A Empty Village

A Deserted Town 25.08.2019
 A Empty Village Article

He was standing there by road following three very long decades overlooking the area which this individual once called his evergreen town of Goa. Then, it was a haven of tranquility, now, simply a centre for commercialization and a fast moving lifestyle. A small town which was when covered which has a never ending timeless canopy and vast expands of lush green domains now was there nude with a concrete jungle of buildings and structures and barren fields. A tear rolled straight down Padres Bernadine's old old and wrinkly scarred cheek seeing the fate of his village. He could not console of something and so dear that he had shed. He started strolling the turning road throughout the hill, toward his town, taking one particular agonizing stage at a time. The padre can still vividly hear the shouts and cries of laughter of his years as a child days that he spent with his good friends playing and plucking fruits and all the adventurous uses they liked doing with this very mountain and the far away church bells chimes, reminding the small town folk time for prayer and the kids as well, in order to be back house before the " angelus” if not get " Mai's tapovnni” ( grandma's shouting) or perhaps if even worse " mittacher dimmim” ( kneeling in salt). The hill at this point deserted as well as the church bells not to end up being heard with the hype and bizarre visitors noise. This individual stopped suddenly on his trail, not wanting to quest further towards the place which in turn he dreadful the most now. Already maimed and not wanting to be more, he diverted and mapped his way on to the hillside, off the road to a special area where he spent much of his quality time like a youth. This overlooked the complete village, the church, the fields, a perfect panaromic perspective that would soothe a tense mind and soul. This individual sat presently there by himself on a rock, that has been a tablet on which were the weak inscriptions with the past, the names of his peers great, now worn out over the years.

Essay upon Still Nighttime by Li Bai