The quiet, slow village in Rajasthan where the clock for once, forgot its pace.
I went for a day, just passing through,
With no itinerary and nothing to do;
Was instinct perhaps, or an urge, or a call
To a village where the days don’t rush at all.
No deadlines, no plans to chart,
Just my bagpack and an open heart;
Watching courtyards spread beneath a tree,
Where nothing moves with urgency.
A chai shop in the corner with its paint half-gone,
Where the air was thick and the scent was strong;
They poured me a cup without a word
Neither questions asked, nor stories heard.
I walked around with nothing pressed,
No boxes to tick, no people to impress;
No plans, no posts, no grand pursuit,
Just rustling leaves and banyan root.
The palace walls spoke in a sigh
Echoing tales of an era gone by
There were frescoes faded like a dream,
In blue and ochre, gold and cream.
The peacocks strutted around with pride,
In royal gardens, pretty and wide.
The only souvenir I took, was this:
A core memory filled with unrushed bliss.
When it was time to leave, I left with less
Less noise, less weight, and the need to guess.
For Samode taught me with its timeless touch,
The best days of life, don’t ask for much.
