Those years in a village

Some memories, some stories.
Some growing up. Some humbling down.

When I moved to the village. Twenty years ago. I was a throughbred urban.

Every Friday we would all go to the weekly santa, market. At Kommireddigaripalle. 4 km away. Where all the producers from neighbouring villages would bring their vegetables, fruits, pots to sell.

It look me a few times, more than that, to realize that I was the only character there who would bargain. Not a soul would.

They were all at the brink of survival. They knew the hard work that goes into growing crops. They respect the producer and the product.

A disconnected urban, myself, could not. Then.

There are many many such stories. And none pretty.

A village taught me of my privilege, and the associated pettiness that goes with it. Like nothing else could have.

A village taught me of the greatness of the peoples of this land. The simple people. And my own smallness.

Difficult lessons. But the most important lessons I have learnt. In my life.