Another rainy day in Puliyara (my village) and another story that found me when I wasn’t looking. I was walking back to where our jeep was parked, slowly making my way through the slushy path, stopping now and then to take pictures and videos. The greenery was glowing after the downpour, and the Siruvani river was in full spate, overflowing and rushing along with a kind of wild beauty that only the monsoon can bring.

As I was taking it all in, I noticed a woman walking towards me, carrying a bundle of fresh green grass for her cattle. She stopped when she saw me and asked, “Joy chettante mol alle?” (Aren’t you Joy chettan’s daughter?)That question instantly warmed something in me. I always feel a quiet pride when someone remembers me through my father. She smiled and introduced herself. I must have crossed paths with her before, but growing up in a boarding school meant many faces blurred over time. But I did recognize when she mentioned her husband’s name. Funny how familiarity lingers even when memories fade.

She told me that her husband is bedridden. And from what she shared, I’m assuming that her family’s livelihood might come from selling the milk from her cattle.(I could be wrong as well). Still, what touched me most wasn’t the details of her life, but her quiet determination.

It was raining heavily, but she was out there, making sure her animals were fed. She said she needed to cross the bridge quickly. Sometimes the water rises and covers it, making it hard to pass.There was no complaint in her tone just a calm, purposeful sense of duty. Rain or shine, these four-legged lives are looked after with love and consistency.

Moments like these stay with me – simple, quiet, and deeply connected to the land.