Rural Echoes

I grew up in the city with my mother and sister, while my father, a schoolteacher, lived in our ancestral village with my grandparents and uncles. Every holiday, I would journey to that village, and it always felt like stepping into a completely different world. 

In the village, there were no traffic jams, no constant blare of horns, no towering buildings, and no suffocating pollution. Life moved at its own peaceful pace. There were only endless greenery, a calm atmosphere, and the simple, innocent lives of its people. The noise of the city was replaced by the gentle rustle of leaves and the sound of birdsong. It was a world so serene, free from the relentless rush of urban life. 

The village was small, filled with humble homes and hard-working people. In the early mornings, I would wake up to the sweet chirping of birds and the sight of the golden sun rising over the horizon. Everyone was already up, heading off to work. But this wasn’t work in front of computers or in air-conditioned offices. This was the labor of the land—sweaty, tiring, but fulfilling. The farmers would walk out to the rice fields, tending to their crops with their hands, using simple tools, not machines. They often injured themselves, cutting their hands with the sharp blades, but never stopping, whether under the scorching sun or in the bitter cold. 

Once, when I was nine, I asked to join one of my friends in the fields. I helped out for a while, but soon my body ached, my skin broke out in rashes, and I turned red from the effort. Yet, I loved it. Not everyone gets to experience such raw, hard work, and it remains a special memory for me. 

Others in the village had different tasks. Some would take their cows to the fields to graze in the early morning, with the sun just beginning to warm the land. I loved going along with my cousin, watching all the cows walk together to the green pastures. It was simple but exciting in its own way. 

Rainy days in the village were an adventure of their own. There were no playgrounds or parks for playing football, so we would gather in the open fields, despite the mud and the slippery ground. We formed teams, played recklessly, slipping and falling, risking twisted ankles or worse. My parents always forbade me from playing in the rain, but I never listened. I would return home soaked to the bone, covered in mud from head to toe, grinning with pure joy. Those were the days of true freedom. 

When the rain was lighter, the villagers would head out to the ponds or streams to fish. They didn’t have fancy equipment—just a single net and their bare hands. They weren’t afraid of the snakes hiding in the water; they were used to taking risks. Once they caught the fish, they would cook and eat them fresh—something city dwellers could only dream of. 

Winter nights in the village were magical. We would all gather outside under the bright, cold moon, lighting a fire with dry wood, warming our hands while sitting in a circle. My grandparents would share stories, while we sipped on hot tea, laughing and chatting with the neighbors who always dropped by. In the village, you never needed an invitation. People were always ready to welcome you into their homes with open hearts. It was a place where everyone knew everyone, and the bond between people was strong and unshakable. 

Life in the village was simple, but it was full of love, connection, and togetherness. Those days are etched in my heart forever. I will never be a child again, but the memories of those holidays, filled with laughter, adventure, and love, will always remain the sweetest chapters of my life.