On 'old children'

While I would have liked for this blog to dutifully serve as a travelog, it has been a while since I really penned my thoughts on the travel I've been doing. There is some comfort in the thought that photos are making up for this, to some degree. Anyway, this post is inspired by memories of Malwa, etched in my brain as my first (and most delightful) tryst with rustic bliss. 

Of course, words have found their way out of my head so as to be replaced by Tagore's. I no longer fret about not being able to write like him. I don't need to. He already reads my thoughts like a mirror:

Sometimes one or other of our simple, devoted old ryots comes to see me - and their worshipful homage is so unaffected! How much greater than I are they in the beautiful simplicity and sincerity of their reverence. What if I am unworthy of their veneration - their feeling loses nothing of its value.

I regard these grown-up children with the same kind of affection as I have for little children - but there is also a difference. They are more infantile still. Little children will grow up later on, but these big children never.

A meek and radiantly simple soul shines through their worn and wrinkled old bodies. Little children are merely simple, they have not the unquestioning, unwavering devotion of these. If there be any undercurrent along which the soul of men may have communication with one another, then my sincere blessing will surely reach and serve them.