Footprints

Breathe.

The wind is carrying with it smell of frangipani, as I walk on the muddy ground at the edge of the forest at the back of my house. The white petals of the flowers still dripping with water from the downpour not half an hour ago.

The sky, for the most part, has cleared, with just wisps of dull clouds floating around. The sun has already set and the sky is now deep shades of pink. The hues are greatly complimenting not only the surroundings, but the emotions in my heart too.

The birds in the forest at my left are chirping away, calling back their spawns and lovers back to their nests. I can spot a monkey at one of the tree's branch, screeching at another one hidden from my view. The squirrels are apparently having a field day with all the nuts strewn on the ground. I stop and just look around.

It is all so chaotic. It is all so beautiful.

It's been 10 years since I bought this little cottage with a garden, at the edge of the forest, away from the big city. At first, I couldn't imagine living here. This dull, boring place, with nothing going on. Not even WiFi in the nearest cafe, just keep on spending your now shockingly slow data. If it wasn't for my research, I would have gone completely berserk.

Ugh, it was agony.

But then I started getting used to all this. The farmers getting up early to work on their fields, women starting up their kitchen to make food for the family, children making their way to the school, singing songs typically for kids, elders getting out of the house to tend to the flowers and pray to the rising sun.

It started to become pleasantly familiar.

The whole village is just living. The villagers get up in the morning, work through the day, sing, dance and mingle in the evening and sleep at night. Everyone is happy where they are.

Content.

Many religions are followed here, but there is one general aspect on which everyone agrees: Respect the soil. Around the world, people are reverent towards trees, animals and nature, but here, they are reverent towards the soil. After all, it's the earth beneath their feet which gives them almost everything.

Nobody wears shoes here, nobody owns them. The village is quite small, so it's not really that much difficult to find this out. Everyone uses bamboo slippers here, that too when going on long distance journey, otherwise at home, almost no one wears any footwear, even in the garden.

And that is why, neither am I. My feet have left foot prints on the moist, muddy soil as I walked on it. A nut from an overhanging canopy falls in one of the prints, a squirrel comes to take it, giving me a look of curiosity.

I'm looking at those footprints and as I look back, I also see how far I've come. My research brought me here all those years ago, but my love for the nature, for the earth beneath my soles, keeps making me come here again and again.

A woman shouts my name across the fence and I turn towards her. She's asking me to come to the bonfire already. Ah! Yes, the bonfire. My favourite time of the day. The social time of the village has just started, as the sky is turning violet rapidly. I smile and nod at her, saying without word that I'll be there. She goes towards the other cottage to call and I turn back, looking at the forest, at the greenery sprouting from everywhere.

Then I look down at my feet, toes curling in the soft soil. Knowing that I would have to wash them thoroughly before I go to sleep is not a sufficient enough reason to not enjoy the feeling of mud in between my toes. I inhale deeply, close my eyes and let out my breath with a smile. Then I turn towards the main gate and walk to the bonfire, soles of my feet relishing in the feel of soil sinking down and creating beautiful, transient patterns.

Footprints.