The self made farmer. Toiling away on his piece of earth, his fields everyday. Never knowing weekend from a weekday. Festivals probably being the only deviants forced on him by his wife. He granted his selfless companion that much indulgence. Never knew any vagaries of life. Born without privileges, living for a better future for his children. They never wanted for anything. Though his kids, especially his daughter could have done with more variety in life. In her daily garb which tended almost to be a uniform. In the plain food they ate everyday. They never complained. They appreciated what they had. There were days when in frustration the wife vented and silently cried herself alright. But they had a good life. A happy life. Fates had been kind to them. Their children grew to have more experiences, opportunities than they had ever dreamed of. They were alright.
The privileged wanderer. Born with all the comforts one could want. Or learn to want. Never spoiled but never checked either. The fancy schools and foreign experiences. The far off lands; the run of home. The finer things of life. Arts, theater, love. He indulged. Almost content. Till the emptiness hit him again. Till the tendrils of happiness slipped past him. The electronic waste lands at his disposal never satisfying. Searching. Maybe he was missing out on something? Maybe he hadn't found his true calling yet? Guided by his fancy. He was forever thirsty. For the liquid that would quench his soul. Root his soul. What had his grandfather found that was eluding him?
1 comment:
working on something that made him reasonably happy and living for others?
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