The Smell of Soil in a Distant Land
In 2026, living far away in Gujarat, I watched the movie Kadaisi Vivasayi.
As the scenes unfolded, something stirred inside me.
The wells.
The farms.
The animals.
The festivals.
Suddenly, I wasn’t in Gujarat anymore.
I could smell the soil of Supparayapuram.
I could hear hens clucking, cows mooing, goats bleating, temple bells ringing.
Tears filled my eyes — not of sadness, but of longing.
Immediately, I called the tenant staying in our Pandarapuram house and asked about the goats, cows, cats, and hens.
It felt like checking on family.
That day, a thought took firm root in my heart.
I wanted to do some kind of farming in our village home.
Not for profit.
But for connection.
So every year when we visit, I could look forward to seeing something grow.
So my daughter could taste vegetables fresh from the soil.
So she could know the joy I once knew.
In a world rushing forward, I wanted to hold on to something timeless.
Because roots, once nurtured, never leave us.
They shape who we are.
Epilogue: Where I Belong
I may live in cities.
I may travel far.
But a part of me will always remain in a village courtyard — barefoot, laughing, smelling fresh earth, eating from banana leaves, listening to elders’ stories.
My life has come full circle.
From a bustling city child…
To a woman rediscovering her roots.
And now, a mother ready to pass them on.
Comments