It has been more than a year since I made my last visit here. For that matter, there are plenty of places which are erased from my recent memory. not every location you pave a visit would grip you with sparking magic and there would be one place in everyone’s life which is extremely special irrespective of how often or seldom you physically mark your presence there. As long as it reappears in every night’s sleep through those faintly woven dreams, that single place get cuddled in the warm shelves of memories. I have a haven like this, hidden beneath the verdant canopies and blissful mists, Hadigal is intriguingly inseparable from every significant aspect of my life.
Known by few hundred people for its couple of places with religious sanctity, Hadigal, for any stranger, certainly is just another insignificant ‘Grama Panchayat’ among the other thousands existing in our internally inflating heavily populous nation. It would not change many opinions even if I try to flatter its pristine geographic carvings, as it may not stand a chance in front of some of those unbelievably spectacular destinations situated in the hearts of western ghats. Yet, there is a story to be told about this common village. Peripherally? everything just appears like any other agriculture oriented rural canvas. Monsoon recreates life here, and green spread beyond horizons when it does. Few of them who have will grow while others join hands. Festivities still find an integral part in their lives though it slowly fading from the budding generations. Nature burgeons with abundance flora and fauna to which the men and women connected intricately. However tiny the differences arise, there exists a way to resolve it or at least it looks to be undeterred. Everyone has a meaningful connection to everyone else here, smallness of number might be the reason for it. For those obsessed with the scent of crispy notes in the gauntlets of hefty cities, the subtle aroma of freshly carved out butter here may seem utterly blunt. honking cacophony on the streets and irritably screaming electronic sounds don’t find a place here, but a more symphonic orchestra of Trogens, Hornbills and Drongos accompany the sweet rhythm of ringing bells in the cattle’s neck.
Amidst all this, there are some faces. Faces which are impossible to forget. Faces which are created on a festive mood or during a heated discussion. Faces with excess of colors or painted with dust. Faces which are fresh and are smiling. Faces shying away from the camera and some posing with vigor. Faces that are burnt from the Sun and bathed in sweat. Faces expressing the true spirit of their lives, faces which make my village, and the faces without which the story that would never form. So these three collages are about some of them. Taken in a local traditional Yakshagaana, in a school and of the people who form the connection. If animated emotions inundate profusely in colors and fervor in one collage the other carves out the raw freshness in those indulging little smiles while the other tries to catch the unpretentious countenances of pastoral expressions.
Together with other countless unassuming traits and characters, they unleash the rural life to a pristine idyllic rhythm!