When my wife and I were quite young, with our elder son just 18 months old, I was posted to a rural area. My only experience of village life was from long, long ago when I was 5 and then 10, visiting our native village with my parents and siblings. There were no water supply or toilets; the groves were used for defecation, and the nearby Cauvery river served as our bath and cleanser. It felt like constantly running from one place to another. The house resembled a hut, with thatched roofs or tiles, and no kids were around to play with. The local kids were scared of us, probably thinking we were from another world. Perhaps we were—from Delhi to this remote, unknown corner was indeed another world. However long the stay, we somehow managed, or rather, had to manage. After that, I never saw a village again. The only exception was when I briefly visited a place for official work, which was more semi-urban than rural, right on an arterial road with buildings, shops, and even a theatre.

This semi-urban setting was fresh in my mind, and I assumed that the village I was heading to would be similar. So, I went with positive thoughts, bringing my wife and son along with all our clothes in suitcases and vessels bundled in jute sacks. I had asked one of the staff members there to rent a small house until I could move into the bank’s official residence. Being the manager, I had to wait for the outgoing manager to vacate. The first impression of the rented house was shocking. I quickly found another small portion in the village itself to stay in. While cleaning this place, some snake skins were discovered. Strengthening our guts, we spent sleepless nights in that house, anxiously watching for the snakes that had shed those skins.

And then we finally got the official house.

It was simple: a hall, a bedroom, and a narrow kitchen sharing a wall with the thatched house behind. Privacy was scarce, but it had a bathroom and a toilet—more than enough for the three of us. The kitchen storage was an angle rack, and with no gas connection, cooking was done on a kerosene stove or an electric stove used sparingly.

Cooking wasn’t just for us. If any staff member fell ill, they would often turn up asking for food. Most of them lived alone, and who else but us would take care of them? The entire team felt like family.

Diagonally opposite was the bank branch, occupying part of another house. Only by bowing could one enter this space, as the entrance was barely 5 feet high.

The “street” in between, if you could call it that, was like a tiny mountain range—just 30 to 40 feet long, full of bumps and unevenness.

There was a primary healthcare center—a small solace for emergencies. No phones, except the branch had a connection from the post office, a device more akin to an apology for a phone. It had a rotating handle, and if you needed to make a call, you rotated the handle and hoped the postmaster was around to book it. There was no direct dialing available. There was no pharmacy; for medicines, you had to travel nearly 10 kilometers.

The village was located on the banks of a branch of the Cauvery river. Before the bridge was built, there was no way to cross except by “parisal,” a bowl-shaped boat made of reeds and hide, which ferried people across the kilometer-wide river. By the time I arrived, the bridge was completed, much to the relief of everyone—except the “parisal” men who lost their livelihood. This bridge became my training ground for learning to ride a motorcycle.

Restaurants? Absolutely none. The closest option was slightly better than a roadside eatery, with cooking done on firewood. Strangely enough, the tiffin items cooked on firewood had a distinct, pleasant taste. Cleanliness wasn’t a priority, but at least buses ran every half hour.

A far cry from Chennai, but life was simple. The villagers, respectful and straightforward, would often offer me a lemon when they met me, keeping their arms folded. The only thing that bothered them was when a neighbor bought some land, which invariably sparked jealousy. Otherwise, one could walk into any house and be warmly welcomed. The area was known for its sugarcane crops and coconut trees. During field inspections, any farmer, customer or not, would willingly offer cane juice or coconuts.

Inspection itself was a balancing act; the narrow paths required almost ballet-like steps, and one wrong move could land you in the slushy fields.

I had never grown a plant at home and knew nothing about crops or farming. But with the help of the Agriculture Assistant and the local villagers, I learned a little. It was fascinating—relying on instincts and gut feelings rather than science. If I recall correctly, there was one tractor and one tiller—no other mechanization beyond motor pumps.

The village had a small, charming temple, a staple in any Tamil Nadu village. With a small population, everyone knew everyone.

Even in the scorching sun, walking in the fields with a gentle breeze, surrounded by greenery, fresh crops, and the natural sounds and smells, it felt like paradise. But work wasn’t easy. During sowing and harvest times, the branch was bustling, but the rest of the time, life was slow-paced and easygoing.

Continued in 100. Pristine or Primitive - Part 2