Why This Orchard Is Open to You
I spent my first few years in a village. At that age, I had no idea that the things my elders considered ‘wasting time’ would one day become some of my most cherished memories. Life was simple, straightforward and slow-paced. We weren’t running from one thing to another, except in the morning, when the fear of bashing by masterji for missing the opening bell of the school was imminent. The walks from school to home, with a handstitched school bag slung over the shoulder, invariably included pushing each other from pagdandi into the fields. Irritating the caretakers of the fields and orchards was a routine. Being chased and reprimanded after being caught plucking mangoes without permission was part of the fun. We laughed at each other, and the next day, we did it all over again.
Even when we moved out of village for education, all holidays and vacations were spent in the lap of nature. That life had a lot of inconveniences, but there was time to simply be where you were, without thinking about what came next. If you were sitting by the pond, you were simply sitting by the pond. If you were playing, you played. If you were doing nothing, you did nothing…and nobody thought that was a waste of time.
Then the next phase started. The shift from a carefree young adult to a responsible individual was almost imperceptible. Studies gave way to work, work brought responsibilities, and the comforts and pace of urban life slowly became our new normal. There was always something that needed our attention, and there was always a ‘good enough’ reason to postpone a visit. The memories would surface now and then, but somehow there was never enough time to pause and follow them. I knew I was missing something. I just didn’t want to stop long enough to deal with it.
A few years back, we started visiting our mango orchard again. On one such visit with family and friends, we all were out for a stroll. Out of nowhere, I pointed towards a field which had all yellow flowers, like the ones you must have seen in DDLJ, and asked the young lot amongst us to name the plant. I was assuming that it would be difficult to decide who answers first. How it turned out was a shock for all of us. None of them could answer it correctly! We laughed it off, as we generally do when kids don’t know something we assume they should. But it stayed with me. Most of us had grown up around fields, orchards and ponds. Things had changed so much within a single generation that something as ordinary to us as a field of mustard had become unfamiliar to our children. We didn’t say much about it then, but we quietly resolved to create more opportunities for them to spend time in nature.
Summers. Peak dopahari. Fruit laden drooping branches of mango-trees. Sound of chirping of birds and rustling of leaves. A dip in the hojiya (watertank in front of tubewell). Some more dips. How do you explain that feeling of strange tranquillity? For a few moments, there was no rush. It was just the moment.
Well, of course, life cannot always be like this. We have responsibilities, deadlines, and the lives we’ve chosen to build. The question isn’t whether we can go back to that life. We can’t. Perhaps the question is whether we can bring some of what made that life special into the life we live today. And perhaps, in doing so, we can give the next generation some of the experiences that shaped us—not as lessons, but simply as experiences.
If some part of this feels familiar, perhaps you already understand why Mangooose needs to exist.