Rooted in Brown

Sixteen-year-old Ojasvi slumped on the worn brown armchair, scrolling endlessly through her phone. The screen glowed a harsh blue, casting long shadows in the dimly lit room. Outside her window, the familiar bustle of her village faded into the twilight. A frown creased her brow as she read comments under a funny video – negativity seemed to seep from every corner.

"Amma," Ojasvi called out her mother, her voice laced with frustration, "everyone online is so mean! Why can't they just be here, in our village?"

Her Amma emerged from the kitchen, a warm smile on her face. Her hands were dusted with flour, the comforting aroma of baking rotis filling the air. "Have you stepped out today, Ojasvi? Looked at the sunset painting the sky in soothing saffron?"

Ojasvi shook her head, her gaze glued to the phone. "But Ma, the real world isn't any better. Everyone judges everyone else. Don't you remember how Usha aunty came the very next day, even though she might have known about my low marks in maths? She still asked about my marks, perhaps to tell you how much her son Kush had scored.”

Amma placed a plate of steaming rotis in front of Ojasvi. "Our village might not be perfect, but come, sit with me on the porch."

The cool evening breeze ruffled Ojasvi's hair as they settled on a charpoy on the porch. The last rays of the sun cast long shadows, turning the dusty path outside a warm, inviting brown. In the distance, the comforting row of cattle echoed.

"See that old banyan tree?" Amma pointed to a giant tree with a sprawling canopy. Its bark, a deep, rich brown, seemed to hold countless stories. "Underneath its shade, people gather every evening, share their meals, laugh, and argue. But even during arguments, there's respect."

Ojasvi watched as a group of villagers shared plates of food, their faces reflecting the day's tiredness but creased in warm smiles. A young girl skipped by, her laughter bringing a gentle smile on Ojasvi’s little face.

"Here, everyone depends on each other," Amma continued. "The farmer depends on the rain for his brown fields, the carpenter depends on the wood from those trees, and we all depend on each other for help and support."

Ojasvi's gaze drifted to the sky, now a canvas of deep brown and fiery orange. A sense of calm settled over her, replacing the earlier agitation. Maybe the negativity online wasn't the whole story. Maybe, like the dependable brown earth that sustained their village, real connections offered a different kind of comfort – a comfort built on shared experiences, laughter, and the knowledge that they were all in this together.

"Remember when you were ten and fell terribly sick?" Amma asked gently, her voice laced with a hint of nostalgia. "I couldn't leave you, and your father was away on business. Who do you think brought us hot meals every night, checked on your fever, and even helped clean the house?"

Ojasvi frowned, trying to recall. "Wasn't it Lata Aunty? I thought we had a big fight with her family about the well water?"

Amma chuckled. "We did, child. But that doesn't mean she won't be there when we need her. In a village, quarrels happen, but there's an understanding too. We depend on each other for survival, for a helping hand, for a shoulder to cry on. That's what makes a village a community, Ojasvi. It's brown, like the earth that nourishes us, strong like the banyan tree that shelters us, and dependable, like the love that binds us together."

Later that night, as Ojasvi drifted off to sleep, the rhythmic chirping of crickets replaced the harsh blue glow of her phone. For the first time in a while, she felt a connection to something bigger than the online world – the enduring warmth and unwavering dependability of her village. She closed her eyes, a small smile playing on her lips, and dreamt of the comforting brown earth beneath her feet and the laughter echoing under the shade of the giant banyan tree.