A Visit to A Village
I once went to a village named Haripur. My grandparents live there, and we had gone to visit them. We first had a long ride by bus. From there we took a tonga to the village. There was no road, only a wide mud path.
Haripur is a small village. All the houses were made of mud. There were one or two brick buildings—one for the post office and another for the local health center. My grandfather is the village head. His house was also cemented.
There was not a single road in the village. Some of the streets were very muddy and wet. There were hens, goats, and buffaloes roaming around everywhere. I could not see any men on the streets. I asked my father and he told me that all the men worked in the fields the whole day.
I saw some boys and girls studying beneath a shady tree. I was surprised to know that it was the school. I thought of the grand building of my own school back home and realised how lucky I was.
My grandparents welcomed us warmly into their home. They hugged me so often that I thought my bones would break. My grandmother had prepared many tasty dishes for us. Many people from the nearby houses came to see the people from the city. I felt very shy when they touched my clothes and my watch in wonder.
In the evening we went for a walk in the fields. The green mustard plants with their yellow, flowers were growing everywhere. A soft breeze was blowing. I felt I had come to paradise. The dust and noise of the city seemed far away. I shall never forget my visit to my village.
