In the morning, I wake up to see a foggy field outside the window. The distant mango trees stand nodding their heads. The sun is still late in rising, yet life in the village seems to be moving at its own pace. The cries of crows, the chirping of birds, and the occasional sound of the wheels of a bullock cart—all these combine to make up the village morning.

The village road is unpaved, smelling of earth. During the rainy season, this road is filled with mud, and when you walk, your feet sink. And in the heat, the road bursts and becomes muddy. Yet this road is the way of life and livelihood for the village people. Green rice fields and coconut trees stand tall on the side of the road. Occasionally, a canal or river has gone far away, and the morning sun shimmers in its water.

Most of the village houses are made of mud and tin. Some have also built brick houses. There is not a single empty space in the courtyard of the house—there are pepper, papaya, and gourd trees planted there. There is a big tree next to the house, maybe a mango tree or a jam tree. There is a little shade under the tree, where the old men of the village sit and talk in the afternoon. Some smoke hookah, some play cards.

The people of the village are very simple. They go to the fields in the morning, and return home in the afternoon. The girls do housework, wash clothes in the pond, and feed the chickens. The boys go to school, and after school they go to the field to play football. In the afternoon, there is a cricket match for teenagers in the field. Some bat, some throw the ball, and the cows and goats are the spectators, who are eating grass next to the field.

The nature of the village seems to never stop. During the monsoon, a sea of ​​green waves. The rice trees sway in the wind. The canals and canals fill with water, and boats float there. In winter, the fields are dry, and after the harvest, piles of yellow straw remain. And in spring, the village becomes colorful—the surroundings are filled with Krishnachura, Shimul, and Palash flowers.

The village market is a different world. The market is held once a week. Everyone gathers there. Some sell vegetables, some fish, some clothes. There are tea shops in between the markets, and there is no end to the stories. Whose son is doing what, who got a job where—these discussions go on endlessly.

Evening slowly falls in the village. The sky turns red before sunset. People working in the fields return home. The cows are taken home, the chickens and ducks come around on their own. At night, the village is plunged into darkness. Only the lamps in the houses are lit, and people sleep under mosquito nets. Sometimes the light of fireflies shines in the forest, and the call of crickets can be heard from afar.

Life in the village is very simple, but there is a strange peace in it. There is no city crowd here, no smoke and dust. There is only a carefree life growing in the lap of nature. Green fields, river water, trees—these are the assets of the village. Even if you are in the city, how can you feel for the village? Because, the village means the pull of roots.