An unforgettable summer vacation in the village
Come summer vacations and most people start looking for holiday destinations across Europe, the US or Canada. About a decade ago, it used to be Singapore and Bangkok; and before that our own Ooty, Mussoorie or Darjeeling. But nothing can beat a visit to one’s native village, which used to be our favourite summer resort in the early ‘60s.
Today, villages are turning into small townships with all modern amenities, but during those days it used to be the feel of the real village, so different from our urbane life in Chandigarh. One visit to our paternal village near Amritsar stands out as a thrilling and unforgettable experience, because we went without our parents.
We, three sisters and one brother; along with our dog Blacky (his first journey) were packed off to the village with our cousin. We set out with mixed feelings of excitement and anxiety; but the first shock came when at Amritsar bus stand, while getting down, the poor dog fractured his leg. An argument with a co-passenger; a hurried visit to the vet; and a plastered leg – was the beginning of the trip.
But once in the village, we were free souls; and soon a sort of camaraderie was established among all the village children – cousins, neighbours; children of the farm helps – regardless of age, class or status. The whole gang would be out from morning till late evening, except for a short lunch break. The sight of large open spaces; green shady trees; fields ready for paddy to be sown; oxen-teams working on the Persian wheel; cool, foamy tube-well water, all filled us with energy. The cooing sounds of birds hidden in the groves mystified us. While passing by the pond, seeing a heron on one leg, head bowed, my cousin would call out in a sing-song tone, ‘Bagule bhagat kaudi de’; however hard we tried, we couldn’t get the tone, intonation and vibration of her local dialect.
Dinner would be served at dusk, as only one dim lamp was lit for a short time; and then it would be story time under the star-lit sky. The best activity of the day would be to pluck melons from the low-lying vines; throw them into the small stream that ran along the periphery of the village. After these would cool down a bit, break each one on the knee, scoop out the seeds with hand and eat it like monkeys. Melons never tasted sweeter after that.
The stream was not deep and it was easy for us children to stand and walk in it comfortably. But one day my foot slipped and as I didn’t know swimming, I just floated on my back, with face towards the sky. I was so petrified that I couldn’t even shriek or call for help. As I went down the stream for some distance, everyone including my siblings, clapped and cheered at my smooth sailing; while all I could see was ‘death by water’ staring in the eyes. Thank God someone from the group noticed I was in trouble, then they got into action and saved me. Once out of the water, I cried full-throated, less at the thought of a near-death scare, more because they all had laughed at me.
No holiday destination in the world can give you such a pure ecstatic experience.
AFTER THE MELONS WOULD COOL DOWN A BIT, WE WOULD BREAK EACH ONE ON THE KNEE, SCOOP OUT THE SEEDS AND EAT IT LIKE MONKEYS