I often remember my laid-back village in Palakkad with its rustic charm in the halcyon days of my boyhood in the 1950s. The gurgling river which originates from the Western Ghats skirted the village. As a boy, to loosen up a bit, I would sit on its banks with my legs immersed in the water in total absorption. A shoal of fish would caress my weary legs and each droplet of water soothed my nerves. A shaft of golden sunlight gleamed on the river, the coconut palm and other trees on the banks would gently rustle and sway in the breeze, holding a fascinating sight for me.
The river was flanked by a tangle of lush vegetation where dragon flies and colourful butterflies such as common crows, striped tigers, Malabar tree nymphs and red pierrots flitted among the flowers looking for nectar.
Trees such as peepul and jackfruit and papaya shrubs graced the river banks. A few huge banyan trees with enormous girth and overhanging branches towered above the river and these were throbbing with life. Birds such as weaver, barbet, mynah, cuckoo and robin were drawn towards succulent fruits on the trees. After a sumptuous breakfast, avian friends made a cacophony which reverberated across the village. The squirrels expressed the arrival of the monsoon by their shrill bird-like calls repeated again and again while simultaneously jerking their bushy tails on boughs. Once the evening set in, a colony of flying fox, always squabbling, stole the show. Nocturnal animals such as palm civets curled up themselves among the branches during the day and searched for prey once the night fell.
It has been more than 60 years since I visited my village of my childhood days. Much water has flown under the bridge since then.
Now an eerie silence envelop the area. The river is polluted by sewage from the town. The environs have been swallowed by the advancing lantana bushes. The trees have been uprooted and the birds are conspicuous by their absence. Birdsong is replaced by the drone of heavy machinery. The real estate mafia spread their tentacles for a few rupees. A few dead trees stand as the last relic of the bygone days. The whole river is enveloped in a miasma of dust.
A lonely dove perched on a dead tree in deep melancholy, playing the last post.
subramanianparameswer9532@gmail.com
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