Years ago I read a short story by Somerset Maugham in which the protagonist, an Englishman living in the South Seas, year after year dreams of the England to which he will return one day. The day arrives at last, and as he is approaching England he begins to tremble in excitement at the thought of experiencing again the smells and sights and sounds of the place. And then the uneasy thought pops into his head: Suppose the reality does not measure up to the dream?
I remembered this story, somewhat wryly, when I decided to abandon Delhi and its 'jumbled heap of murky buildings' amid which I had lived most of my adult life.
For years I had dreamed of living far away from the raucous noise and ostentation of the city. The simple life was what I hankered after: A small, quiet place where all I needed was a cycle to get around. Clean sweet air. A little cottage and garden where I could grow some vegetables and live cheaply. Maybe I could keep a cow who would give me fresh milk every morning (I drew the line at hens despite the temptation of free eggs. Hens make me nervous). In this simple paradise, I thought, I would spend my time reading and try my hand at writing a novel.
Such was my innocent dream.
After about a year or so of drifting about hopelessly, chance (not serendipity, I fear) and circumstance brought me to a small village at the very southern tip of Goa. South Goa is in some ways not Goa at all. When people think of Goa, they are thinking of north Goa, which is hip and happening. Where I stay it is quiet. Birds sing sweetly (I never knew birds could actually sing a whole tune), unless the bird is a woodpecker, in which case it shrieks not unlike a cartoon Woody Woodpecker. At night all you hear is the hum of insects. Frogs croak in season. Sometimes a hidden cricket in the house will set up such a piercing scream that you cannot hear yourself speak. Very rarely a local drunk can be heard raving.
This is the quiet life I dreamed of. Now I even have a little red cycle. Yet nothing is as I thought it would be. For in all my dreaming of the simple village life, reality was the one thing I had not bargained for. And it is something I discover a little every day, often the hard way.
I think sometime of the protagonist in Maugham's short story. He never made it to England. He chickened out and returned to the South Seas, his dream intact.
Nature blog
About Me
- Varuna Mohite
- Lived in cities all my life - Poona, Bombay, Delhi. Living in a village is astonishing, peaceful,inspiring, beautiful, frustrating, maddening, dull, magical, and probably not forever.
3 comments:
:) your blog reads like my idea of the ideal life, so to speak. obviously, i much expect reality to keep crashing in. but at least one would relish a break from the miserable city i live in every now and then.
Deepa Deosthalee
The bright side is that you don't seem to have a foot in both worlds. A rather wishy-washy concept. And only a plunge into the dream world can show you reality and evolve a new dream. It makes for an interesting journey from the womb to the tomb. It's better to be closer to nature than be close enough to touch your neighbour across the balcony. However, keeping a cow is too much reality for half a litre of milk daily.
I have had a dream of country life for as far back as I can remember, but first I need to contend with the materialistic things in life - a house, a car, the usual trinkets. My idea of a dream come true (or paradise) would be a large farm house set up on a mountain surrounded by green with a clear view of the ocean or sea.
Reality may be different from the vision you dreamed, but only when reality and dream combine will you truly get a sense of self and your very own paradise.
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