Some moods creep up on you, and they do so almost purposefully. I experienced this as I stood amidst the flowing wheat fields of my ancestral village in Punjab. It was a particularly cold evening, with the sharp winds foreshadowing the coming week’s rainfall. The conditions didn’t bother me however, at least not at that moment. I was fully consumed by the verdant fields of mustard and wheat around me, themselves slowly getting swallowed by a subtle fog and a hue of golden saffron as the sun set. The moment was picturesque, and a very typical scene of Punjab. I wished for nothing more than to stay in that moment of awe forever, to run through the seemingly endless fields until I reached the setting sun itself.
This held true until a deep shift in mood came over me. This wasn’t sudden, instead slow and deliberate, quietly corrupting the thoughts I was having as if someone was whispering them into my ear. Immediately my thoughts drifted to that of the possession, and the bhoots, or ghosts, my father would swore he had spotted wandering in the village in the summers of his youth.
The effects of this possession felt apparent, transforming my view of the surroundings. The endless beauty of the fields now felt more uncanny, the fog felt more like a miasma choking me, and the air slowly began to feel more chilling. How much of this was influenced by the sun setting I do not know, but this unsettling mood had permeated throughout my being. In spite of this, the scene of the fields was still incredibly beautiful, though now with an air of decay.
I solemnly believe there is beauty in death. It stems from the concept of finality, as things come to an end it offers a silent moment to reflect on all that came before those last moments. Through these reflections you begin to fundamentally understand the character, and thus importance, of the dying subject, and possibly even those of the people around you.
The village culture of Punjab hasn’t yet reached this finality, but it is dying. The faces I had seen during my stint there were older, their bodies soon unable to reap from the fields they were sowing. The youthful character of the village that I heard stories regarding from my relatives were now exactly that, stories of the past. Working aged young people were abandoning the fields of the village, instead looking for greener pastures in nearby cities, where the harvest was much more bountiful in the form of job opportunity and education.
Though I didn’t comment on these observations, I was aware how similar thoughts were atop the minds of others. My dadu, or grandfather, was visiting from America and was particularly afflicted by this, as this was not the first time he had seen a village die. He was a child refugee during the partition, and had lived through the death of his birth village in what is now Pakistan. The entire village was abandoned in a frantic fashion, and the memories of fleeing towards the border were tinted with the blood of those who had lost their lives during the violence and chaos.
This new village, our village, was where his family had resided once settling in India. My dadu had watched his family build it along with the others that had resettled there. As he grew, so too did the village. It was apparent to me just how much the village had meant to him. Though he too had left the village as a young man to pursue an education and later career, and later when my father came to America he had followed, severing that link even further.
Seeing the village in its twilight years, as he was entering his own, certainly put this distance and guilt into perspective. Every morning he’d await my arrival in the vehra, or courtyard, of my uncle’s home. When I would arrive he’d recount to me stories of his life in the village, he’d show me the other families that had lived there and explain the rishtedaari, or relationships we had with each of them. He immersed me fully in the village lifestyle he once lived with a subdued elegance. This approach showed me how much this meant to him, but his ceremonious demeanor made this reflection feel more like a eulogy. Throughout our time he continuously used the Punjabi word waris, or inheritance. Despite all the movement and distance, whether it be from Pakistan to India, or from India to America, despite the ever-approaching setting sun in the village fields and the dust that began to lightly cover the homes, this will always be a part of me.
We had left the village at sunrise. Due to the prior night’s rain the faint smell of dew filled my nose. The earth beneath me was muddy and difficult to walk in, and as my shoes got stuck it felt like the hands of those from long ago intentionally slowing my departure. As we reached the car, I took my dadu’s hands in mine and told him that I will visit again. Upon hearing this he gave me a slight smile and nod before gently patting me on my back. My dadu is an incredibly stoic man, but this gesture told me all I needed to know. The sun was not to set so soon, and the dust was far from settling. He knew that he too will not be forgotten.
