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Golden Fields

The Beauty of Mustard Flowers

By Bilal MohammadiPublished 6 months ago 3 min read

Aarav stood at the edge of the village road, staring at the endless yellow ocean before him. The mustard flowers were in full bloom, stretching far as his eyes could see. It was early morning, and the sun, soft and golden, touched the tops of the flowers, turning the entire field into a shimmering blanket of gold.

The gentle breeze carried the sweet, earthy scent of the mustard blooms. Aarav closed his eyes, breathing in deeply, letting the fresh air fill his chest. He felt like he could almost taste the sunlight and the fragrance of the blossoms.

He was fourteen, small for his age, with dark eyes that always seemed to be searching for something beyond the horizon. The mustard fields had been part of his life since he was a baby, but every year, when they bloomed, he felt as if he was seeing them for the first time.

Aarav’s family were farmers. His father, Mohan, had already left for the fields at dawn. His mother was in the kitchen, preparing breakfast. Aarav was supposed to help collect firewood, but the golden waves of mustard had pulled him away from his chores.

He stepped off the dusty road and onto the narrow path that cut through the fields. The flowers brushed against his arms and legs, and small bees hummed around him. The sun climbed higher, lighting the world in shades of amber and honey.

As he walked deeper into the field, the sound of the village faded until all he could hear was the rustling leaves and the gentle buzzing of insects. He felt like he had entered a different world, far away from his small village and the busy voices of grown-ups.

He reached his favorite spot — a tiny clearing in the middle of the field, where a lone tree stood. Its branches were wide and leafy, casting a perfect round shadow on the ground. Aarav sat beneath it, leaning his back against the trunk. From there, he could see the field stretching in every direction, as if he was sitting in the heart of a golden sun.

Birds chirped above him. A butterfly with delicate yellow wings landed on a mustard bloom nearby. Aarav watched it quietly, afraid to move and disturb its gentle dance.

Memories floated into his mind. He remembered last year, sitting under the same tree, his sister Anaya beside him. She had been only eight then. They’d made crowns out of mustard flowers and laughed until they fell over in the grass. Anaya was in the city now, studying at a big school. Aarav missed her every day.

Suddenly, he heard footsteps crunching through the plants. He turned and saw his father approaching, wiping sweat from his forehead.

“Aarav!” Mohan called. “I’ve been looking for you. Your mother is waiting for the firewood.”

Aarav lowered his head. “I’m sorry, Papa. I just wanted to see the flowers.”

Mohan smiled, his face creasing into lines shaped by years under the sun. “I know, beta. These fields have a way of calling us. Your grandfather used to say the mustard flowers are little suns shining from the earth.”

He sat down beside Aarav and looked over the field. “Do you know why we plant mustard?” he asked.

Aarav shook his head.

Mohan picked a flower and rolled it between his fingers. “Mustard is strong. It grows even in hard soil. Its seeds give oil for cooking, and the leaves feed our animals. And these flowers — they remind us that even in simple things, there’s beauty. They remind us that life goes on.”

Aarav listened, his heart full. He glanced around at the endless sea of yellow. The mustard flowers swayed gently, whispering secrets only they knew.

“I want to be like the mustard flowers,” Aarav said softly. “Bright and strong.”

Mohan nodded. “You already are, my son.”

The sun climbed higher, painting the fields in deeper shades of gold. Father and son sat quietly, surrounded by millions of tiny blooms waving in the breeze. For a moment, the world felt perfectly still, as if time itself was wrapped in the golden glow of the mustard fields.

Aarav knew he would always remember this morning. The flowers, the sun, the warmth of his father’s words — all shining like little suns in his memory.

Sometimes, he thought, happiness was as simple as standing in a field of mustard flowers, feeling the earth breathe beneath your feet, and knowing you belonged.

Natureshort story

About the Creator

Bilal Mohammadi

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