Nostalgia of Rural India Life

I am 42, a mother of two kids under six, and nowadays nostalgia often hits me. I try to quench it with my art. Here, I am depicting evening time and hospitality in the village I grew up in, India.

Nostalgia of Evening Time in the Village

Let me share what is going on in this picture.

The setting is my childhood home and village. There was a barn of tiled roof and a brick wall, where several cattle lived. Behind the barn was a bamboo thicket that sheltered mynah birds. It always took them a while to settle down in the evening. It was a cacophony of bird sounds, but peaceful in a way.

Meanwhile, the temple bell would be ringing and the Gita mantra would be chanted. It reverberated through the village.

In our inner courtyard, my mother would light a lamp near the holy basil plant, which Hindus consider sacred. She would fold her palms and pray for the peace and health of the family.

At that same time, jackals from the nearby forest and hills would begin howling, their cries echoing through the village.

It was a beautiful time as everything around us was slowly settled down for the day.

After having my evening snacks, I would sit down for a few hours of study, a practice I never neglected.

Okay, that was my lovely childhood in rural India.

Nostalgia about Hospitality

In India, there were two life philosophies I grew up witnessing.

One was Atithi Devo Bhava (the guest is like God), and the other was Vasudhaiva Kutumbakam (the world is one family).

But time and place change everything, and those philosophies don’t hold true anymore.

People now live in nuclear families, and kindness has faded. Xenophobia has taken over. People are uprooted from their native villages and live in different places, often without the resources to entertain guests.

I was born in the 1980s, and I am lucky to have seen both philosophies in action.

I often remember how, with my elder siblings, I used to visit friends’ houses or relatives’ homes. Our afternoon snacks were often satisfied there. When people visited, my mother also served them with whatever we had.

Someone would give us a large platter of boiled peanuts from their own harvest.

Another family would serve us a nice bowl of dried jujube boiled with jaggery. It was sweet-tart delicacy.

A relative would bring out a giant platter of rice smeared with mustard oil, topped with chopped onion, cilantro, tomato, and some homemade mango pickle.

People offered guava and mango from their yards.

Imagine the joy in such a simple life. There was sharing and caring.

My parents were born in the 1940s and 50s, so imagine how much more hospitality they must have witnessed. Now my mother is in her mid-70s, and I often see her pining for those days that will never return. Even I long for that time. For what are we, if we cannot make the mortal journey of our fellow humans easier?

“Who are we, if not measured by our impact on others? That’s who we are! We’re not who we say we are, we’re not who we want to be — we are the sum of the influence and impact that we have, in our lives, on others.” —Carl Sagan

That’s an art from my nostalgia of the hospitality offered by those generous people.

Thanks for reading.

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