Out of the late running train window I see my favourite sight; fields of yellow mustard and new, green wheat; the sparkle of a tube well spout; egrets amongst the elephant grass and misty trees in the distance, all bathed in the muted gold of the early sun.
It’s a sight that tugs at some indescribable spot and creates a yearning for what? I have yet to fathom. Is it just homesickness or the wandering urge that it regenerates. Or those magical mornings in camp, when all of this felt like it was mine to hold forever. Or some ancient memory when perhaps I walked master of my fields in feudal splendour. Whatever it is, it pulls at me and the desire to step of the train and walk away into those fields, muddy myself helping channel the flowing water, then stand under its chill blast to wash off, is overwhelming. A chai on a charpoy, sweetened with fresh gurh. Hear the birds and feel the growing things, become earthed.