I Went Back to My Village – A Journey That Touched My Soul

 

I hadn’t been to my village in over six years.

The last time I stood on that dusty path leading to my grandfather’s house, I was just another teenager tugging at her backpack, more worried about phone signals than the sound of the wind.

But this time, I wasn’t running away from the village.
I was running to it — away from notifications, noise, and nameless days that kept slipping through my fingers in the city.

🌻 A Morning That Felt Like a Memory

When I arrived, it was just past sunrise. The air smelled of mud and mango leaves, with a hint of cow dung and fresh milk — strange, comforting, oddly familiar. I stood still for a moment, letting the silence stretch out like a prayer.

No horns. No inbox. No traffic lights.

Only the chirping of birds, the rhythmic “chuk-chuk” of a faraway train, and the dull thud of someone drawing water from a well.

Inside, nothing had changed — yet everything had.

My grandmother’s brass utensils still shone like gold in the kitchen window. The same black-and-white photo of my great-grandfather looked down at me from the living room wall. The fan still creaked. The floor still cooled your feet like stone.

But I had changed. My heart had grown tired of the constant scroll — tired of shallow smiles and conversations that never really touched the soul.

🌸 A Temple, A Tune, and Something I’d Forgotten

On the second morning, I walked barefoot to the old Krishna temple at the edge of our fields. The priest recognized me instantly.

“You’ve grown tall,” he smiled, “but your eyes still look for answers.”

I didn’t respond. Just smiled and took the tulsi mala he offered me.

As I sat down near the tulasi plant, a young girl began singing inside the temple. Her voice was sweet and untrained, like a flute played by the wind itself.

She was singing the Madhurashtakam, and as her voice floated into the morning air, I caught one line that stirred something deep within me:

“Adharam Madhuram Lyrics” — His lips are sweet.
But it was more than that.

The way she sang it, the words felt like they belonged to me. Like a verse I had forgotten but had always known.

I remembered my grandmother humming the same lines while cutting vegetables… my mother singing it softly while oiling my hair.

In that moment, I realized: I hadn’t come back just to visit.
I had come back to remember who I was.

🍃 Life Without Filters

Over the next few days, I spent time with everything I had once ignored.
I bathed with cold well water. I helped tie the cows. I laughed with children I didn’t even know the names of. I sat under the neem tree for hours — sometimes reading, sometimes just listening to the breeze whisper stories to the leaves.

There was no WiFi here, but I felt more connected than ever.

One evening, I sat beside my grandfather as he cleaned his radio. He didn’t talk much — he never had. But that night, he said something that stayed with me:

“The village doesn’t ask anything from you… except that you be honest. With yourself. With your breath. With your silence.”

And just like that, I realized how loud my silence had become in the city.

🎵 The Bhajan That Broke Me Open

On my last night in the village, there was a small satsang near the temple. Lanterns hung from tree branches. Women sat in rows with jasmine in their hair. Men played the dholak softly.

They began singing again — and this time, the whole crowd joined in.

The bhajan started slowly, almost like a whisper. And then came those same lines again:

“Adharam Madhuram Lyrics” — His lips are sweet,
Vadanam Madhuram — His face is sweet,
Nayanam Madhuram — His eyes are sweet...

By the third verse, tears had started rolling down my cheeks.

It wasn’t just about Krishna.
It was about love, surrender, childhood, longing… and home.

That night, under the village stars, I realized bhajans aren’t just music.
They’re memories in melody.
They’re truths you never read in books.
They’re the voice of your soul, softly reminding you of where you come from.

🌿 Returning Changed

I returned to the city a week later.

My inbox was overflowing. My phone had 83 unread messages. The roads were still loud. My apartment was still small.

But something in me had shifted.

Now, when I sit for my morning tea, I find myself humming:
“Adharam Madhuram…”

I no longer feel empty when I’m alone.
Because somewhere deep inside me, the village still lives — in the taste of jaggery, the smell of tulsi, the sound of a distant dholak.

And in a line from a bhajan that found its way back into my heart.

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📝 Final Thoughts

If you ever feel lost, go back.
Back to where your name was spoken with love, where food tasted like stories, where the sky didn’t feel so far away.

And if you can’t go back to a place — go back to a feeling.
Maybe in a bhajan. Maybe in a memory.
Or maybe… in a single line like: Adharam Madhuram Lyrics.

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