05-10-2026, 11:00 PM
(This post was last modified: 05-10-2026, 11:23 PM by sharath841. Edited 1 time in total. Edited 1 time in total.)
Driver confirmed the village name by asking Padma.
The road left the highway and narrowed. Concrete gave way to red mud, and shops gave way to fields. Sugarcane stood tall on both sides, and a line of coconut palms leaned against the sky. A bullock cart creaked ahead of them, and the driver slowed without complaint.
Padma lowered the window.
The air came in warm and smelled of wet soil and cow dung and something sweet she couldn't name. She breathed it in and felt her shoulders drop.
How did I forget this?
A small stream ran under a stone bridge. She remembered the bridge. She had crossed it every morning on her way to college, with her bag on her back and her slate swinging by a string. The water was lower now, and a boy was washing a buffalo in it, the same boy, she thought, or the next one.
Then the village appeared.
The temple gopura first, small and whitewashed, with fresh flags tied for the jatre. Then the banyan tree and its tea stall. The college roof, tin and rust-red, at the top of the lane. Everything was smaller than the picture in her head, and kinder.
She felt her eyes sting and looked out of the window until it passed.
⸻
The cab turned into the lane by the well.
At the far end, past the tamarind tree, she saw a tall house with whitewashed walls and carved wooden pillars standing behind a high compound wall. Even from here it looked cool and quiet and certain of itself.
She looked away from it quickly, as she had done all her childhood.
That's not your side of the lane.
The cab stopped three houses before it, where the road narrowed to a footpath.
There it was.
Her house was small and low, with a tiled roof and a verandah held up by two wooden posts. The paint had faded to a washed-out yellow. A tulsi plant stood in a clay pot by the steps, and a string of mango leaves hung over the door for the festival. A cot was pushed against the wall, and a steel tumbler sat on the windowsill.
It was not much. It had never been much.
But it was hers, and the sight of it made her chest ache more than any big house could.
She paid the driver, stepped out and stood on the mud path with her bags.
"Padma?"
Her mother stood at the gate with a ladle still in her hand. Her hair had more white than before, and she was thinner. She stared as if she thought Padma might vanish.
? Padma: "Amma."
Her mother dropped the ladle on the step. It rang against the stone.
She crossed the yard in four fast steps and caught Padma's face in both hands, turning it left and right, checking.
? Mother: "You've become thin. City food. What do they feed you there?"
Padma laughed and cried at the same time.
? Padma: "Amma, I'm fine."
? Mother: "Fine, fine. Come in. Your father is on the verandah. Don't make him wait."
Her father had already risen from the cot, one hand on the post. He was older too. His shoulders had rounded and his hands shook a little. But his eyes were the same.
? Father: "Padma."
She touched his feet. He laid a hand on her head and said nothing for a long moment.
? Father: "Good. Good that you came."
Her brother hurried in from the back, wiping his hands on his lungi, shouting for someone to help with the luggage. A neighbour's face appeared at the wall. Then another. The news travelled down the lane faster than any phone.
By the time Padma was seated on the cot with a glass of buttermilk in her hand, half the street was in the yard.
Then she closed the shutter, lay back on the old pillow and listened to the sounds of the village settling for the night: a cow lowing, a pressure cooker whistling and somewhere far off a temple bell.
She smiled at the ceiling.
For the first time in months, she did not reach for her phone.
The old pillow, the familiar ceiling, and the sounds of the village outside somehow made her sleep more peacefully than she had in Bangalore for a long time.
She woke when sunlight came through the window.
For a few seconds, she simply lay there.
Then she heard her mother’s voice from the kitchen.
? Mother: “Padma! Wake up. Breakfast is ready.”
Padma smiled.
? Padma: “Coming, Amma.”
She got up, washed, and changed into a simple comfortable saree.
When she came outside, her mother had already prepared breakfast.
Her father was sitting on the verandah reading the newspaper.
? Father: “Did you sleep well?”
? Padma: “Very well.”
Her mother smiled.
? Mother: “Of course. Village air is different.”
Padma laughed and sat down.
After breakfast, RiceRoti and coconut chutney and she helped her mother with a few things around the house.
Then she heard voices outside.
“Padma!”
She turned.
Two of her old friends were standing at the gate.
Padma’s face immediately lit up.
? Padma: “You two!”
They hugged and laughed.
Then she heard familiar voices outside.
? Geeta: “Padma!”
Padma turned toward the gate.
Geeta and Savithri were standing there, both smiling.
Padma’s face immediately lit up.
? Padma: “Geeta! Savithri!”
They hugged her excitedly.
? Geeta: “We heard you came last night. You didn’t even call us!”
? Padma: “I reached late. I wanted to surprise everyone.”
? Savithri: “Come with us. The whole village is busy with the jathre preparations. We’ll show you everything.”
Padma looked toward her mother.
? Mother: “Go. You haven’t seen your village properly yet.”
Padma smiled, picked up her handbag and joined them.
The three friends walked down the familiar village road together, talking and laughing like they had never been apart.
Everywhere they went, preparations for the jathre were underway—colourful flags being tied across the streets, lights being installed, temporary stalls coming up near the temple, and children rehearsing their programmes.
? Geeta: “Nothing has changed here.”
? Padma: “A lot has changed. We’re the ones who haven’t noticed.”
