My tears are for the sunrise. Existence has taken care of me.
I had not asked.
Nor did it reply.
But still the care has been taken.
The wild geese do not intend to cast their reflections.
The water has no intention to reflect their images….
That’s how I am speaking. I do not know what the next sentence is going to be or whether it is going to be at all. Suspense is beautiful.
I am reminded again of the small village where I was born. Why existence should have chosen that small village in the first place is unexplainable. It is as it should be. The village was beautiful. I have traveled far and wide but I have never come across that same beauty. One never comes again to the same. Things come and go, but it is never the same.
I can see that still, small village. Just a few huts near a pond, and a few tall trees where I used to play. There was no school in the village. That is of no great importance, because I remained uneducated for almost nine years, and those are the most formative years. After that, even if you try, you cannot be educated. So in a way I am still uneducated, although I hold many degrees. Any uneducated man could have done it. And not any degree, but a first class master’s degree – that too can be done by any fool. So many fools do it every year that it has no significance. What is significant is that for my first years I remained without education. There was no school, no road, no railway, no post office. What a blessing! That small village was a world unto itself. Even in my times away from that village I remained in that world, uneducated.
I have read Ruskin’s famous book, Unto This Last, and when I was reading it I was thinking of that village. Unto This Last…that village is still unaltered. No road connects it, no railway passes by, even now after almost fifty years; no post office, no police station, no doctor – in fact nobody falls ill in that village. It is so pure and so unpolluted. I have known people in that village who have not seen a railway train, who wonder what it looks like, who have not even seen a bus or a car. They have never left the village. They live so blissfully and silently.
My birthplace, Kuchwada, was a village with no railway line and no post office. It had small hills, hillocks rather, but a beautiful lake, and a few huts, just straw huts. The only brick house was the one I was born in, and that too was not much of a brick house. It was just a little house.
I can see it now, and can describe its every detail…but more than the house or the village, I remember the people. I have come across millions of people, but the people of that village were more innocent than any, because they were very primitive. They knew nothing of the world. Not even a single newspaper had ever entered that village. You can now understand why there was no school, not even a primary school…what a blessing! No modern child can afford it.
I remained uneducated for those years and they were the most beautiful years.