The village is marked by a clutch of Gulmohur trees on the narrow road that leads up to it. In a landscape coloured by intense summer heat, the village appears quiet and slow, heaving from the day’s harsh sun. In a brown horizon, Sukli’s blooming Gulmohur trees lend their colour, marking the village in this plateau. To a visitor hopeful of finding a little farm for himself in Sukli’s quiet world, the Gulmohurs stand as a harbinger. These trees that mark the seasons of his childhood, will probably stand by, again. If not earlier, he sure believes in signs now. Maybe this is the place, Sukli, with low-rise hills and a very large lake, completing all that a homesteader and an aging man wishes for.

One walks in these landscapes with a sliver of hope, a little prayer and anticipation of a farm, with a treeline of Gulmohurs.

Will it be this? Will it be the next village on the other side of the lake? Or will it be the one he was thought was perfect – by the riverside ? He carries his admiration for this land, waiting to unbundle and find his own little piece to tend to, watch turn of seasons, moving waterline of the lake and living as though the days lived are an end in themselves.



Back here after several weeks of rain. There is promise and there is vitality. Today, we arrive to make this little piece of earth our own.

Not far from here Grandma tended to her farm. Several decades later, I return to resume.

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