Friday, August 30, 2013

Maati Matra Bhoomi ki - the Soil of Motherland

I  love the villages in Bharat, walking through the fields barefoot, especially in my hometown, Kannauj. As I lay in bed and close my eyes, half way across the world, thinking of Kannauj I sense the scent of the mud in the fields, the coolness on my feet as I walked through the tall wheat in the fields. 

All this belonged to my great grandfather as far as the eyes can see. Time stands still, only the wind stirs gently. Everything is in rhythm with nature, natural. The mind rests, the heart smiles. In the distance, the faint sound of the water pump. I stop for a moment to close my eyes, take a deep breath to seep it all in. My uncle calls me to come along and I hurry my pace to catch up. We near the old family devi temple in the middle of the fields. Withered white walls lined with red. I bend my head to enter through the small door. There's big courtyard with steps and my eyes try to find the main shrine. I quietly feel the subtle vibrations, an ancient feeling, something familiar...while my uncle is busy giving me a tour. Our family's Samskaar's like Mundan etc. were done her for generations before my great grandfather build the Dvarkadheesh temple. The priest is called who comes running from his nearby hut, wiping his hands in his Angocha (cloth over his shoulder), an old kurta and dhoti, such a sweet humble man. I'm duly introduced as Radheshyam's daughter who's visiting from Amreeka. I have so many historical questions. For me this is all so special, for them it's all old and forgotten. They are amused by my keen interest. The priest offers prayers to Devi-ji and we do our Pranams. 

We turn back to return, again walking barefoot through the fields, I look up into the sky as the breeze caresses my face, I'm so happy to be walking on the soil of my village where generations before me have walked. The farmers going about their daily chores with plows pulled by bulls, women carrying water pots on their heads, and small children playing in the water canal. 
I see our Haveli in the distance and the chimney of our old sandalwood oil factory. Technically our Haveli is in Makarandnagar. We are 'Pushtani' Dubeys of Kannauj, meaning a lineage of over 7 generations from Kannauj. Of course I just happen to be born into this family now, lucky for me as I'm a Krishn bhakt and this is a Krishn parivaar (family). Kannauj is full of Brahmin last names, the capital of Kannyakubh brahmins. Each place in Bharat has some specialty  Kannauj is known for essential oils, 'Ittars'. My great grandfather invented the boiler mechanism to distill sandalwood oil in a factory which was originally done in churns. Of course sandalwood is also associated with Sri Krishn :)

My uncle asks me to mount the back of his motor cycle and we take off on a tour of Kannauj. He takes me to the banks of the river Ganges. There's an old Shiv temple here, small, but I feel powerful vibrations. We enter, toll the bell, and pay homage. While my uncle returns to the motorcycle I turn the other way into the paddy fields and start talking to the women. They giggle and give me some response in the local Kannaujiya dialect. It's the sweetest dialect in the whole world! I wish I could speak it. They talk about how the 'fasal' (crop) is not good this year. I feel so bad for these poor farmers. Feeling helpless I offer a few words of comfort to make them smile.

On the mobike we go through the small narrow 'galis' (alleys) of Kannauj, a bumpy ride. Every now and then we cross someone who knows us and sometimes my uncle stops and introduces me, while they have a big grin on their faces as I say 'Namaste'. Such simple innocent folks here, so natural are their lives. I wonder why I don't live here...what have we gained by going through this big rigmarole of developed societies and gadgets when all we really want is this peace and happiness that's present here in our villages of Bharat!

1 comment:

  1. Wow, Your blog is attractive, It provide always excellent information, Thanks for sharing.

    ReplyDelete