There was a time when life in the hills moved slowly, peacefully — and often with struggle. I remember when there were no roads leading to our village. Just narrow, winding trails across forests, streams, and mountains. If someone had to go to the city, it wasn’t a simple trip. It took days of walking — sometimes in the rain, sometimes in the snow — just to reach the bus stop. And then a long journey ahead to get to the town.
Back then, only a few people ever left the village. Most spent their lives in the same place where they were born. Everything was done by hand — carrying wood, grains, or even the sick, sometimes on makeshift stretchers, across kilometers. Life was hard, but it had its own charm. Everyone knew everyone. The air was clean. The night sky was full of stars. Time was slow, but so was stress.
Then slowly, things started to change. A small road came. A little broken in the beginning — but still, it was a road. We no longer had to walk five days to reach the market. Vehicles started coming. Life began to move a little faster.
Then came electricity, mobile towers, and schools with computers. Internet reached us. Tourists started visiting. Our village, once hidden in the lap of the mountains, started to wake up to the modern world. People started exploring jobs, education, and opportunities outside. Even the youth of the village, once content in the rhythm of farming and cattle, began to dream bigger.
And with that, the village itself began to change. New houses replaced the old wooden homes. Shops opened. Roads became wider. Now, you can reach the city in a few hours. Medical help, education, and communication — everything became easier.
But with all this progress, there’s one thing I’ve come to realise deeply: Time changes everything.
No matter how many roads you build, you can’t walk back to the days when you were a child. You can’t feel that same happiness of sitting beside your grandfather by the fire, or walking through the forest to pluck wild berries. Those memories are golden. They don’t come back — but they stay with you.
Every person who has grown up in a village knows this feeling. The joy of running barefoot through the fields. The smell of fresh cow dung in the morning. The sound of the temple bell in the distance. That peace, that simplicity — it stays in your heart.
Now when I walk on the concrete road that replaced the old footpath, I smile — because I’ve seen both worlds. The old one that made me who I am, and the new one that gives us better lives. But somewhere inside, I still miss those slow days, those long walks, and the feeling of being untouched by the world.
If you ask anyone who has lived that life, they will say — "Yes, life is better now. But those days? They were something else."
Time changes. Villages change. But memories remain forever.
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