When the Land Laughed

The soul of a land that stayed the same while everything around it changed.

For generations, the land sat quietly at the edge of the backwaters… cradled by thick mangroves, shaded by stooping coconut palms, and embraced by silence. The kind of silence that could only be reached by boat. 

No one walked here unless they meant to. And most didn’t.

It was a place you pointed at from the mainland, while sipping chai, saying, “That side’s still untouched.” 

Untouched wasn’t praise. It meant inconvenient, disconnected, and invisible. 

A place beyond the reach of progress and ambition.

A place where the only sounds were oars slicing the water and the rustle of monsoon winds on banana leaves. 

Time here wasn’t something you chased… It was something you floated with. Like mist. Like memory.

And yet, life was full.

The people here bathed in river bends, dried fish in sun-warmed courtyards, and called out to each other across fences made of coconut leaves.

They named stars instead of apps. They celebrated weddings with the scent of jasmine in their hair, not hashtags on their phones. 

For wedding feasts, they sat cross-legged on woven mats or used chairs and tables crafted from local wood… simple, sturdy, and borrowed from neighbours without fuss. No one kept count, because everyone knew they’d find their way back.

Toddy was tapped fresh in the mornings, and the elders never missed their evening bottle of the aged stuff… sipped slowly, with gossip, under the old mango tree.

They were poor, yes… but never empty.

Their lives moved to the rhythm of the tides and the slow swell of the sun. Time passed like a lullaby.

And then, one day, the highway arrived.

They said it would be just a road. A thin line of progress to make life easier. 

But like every road to untouched places, it did not stop at ease. 

It brought change… loud, insistent, profitable change.

The sleepy village stirred. Rubbed its eyes. And found itself staring at tourists with cameras, real estate agents with checklists, and influencers adjusting tripods and perceptions.

Where once only the fisherman’s son could navigate narrow inlets, now neon-lit pontoons carried birthday balloons and wedding planners.

The stilted homes that once leaned gently into the wind haven’t all vanished… But many have. Swept aside by time and tides of opportunity.

In their place stand waterfront retreats, secluded escapes, and event destinations. And… Yes, they have brochures.

On Sundays, shiny SUVs idled where cows once lazily chewed cud. 

Women in designer sarees posed for selfies where grandmothers had once sat weaving coir with fingers hardened by habit. 

Children with gadgets race along mud paths where, not long ago, children with kites chased the wind with joy and scraped knees.

The young now wear ambition… and denim.

They no longer look at the mainland with longing; they cross over on their own terms.

They study in city colleges, intern at startups with glass walls, and speak English now… not flawless, but fluent enough, laced with the melody of their roots.

But they still come home for festivals. They still call this place our land.

Only now, their land comes with a price tag. Per square foot.

And through it all… beneath fairy lights, booming DJ bass, and fancy air fresheners… the land watches.

She watches nostalgia sliced into saleable plots.

She watches city folk chase authenticity, seeking purity in a place they once ignored.

She listens to the praise, the pricing, the poetic exaggerations.

And she laughs… 

Not in contempt, but with ancient amusement.

With the amused calm of one who’s seen generations come and go, and knows better than to be swayed by drone shots and brochure copy.

Because she knows who she is.

The same earth that kissed the feet of barefoot children. The same soil that soaked up rain and stories alike. The same breeze that carried lullabies to babies and now Bluetooth playlists to dinner buffets.

Nothing has changed. 

And yet, everything has.

She smiles when they speak of her “virgin charm” and “pristine value.” She lets them host cocktail parties in the name of stillness. She watches their filtered sunsets and perfectly framed reels.

The other day, we were there too, not out of curiosity, but out of love.

It was a family get-together before a niece’s wedding. The kind of gathering where old jokes resurface, second servings are served without asking, and everyone momentarily forgets their cholesterol and bulging paunches.

We drove in from the city… cars packed with people and anticipation. Google Maps took us straight to a rented waterfront villa that proudly called itself “charmingly rustic”. 

Manicured lawns replaced wildflowers, and mood lighting was permanently “Instagram-worthy.”

But the breeze? The breeze still felt youthful.

We laughed, we danced, and as the evening unfolded, the old and young drifted into their own corners… plates in hand, stories in tow, wrapped in a quiet sense of belonging like evening light.

And the land… She held us all. Without judgment. Without fuss.

She listened to our laughter and Bollywood beats. She watched fairy lights flicker on her trees.

She let us pose beside her waters like we were part of something eternal.

When the music faded and guests folded themselves into cars with full stomachs and half-charged phones, she remained.

​Still. Steady. Smiling.

Because she doesn’t need our validation. 

She has always been enough.

Let them come, she says.

Let them name her things she never asked to be. 

Let them discover her now that she’s easier to reach. 

She will welcome them. She will serve them sunsets… slow, golden, and wrapped in quiet bliss.

​But she will never become theirs.

She is not a venue. She is not a backdrop. She is not an experience.

She is a witness. A keeper of time. A quiet observer of the great comedy of change.

And sometimes, if you sit by the water long enough, when the lights go out and the last car leaves, you’ll hear it too…

A soft chuckle beneath the mangroves.

The same land.

The same soul.

Only better connected.

And finally… heard.