From jamun stains to forest feasts—discovering life’s beauty through nature’s embrace
Introduction: Where Memories Bloom
When people talk about nature, some think of faraway mountains, deep oceans, or grand forests untouched by humans. For me, nature was never something distant or exotic. It was part of my everyday life, woven into my childhood like a second home. Growing up in a small town of Uttar Pradesh, I was lucky enough to spend my early years surrounded by greenery, orchards, and forests that belonged to my grandfather.
Those days feel like a dream now—days when summer vacations meant running under mango trees, climbing guava branches, staining our tongues purple with jamuns, and laughing endlessly with cousins and friends. Life was simple, but every simple moment carried magic. The forest was not only a place of play; it was a world of learning, joy, and connection. It taught me lessons I still carry today, lessons that modern life often makes us forget.
Childhood Summers in the Forest
Summers in my childhood were nothing like the summers we experience in cities today. The scorching heat never bothered us, because we always had the forest to escape to. My grandfather’s land stretched wide, filled with trees that stood like guardians of our laughter.
Mango trees were the kings of this land. Their tall, proud branches gave us both shade and fruit. I remember standing on tiptoe, waiting for a ripe mango to fall, and then running faster than anyone else to grab it. Sometimes, my cousins and I would climb the trees, even though our elders warned us not to. Sitting high on a branch, with a mango in one hand and the cool breeze brushing my face, I felt like the happiest person in the world.
Nearby stood guava trees, their fruits crisp and sweet. I can still remember the first bite—slightly hard, a little sour, and full of freshness that no market fruit can ever match. And then there were the jamun trees, always special for us children. Picking jamuns meant purple-stained fingers, purple-stained lips, and even purple-stained clothes. We didn’t care. Those stains were marks of joy, proof that we had lived that day fully.
But the forest was not only about fruits. It was about freedom. We ran barefoot on the ground, played hide and seek behind tree trunks, and lay down on the grass to watch the sky. There were no expensive toys or games, yet nothing was missing. The forest gave us everything—a playground, a dining table, and a classroom.
The Cool Embrace of Water
One memory that shines brightest in my heart is of bathing in the canal and under the tubewell. In the peak of summer, when the sun was unforgiving, we would rush towards the water like birds returning to their nest.
The canal flowed quietly, its water cold and refreshing. Jumping into it was like stepping into another world. The moment the water touched my skin, all heat disappeared. We splashed, laughed, and challenged each other to swim across. There was no clock to watch, no schedule to follow. Time stopped, and joy became endless.
Sometimes, when the canal was far, we would bathe under the tubewell near the orchards. The powerful gush of water from the pipe felt like nature’s own shower. Standing under it, eyes closed, I felt lighter, freer, and more alive than ever. Even today, no swimming pool or water park can match that feeling.
Walking Beside My Mama
Much of my connection with nature grew deeper because of my mama (uncle). He was not just a guardian; he was a companion, only a few years older than my elder sister, and this closeness made our bond even more special. For him, visiting the forest was never just an outing—it was an opportunity to teach us how to live in harmony with the land. He made those trips playful yet meaningful, turning every visit into an adventure filled with lessons.
Often, we cousins would ride our cycles together, pedaling eagerly toward the forest trails. The air felt lighter, the trees taller, and every path more exciting when my mama led the way. Sometimes, instead of cycles, we would take the bullock cart—its slow rhythm giving us more time to laugh, sing, and dream before reaching the heart of the forest. Those journeys were more than travel; they were stories in motion, shaping the way I learned to see the world.
Once inside the forest, my mama became both guide and entertainer. While we climbed trees to pluck mangoes, jamuns, or guavas, he would stand below, cheering us on but also reminding us to respect the branches and never waste a single fruit. And in the quiet evenings, when the forest grew darker, he would gather us around and tell ghost stories. His voice would drop to a whisper, and suddenly every rustling leaf or snapping twig seemed alive. We would huddle closer, half-terrified, half-thrilled, our hearts racing but secretly wishing the story never ended.
These moments were not just about play; they were silent teachings. Through his playful warnings and gentle guidance, I learned how to be grateful for nature’s gifts. He showed us how the soil, water, and trees were living companions that deserved care and respect. Even the fear he created with his ghost tales somehow tied us closer to the forest, making every corner mysterious yet precious.
Today, when I look back, I realize that my bond with nature became stronger because of those countless walks beside him. It wasn’t only the trees or fruits that shaped my memories, but the presence of my mama—his laughter, his stories, and his quiet lessons. He taught me that nature is not something to use; it is something to belong to. And that sense of belonging, planted in my childhood, still guides me whenever I search for peace in this busy world.
The Annual Feast in the Forest
One of the most extraordinary traditions was the annual (dawat) in the forest. Every year, family, friends, and neighbors gathered together under the shade of the trees. It was not just a picnic—it was a festival. Professional chefs were invited, and they would set up their cooking stations right there in the open. The aroma of spices mixing with the earthy smell of the forest is something I can never forget.
Large pots of food simmered slowly while laughter filled the air. Children ran around, elders shared stories, and everyone felt a part of something bigger. Eating freshly cooked food under the trees, with birds chirping above and the cool breeze passing by, was a joy no restaurant can offer.
Those feasts taught me that nature is not only about solitude—it is also about community. It brings people together, reminding us that happiness multiplies when shared.
Leaving the Forest Behind
As years passed, life began to change. Studies, responsibilities, and the pull of city life took me away from the forests I loved so much. Suddenly, summers were no longer about climbing trees or splashing in canals—they became about exams, deadlines, and later, work schedules.
The sound of birds was replaced by the buzz of traffic. The smell of fresh fruits was replaced by the artificial scent of packed markets. And the freedom of lying under the open sky was replaced by sitting in front of glowing screens.
Yet, even in the busiest moments, my heart always carried the memory of those days. Whenever I felt restless, I closed my eyes and saw the mango orchards, heard the laughter of my cousins, and felt the cool water of the canal.
Rediscovering Nature in Modern Life
There came a point when I realized how deeply disconnected I had become. Life in cities, with all its noise and pressure, made me anxious and tired. And so, I returned to my roots. Visiting the same orchards after years was like meeting an old friend. The trees were taller, the canal was quieter, but the peace was still there.
Sitting under a guava tree, doing nothing but breathing, reminded me of what I had lost and what I still had the chance to regain. I realized that nature doesn’t ask much of us. It doesn’t demand money or effort—it only asks for presence.
Even now, I try to bring a little bit of nature into my daily routine. A morning walk in the park, watering plants on the balcony, watching the sky change colors during sunset—these small acts keep me grounded.
Lessons Nature Gave Me
Looking back, I can see that every part of nature has been my teacher.
- Trees taught me patience. They take years to bear fruit, but they never hurry.
- Rivers and canals taught me resilience. Water never stops; it finds a way.
- The open sky taught me perspective. My problems are small in front of its vastness.
- The annual feasts taught me community. Joy grows when shared under the open sky.
These lessons are not written in books—they are lived experiences, and they have shaped the way I see life.
Returning to Our Roots
My journey with nature is not just a collection of childhood memories—it is a reminder of who I am. All of these are not just past events; they are living reminders that nature and I are deeply connected.
In today’s fast-moving world, it is easy to forget this connection. But I believe that if we truly want peace, balance, and happiness, we must return to our roots. We don’t always need grand forests or mountains—even a small plant, a short walk, or a moment under the open sky can reconnect us to the earth.
Because nature is not just outside us—it is within us. It is the rhythm of life, the peace we search for, and the joy we often forget. And the sooner we embrace it, the richer our lives will become. 🌿
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