The last two to three days have made me more humble. I am back to my roots, my village. From the noise in the metros, the race to be someone in another world exists. Out here in the other part of the world, our lives are slow. For many, growing up in the metro will find this very boring.
As a small-town boy myself, I feel at home. I can hear temple prayers, azaan at the same time, laugh with the milkman, vegetable vendors, and house help who have been at home helping parents for all these years. The Bakshish with laddu boxes is distributed.
I went on a walk around this morning and could feel the cold, the shops either disappearing or being rebuilt. I enquired about our team shop uncle, who would offer us chairs at the bus stop while headed to school. His shop has moved to the next lane, and I will hopefully meet him.
The holiday mood is all around: diya, decoration, and sweet shops are all lit. The city has modernized a bit, too, with malls, pizza shops, and other luxury brands coming up.
In short, life is slow here. It feels calmer than the routine rush.
