deehati-ustad-ka-qalam-the-silent-battlefield-of-life
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separation from village life-an incomplete bond |
📝 Separation from Village Life:
An Incomplete Bond
❤️ Read, feel, and share your memories.
✨ The Charismatic Creation
The spectacle of a village morning appears so resplendent,
as if the Creator Himself has come down to the earth to meet His creation.separation from village life-an incomplete bond
The call of the rooster at dawn.
The sweet, melodic songs of birds.
The soothing breeze.
The gentle murmur of water flowing from wells and streams.
Patches of white clouds in the blue sky.
The enchanting views of the mountains.
The lush green trees and fields.
The chirping birds.
The fragrant air.
In these priceless moments, a human being loses themselves completely,
just like seashells adrift in the intoxicating waves of the ocean.
Rows of white egrets in dark, thick rain clouds.
Mirages shimmering in the scorching desert—
all are enough to make one forget the self.
And yet, a longing remains.
In these natural wonders, I believe that perhaps nowhere else does nature manifest itself so fully—
but those soulful eyes absorb everything,
getting lost somewhere in these indescribable scenes.
🌿 Childhood in the Village
Evenings of childhood,
when the sun would hide behind the fields,
we played our little games beneath the trees,
with the golden horizon before us,
and then the call to prayer echoing from the tall minaret of the mosque...
Farmers plowing the fields alongside their oxen.
Herdsmen singing softly as they guided their flocks along dusty paths towards the village.
Cool breezes,
the scent of earth,
feet covered in soil,
and the sound of my mother calling my name—
these memories still breathe somewhere in the corners of my heart.
🌆 City Life
But when the glittering roads of the city called us,
there were electric lights everywhere.
Houses like palaces.
The endless flow of chaotic traffic.
Wide paved streets.
Traffic signals.
Giant billboards, cinemas,
crowded markets.
Materialism blinded our eyes.
We left everything behind—
the village, childhood, simplicity,
and even all our relationships.
💔 Separation is Another Name for Pain
Separation from the village is not just a distance;
it is a feeling.
The narrow lanes, the old walls,
the crumbling mud houses still visit my dreams.
Sometimes my heart longs to leave everything and return—
to sit beneath a peepal tree and listen only to the silence.
Ah, if only my trembling, wrinkled, elderly mother,
walking with his stick,
could call me lovingly again.
a me close to her heart,d
sit beside me,f
cook mustard greens and corn bread in the clay oven,
fill the air with that c aroma.
Wait anxiously for me.
Have letters written and read with yearning.
Look for my return.
And then hug me—
When I, tired, weak, defeated by material life, embraced her,
it felt as if I had been given a new life again—
as if my dead soul had come alive.
🌱 The Fragrance of the Soil
Only those who have truly lived that life can understand
the sorrow of separation from village life.
This grief is beautiful—
because it reminds us that real peace lies in simplicity,
in connection with the earth,
in belonging.
Our lives are scented with the fragrance of that soil
in which we played, grew up, and became adults.
Even today, that same soil and fragrance calls to us—
a tender ache rises in my heart.
Ah, if only I could return to childhood
and lose myself forever in the songs of the koel bird...
lose myself...
🌧️ Sorrow and Lament
The pain of separation from village life
is a sorrow whose sweet pangs
still protest in my heart.
When I see glimpses of that color on the digital screen,
my heart clenches.
My chest feels tight.
Tears flow down like rain, unstoppable...
🌳 Jaswant Singh on the Test of Reality
Reality’s test is strange indeed.
The ancestral home of Indian Foreign Minister Jaswant Singh’s father
is in the historic city of Hadali, West Punjab, Pakistan.
When Mr. Jaswant Singh came to Hadali,
he said that his father would sit on the roof of their home in India,
gazing forever in that direction—
until, as tears of separation kept flowing,
he eventually lost his eyesight.
Jaswant Singh established a library there to quench the thirst for knowledge of the local people,
renovated the ancestral home,
and as he was leaving,
he broke a twig from the tree standing in the courtyard.
He said,
“Sorrow and Lamentchildhood memories
than the fragrance of this twig.”
💼 Material Progress
Sometimes it feels that though we have advanced,
our joys have disappeared.
In the village, there was little—
but there was abundance.
Here, we have everything,
yet our hearts are restless.
There, there were fewer people but more time.
Here, there is no time, too many people—
but the relationships are weak.
So very weak...
💔 A Tender Ache Rises in the Heart
Only those who have lived that life
can understand this sorrow.
This grief is beautiful—
it reminds us that true peace lies in simplicity,
in the connection to the earth,
and in belonging.
Our lives are perfumed by that same soil
in which we grew up.
Even today, that soil, that fragrance calls us—
a longing stirs in the heart.
Ah, if only I could return to childhood,
and forever lose myself in the koel’s song...
just disappear...
🌾 Conclusion
Perhaps we cannot go back,
but in our writings, memories, and feelings,
we can keep village life alive—
because where love, simplicity, and peace dwell,
that is our true home.
We must never forget—
that one day,
each of us must return to the Origin,
to meet our True Creator—
the One whose presence I felt in every dawn of my village.
✨ Our True Identity
If you too were ever part of village life,
take a moment to look back—
perhaps something remains there
that can bring peace to your heart.
Simplicity, love, and genuine relationships—
these are our real identity.
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