By Harihar Tripathy
It was six in the evening. A gray sky loomed over the city’s concrete jungle. Papun stood alone on the rooftop of a twenty-two-story apartment building. Below him, the deafening roar of traffic and the mechanical hustle of the city continued unabated. Airpods were plugged into his ears, but there was no music playing; they were merely a synthetic wall he had built to shield himself from the chaos of the outside world.
“The results came out today…” he thought to himself.
He hadn’t failed. He had scored 85%. But his father had expected 95%. His mother dreamt of him becoming a doctor. His tuition teacher used to say, “A student like you should aim for nothing less than the IITs.” Friends and relatives were relentless with their inquiries: “How much did you get? So-and-so’s son got 98%!”
Papun was exhausted. From five in the morning until eleven at night, his life was an endless loop of studies, coaching, online classes, and mock tests. There was no time to play, no time to sit with friends, and no time to speak his heart to anyone. He wondered—is this what they call life?
Just then, the phone in his pocket vibrated. It was a call from his grandfather, back in the village.
“Papun, my boy! How are you?”
Papun’s voice grew choked. He could only manage to say, “Grandpa… I am very tired.”
The grandfather understood everything. In a seasoned, calm voice, he said, “Son, come to the village this vacation. The mango orchard has saved its fragrance for you, and that old banyan tree is waiting to offer you its shade.”
A week later, Papun arrived at the village. The moment he stepped off the bus, a strange thrill surged through his body. There was no smell of burnt engine oil here; instead, there was the scent of wet earth and the freshness of green fields. His grandfather was waiting for him with his bicycle. Papun sat on the carrier. On both sides, emerald paddy fields swayed like waves, cranes meditated by the pond, and squirrels leaped from tree to tree. It felt as if he had been released from a high-security prison.
That night, his grandfather laid out a cot on the terrace so they could sleep under the open sky. That sky was not hidden by dust or smog; it was a grand gathering of millions of stars.
Papun asked, “Grandpa, they say your generation struggled immensely to become successful. My teachers and father always talk about your hardships. But where does this immense peace in you come from?”
The grandfather smiled gently. “Son, we didn’t struggle; we simply lived a natural life. Waking up to go to the river, climbing trees, playing in the dust with friends—where is the struggle in that? We didn’t have luxuries, true, but our minds weren’t burdened. Education back then was a joy, not a cut-throat competition.”
He placed a hand on Papun’s head and continued, “The real struggle is what your generation is doing, my boy! You are struggling just to get a single drop of a ‘normal’ life. You have mobiles in your hands, but no open sky. You have twenty-four hours a day, but not a second to connect with nature. In our time, our stomachs were often empty, but our hearts were full. Today, you have everything, but your souls are starving. Even as children of wealthy homes, you are fighting just to breathe freely.”
Those seven days in the village changed the course of Papun’s life. He didn’t touch his phone. He swam in the river, ate the traditional poda-pitha (rice cake) made by his grandmother, and most importantly—he talked to himself. He realized that life was much more than just marks and careers.
On the day of his departure, he told his grandfather, “Grandpa, I know what I have to do now. I don’t want to be part of this ‘machine race’ anymore. I want to be an environmental scientist. I want to work for this river, this sky, and this earth.”
Upon returning to the city, Papun was no longer the stressed, silent boy he used to be. He studied, but he did it for himself. He clearly explained his goals to his parents. Initially, they resisted, but seeing the newfound confidence and the glow on his face, they eventually relented.
Years later, Papun is now the head of a massive environmental conservation organization. He often takes city children to villages. He teaches them—how to breathe, and how to be happy even without a mobile phone.
Even today, whenever he sits under that old banyan tree in the village, one thought always crosses his mind:
“Struggle does not just mean walking on foot or living in poverty. The ultimate struggle is to keep one’s humanity alive amidst mechanical chaos and to find the courage to live a simple, natural life.”
