Sun hides behind the morning mist. The fragrance of last night’s rainfall is spread all over. The sparrows are busy finding their food. Other tiny birds are fluffing and cleaning themselves from their little beaks. As I see through a huge window in my farm. I find big fat cows mooing lazily. The milkman has arrived clad in the whitest kurta and dhoti with bright red colored pagdi (a kind of turban). Smoke is rising through a small wooden and straw hut, mingling in the air a puff of burning cow dung, tea leaves and milk.
My attention shifts as I see parrots making noise on the guava tree and then I see a woman in the rainbow colored long skirt and kurta, adorning a long transparent cloth over her head, tucked in her skirt, coming towards me all the way smiling with a large tea pot and several glasses adding to the beauty of the scene. This is jija, we all call her by this name. She has been the caretaker of our house from the time immemorial. The numerous wrinkles on her face make her more graceful and majestic. She reminds me of my grandmother as she was her close friend. The jingling of her numerous bangles, her booming voice and her caring attitude makes me very nostalgic when I am away from her. She completes the picture of the home that I once had and for whom my heart longs.
I don’t remember when was the last time I visited my grandparent’s beautiful farmhouse and had the fun of those special mornings but it feels like it was just yesterday that I was cradling in that huge window observing nature’s activities while sipping the tea made by my jija.
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