As soon as I got off the bus, Seetamma used to be right there in front of me. She sold sunflower seeds and ber fritters. I don’t know how much money she actually made from it, but every morning, without fail, she would arrive at the bus stop. She knew everything—who was coming to the village, who was leaving, which house had visitors, and who had traveled to which place for what purpose.
Four years ago, she used to set up her cart right here. But after a new bus stand was built in the village, Seetamma’s cart disappeared. She never took money from me. In fact, not just from me—if anyone was hungry, she would give them whatever she had, whether it was ber fruits or sunflower seeds. Seetamma never sold just one kind of item. She adjusted her snacks according to the season. You could tell the time of year just by looking at what Seetamma was selling.
I used to visit Seetamma’s house occasionally. A small hut, four old sacks serving as bedding, and a stove with half-burnt jowar rotis resting on the embers like a waning moon. There was no fear or worry about when the hut might collapse. So what if it does? “The whole village is mine,"—that unwavering confidence always shone on Seetamma’s face.
Seetamma had no one—but she never accepted it. "The whole village is mine," she would say with conviction. She once had two children. They left for the city in search of work, leaving the village behind. After waiting endlessly, she finally accepted that they wouldn’t return. Yet, every time a bus arrived, her eyes would scan it with hope—searching, longing—wondering if, by some miracle, her children had come back. When would she realize that they had abandoned not just their hometown but their mother as well?
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Now, Seetamma’s hut is gone. They demolished it, saying it was obstructing the road. The government gave her a house somewhere on the outskirts of the village, but she refuses to stay there. She sleeps at the bus stand, eating only when someone offers her food. Otherwise, she goes hungry.
The moment I got off the bus, Seetamma hugged me tightly. Her eyes searched my face as if asking, How have you been? How long are you staying? But she didn’t speak. Words had abandoned her. Perhaps her heart no longer allowed her to talk to people of this generation. If she needed something, she simply gestured. It felt as though she saw today’s people as culprits—as if, in her belief, it was humans who had destroyed everything.
The moment I saw Seetamma, tears welled up uncontrollably. I didn’t even know why. But the way her face lit up upon seeing me—no sun could rival that warmth.
I kept talking, and she kept listening silently. Perhaps it had been a long time since she had heard words like these. I spoke of the past, of our village, of old memories, of a time that once felt alive. Holding my hand, she led me to the far end of the bus stand.
The sun blazed mercilessly. Sweat streamed down my body like rivers.
A white cloth was spread on the ground. Reaching into it, she pulled out a slice of watermelon and placed it in my hand. "Eat! It’s cool. No need for money."
"Stay cool.. Stay happy.. Stay at peace.."
"This is my cart," she said, gesturing to the emptiness that had once been hers.
Seetamma no longer belonged to this time. She was still in the old village, unwilling—or unable—to return.
Sweat on my skin, a slice of watermelon in my hand, the sun scorching above.
“Summer”
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Holding my luggage, I walked toward home. The entire village had changed. Just a few steps from the bus stand, there used to be a majestic banyan tree and a neem tree. I never knew who had planted them, but our village elder, Rayadanna, had built a large platform around them.
Newcomers to the village would rest there, eat their meals, and later head to the pond for a bath. The platform was large enough to accommodate nearly a hundred people. Even during light rain, it remained dry. Beside the platform stood a small hut. When heavy rainfall occurred, people would vacate the platform and take shelter inside the hut. If the hut couldn’t accommodate everyone, they would move into the adjacent grand Shiva temple. No permission was needed to enter the temple—its doors were never locked.
The young man Abbulu, who slept on the platform, served as the temple’s guardian. No one knew Abbulu’s real name. I even had no idea about his origins. He worked in the temple, ate the Prasadam given by the priest, and fetched water from the lake to distribute among the villagers. He charged a rupee per pot, but if someone had no money, he would simply ask them for a little food instead. If they couldn’t even offer that, he would just smile and say, "It’s okay." His shoulders were red and bruised from carrying heavy pots all day, sometimes even bleeding—but he never seemed to care.
If a girl in the village reached a milestone—be it her coming of age or her wedding—Abbulu would deliver pots of water to her house for free. And if anyone asked him why, he would reply, "What do you think a girl is? She’s like a mother. Would you ask for money from your own mother?"
The platform was home to many. It was there that we watched plays like Chintamani, Sri Krishna Tulabharam, Lava Kusha, Bobbili Yuddham, Vara Vikrayam, Maa Bhumi, and Paleru.
Now, a cinema theater has come to the village. Some films make no sense, while others are beyond comprehension.
As I walked home, I glanced in that direction. In place of the platform, a small shopping complex now stood. The towering trees that had once shaded the area had been felled to make way for it.
The platform is gone. And the people who once sat upon it are no more. Now, it feels as though everyone moves wearing a mask of artificial breath. Just as I was wondering about Abbulu’s whereabouts, I noticed a group of children chasing someone, throwing stones at him.
"Who is that?" I wondered.
Since I couldn’t see clearly, I squinted and looked again and again. An unkempt beard, tattered clothes, a bruised and battered face covered in wounds, with blood oozing from them.
Yes! It was Abbulu. I stopped the children. I looked at him as if to ask, How have you been, Abbulu? He looked at me, laughing strangely—yet with a sense of peace and contentment.
"Where are you staying?" I asked.
In a language only I could understand—or rather, only those who knew him could understand—he replied, "Near the lake."
"The lake has no water. In fact, the lake itself is gone. It has dried up completely. In its place, towering buildings have risen—standing like tombstones over its grave."
I took Abbulu to the hospital and got him treated. From there, I admitted him to an orphanage. But can Abbulu really stay there?
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I walked home in silence. No one greeted me or even spared me a glance. Back then, the moment I set foot in the village, people would rush to welcome me. It would take me a long time to reach home, stopping to exchange words, smiles, and memories with everyone along the way. But now, everyone was lost in their own world, caught up in their own race. People no longer had the patience or inclination to talk. Why should they? What was there to gain from a conversation? What was left to talk about? Every household carried the same sorrow.
“Money.. money.. money..”
“Running.. running.. Running..”
As soon as I stepped inside, my father, lying on his cot and coughing, looked at me and let out a loud laugh. But in that laugh, the sound of his cough was louder. Waving his hands, he tried to call everyone. But there was no "everyone" anymore. Only my mother was there. Hearing his coughing, my mother hurried to his cot.
"Just now you've come?"
"Go, wash your hands and feet. I'll serve you hot rice."
Not just for me—for anyone who visited our home, a steaming plate of rice would be ready within minutes. There weren’t many dishes, just hot rice and either a simple curry or, if nothing else, groundnut chutney. Even the chutney felt like Tirupati Laddu Prasadam.
After finishing my meal, I sat beside my father. As I spoke about the village and how much it had changed, he broke down, sobbing uncontrollably. Seeing him like that, I couldn't bring myself to ask him to come with me to the city.
Two days later, carrying the wounds of my village in my heart, I left for the city. The moment I boarded the bus, sleep overcame me. Our village was changing its shape and identity. Now, there wasn’t much difference between our village and the city.
***