Roots

The paddy harvest must be over in the fields, yet another year.

The same time last year. The fields next to Ravi's house were all harvested, or ready for harvest. Water flowing in between them, with frogs and snakes and fish, and dogs playing endless games of catch-me-if-you-can.

And small purple flowers blooming amidst all the cut paddy stalks. To each his own season.

You remember sitting by the edge of the field early one morning, assisting at these quiet transformations, these births and deaths, your clean city feet seeking the nurturing earth.

The thirst for roots made perfect sense, at that moment.

Words distort things. Press your feet into the earth, and know.