Savithri laughed.
? Savithri: “You still talk like a teacher.”
Padma smiled.
The road left the highway and narrowed. Concrete gave way to red mud, and shops gave way to fields. Sugarcane stood tall on both sides, and a line of coconut palms leaned against the sky. A bullock cart creaked ahead of them, and the driver slowed without complaint.
Padma lowered the window.
The air came in warm and smelled of wet soil and cow dung and something sweet she couldn't name. She breathed it in and felt her shoulders drop.
How did I forget this?
A small stream ran under a stone bridge. She remembered the bridge. She had crossed it every morning on her way to college, with her bag on her back and her slate swinging by a string. The water was lower now, and a boy was washing a buffalo in it, the same boy, she thought, or the next one.
Then the village appeared.
The temple gopura first, small and whitewashed, with fresh flags tied for the jatre. Then the banyan tree and its tea stall. The college roof, tin and rust-red, at the top of the lane. Everything was smaller than the picture in her head, and kinder.
She felt her eyes sting and looked out of the window until it passed.
⸻
The cab turned into the lane by the well.
At the far end, past the tamarind tree, she saw a tall house with whitewashed walls and carved wooden pillars standing behind a high compound wall. Even from here it looked cool and quiet and certain of itself.
She looked away from it quickly, as she had done all her childhood.
That's not your side of the lane.
The cab stopped three houses before it, where the road narrowed to a footpath.
There it was.
Her house was small and low, with a tiled roof and a verandah held up by two wooden posts. The paint had faded to a washed-out yellow. A tulsi plant stood in a clay pot by the steps, and a string of mango leaves hung over the door for the festival. A cot was pushed against the wall, and a steel tumbler sat on the windowsill.
It was not much. It had never been much.
But it was hers, and the sight of it made her chest ache more than any big house could.
She paid the driver, stepped out and stood on the mud path with her bags.
"Padma?"
Her mother stood at the gate with a ladle still in her hand. Her hair had more white than before, and she was thinner. She stared as if she thought Padma might vanish.
? Padma: "Amma."
Her mother dropped the ladle on the step. It rang against the stone.
She crossed the yard in four fast steps and caught Padma's face in both hands, turning it left and right, checking.
? Mother: "You've become thin. City food. What do they feed you there?"
Padma laughed and cried at the same time.
? Padma: "Amma, I'm fine."
? Mother: "Fine, fine. Come in. Your father is on the verandah. Don't make him wait."
Her father had already risen from the cot, one hand on the post. He was older too. His shoulders had rounded and his hands shook a little. But his eyes were the same.
? Father: "Padma."
She touched his feet. He laid a hand on her head and said nothing for a long moment.
? Father: "Good. Good that you came."
Her brother hurried in from the back, wiping his hands on his lungi, shouting for someone to help with the luggage. A neighbour's face appeared at the wall. Then another. The news travelled down the lane faster than any phone.
By the time Padma was seated on the cot with a glass of buttermilk in her hand, half the street was in the yard.
Then she closed the shutter, lay back on the old pillow and listened to the sounds of the village settling for the night: a cow lowing, a pressure cooker whistling and somewhere far off a temple bell.
She smiled at the ceiling.
For the first time in months, she did not reach for her phone.
The old pillow, the familiar ceiling, and the sounds of the village outside somehow made her sleep more peacefully than she had in Bangalore for a long time.
She woke when sunlight came through the window.
For a few seconds, she simply lay there.
Then she heard her mother’s voice from the kitchen.
? Mother: “Padma! Wake up. Breakfast is ready.”
Padma smiled.
? Padma: “Coming, Amma.”
She got up, washed, and changed into a simple comfortable saree.
When she came outside, her mother had already prepared breakfast.
Her father was sitting on the verandah reading the newspaper.
? Father: “Did you sleep well?”
? Padma: “Very well.”
Her mother smiled.
? Mother: “Of course. Village air is different.”
Padma laughed and sat down.
After breakfast, RiceRoti and coconut chutney and she helped her mother with a few things around the house.
Then she heard voices outside.
“Padma!”
She turned.
Two of her old friends were standing at the gate.
Padma’s face immediately lit up.
? Padma: “You two!”
They hugged and laughed.
Then she heard familiar voices outside.
? Geeta: “Padma!”
Padma turned toward the gate.
Geeta and Savithri were standing there, both smiling.
Padma’s face immediately lit up.
? Padma: “Geeta! Savithri!”
They hugged her excitedly.
? Geeta: “We heard you came last night. You didn’t even call us!”
? Padma: “I reached late. I wanted to surprise everyone.”
? Savithri: “Come with us. The whole village is busy with the jathre preparations. We’ll show you everything.”
Padma looked toward her mother.
? Mother: “Go. You haven’t seen your village properly yet.”
Padma smiled, picked up her handbag and joined them.
The three friends walked down the familiar village road together, talking and laughing like they had never been apart.
Everywhere they went, preparations for the jathre were underway—colourful flags being tied across the streets, lights being installed, temporary stalls coming up near the temple, and children rehearsing their programmes.
? Geeta: “Nothing has changed here.”
? Padma: “A lot has changed. We’re the ones who haven’t noticed.”
Savithri laughed.
? Savithri: “You still talk like a teacher.”
Padma smiled.
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