mangoes are a rarity now, symbolizing the death of a bygone era. The planting of this tree, as a child, knowing that she might not be able to taste the fruits this tree would one day bear, was revealing in itself.

The time would finally come for us to return to the busy city where home is. My grandmother would hug each of us tightly, tears streaming down her cheeks. We were never left in doubt as to how much she cared.

Over two decades have passed since those care-free afternoons and cold breezy nights. My grandparents are no more. The woods are now inhabited by houses. Pollution has set in.

Life goes on. Many changes have taken place since I was just a kid, with not a care in the world. There are moments in the busy life I lead when I go back in time, reliving beautiful memories of long past.

To me, those visits to my grandparents’ place were as precious as gold is to some people., confirming my belief that life can be made beautiful in many little ways, even by the planting of a tree.

-rosh