My VillagE

The sign “Lua village” appearing on the side of the road announced that I finally reached there. In front of me was the recently paced road stretching till the far-away paddy fields. New and totally unfamiliar. Somehow I managed to recognize those red ixora flowers growing around the village’s ancient communal hall. The perennial banian was being shaken by the seasonal wind, letting the yellow and red leaves fly and scatter all over the ground.

It suddenly poured down heavily. Dark clouds, lightings and thunders engulfed the sky. It was cold but I could feel warmth glowing inside me, Rains in the countryside were not as chilly as those I experienced in the densely-populated cites. They were like long lost friends whose images attached to leave my childhood memories.

One of my childhood memories was gazing at the heavy rains that turned the whole sky into a grey curtain. Lighting tore the sky into parts and thunder sometimes made my little bobby stand upright, run around and bark furious at no where. Far away, small-thatched houses stretched across the horizon resembling a thin dread on the grey background. People were working hard under the rain. Theirs bellow together with the dogs’ barking composed a familiar distinguished concerto of the village. I could hear oozing of bare foot on muddy ground coming near and fast. The farmers were chatting excitedly about the new crop plantation and new rice seeds that were rumored to be enchanted by the fairy hands of the scientists to be resistant to both harmful insect and harsh weather conditions. ‘Mud, paddy field and water buffalo are their beloved friends and those little white seeds that we eat everyday are their sons. Remember, my son. Rice is more valuable than gold because rice can nourish man,’ my father once told me. That lesson has been squeezed into my heavy life luggage till now.

After the rain, children besieged their parents, shouted to compete to graze the buffaloes. They pastured the buffaloes and wandered the nearby meadows. They created games which I thought were present in this countryside. They divided themselves into halves, battling each other, ridding the buffaloes as luxurious carriages which were only preserved for the feudal nobles and holding reeds as their tribe’s flag. The king of the victorious tribe would be carried pick-a-back around the village. They also played the king sport by replacing the ball by pomeloes which were grown in their parents’ gardens. Once my team won the championship but then I fell down a muddy drain because of the slippery ground. Many holes were punched through my new shorts, making them a rag. I was ordered to lie down and beaten by my father afterward (money was hard to make at that time so I had only two pairs of shorts!) but I still felt a triumph growing inside me. First I cried, then I smiled to myself, enjoyed a child’s sweet victory and my own self-adoration.

Night soon fell down after heavy rains. At night, the paddy fields were full of people holding glaring torches. They were catching toads, gossiping excitedly and boasting about their bamboo baskets which were soon filled up with toads. Toads were then used to make a special kind of sausage. Ground toad meat was mixed with pork, “lot” leaves and other ingredients in which my mum called the magic recipe. The distinguished and concentrated savor once swallowed seemed to last forever on my tongue. Once in a while, my parents sent me some as home-sweet-home gifts.

A motorbike grumbling nearby brought me back to reality. Behind the rain stood the high and modernly designed concrete buildings. Rain was still falling but seemed to make no sound to me. I suddenly found myself strange and unfamiliar in my hometown. I did not see anyone rushing for the plantation season. Each house then had a plating machine. I wondered, ‘Where are the buffalo battles that we used to boast about now?’