By Harihar Tripathy
In the heart of my village, right next to our house, there once stood a magnificent mango orchard known as Matha Tota (The Monastery Grove). It was home to about twenty sprawling mango trees, but the crown jewel sat at the very far corner of the grove. It was a giant tree that bore surprisingly tiny mangoes, which we affectionately called the “Gurudi” mangoes.
Despite its small fruit, the Gurudi tree was the center of our universe. As soon as the sun peeked over the horizon, its very first rays would fall directly at the foot of this tree. Every morning, as the dawn broke, we children would grab our books and race toward it. Our intention wasn’t really to study; the books were merely an excuse. The real joy lay in “basking in the sun”—soaking up that gentle, golden warmth that thawed the winter chill from our bones. Those mornings were filled with laughter, the scent of damp earth, and the golden glow of a new day.
Today, Matha Tota still exists, but its soul has vanished. The majestic mango trees are gone, replaced by rows of tall, indifferent Eucalyptus trees. The landscape has changed, and so has the winter. The magic of those chilly mornings has been replaced by something much darker.
The pleasant winter sun is now a rare sight, hidden behind a thick, suffocating veil. The air is no longer crisp; it is heavy with dust and smoke. The silence of the village has been shattered by an incredible surge in the number of vehicles.
Even the way we farm has changed. I remember a time when villagers harvested paddy by hand, a rhythmic and communal labor. Now, massive machines do the work. Once the harvest is over, the leftover straw is set ablaze right there in the fields. This smoke, combined with the exhaust from the roads, creates a persistent, blinding fog.
As I stand where the Gurudi tree once stood, I realize that we haven’t just lost the trees; we have lost the clarity of our winters. The simple pleasure of chasing the first ray of sun has been buried under the gray clouds of progress. The “Matha Tota” of my childhood lives on only in my memory—a sun-drenched sanctuary in a world that has grown increasingly hazy.
