manoj anand sonavane

03 Dec

My childhood and education unfolded in the heart of the village, surrounded by the rhythm of nature. My grandfather, grandmother, and the entire household were deeply immersed in the labor of the land. During holidays, I would follow my grandfather, hand firmly gripping the plough, as he taught me the art of guiding the bullocks. Those moments spent in the fields were a sacred bond, where love flowed between humans and animals, a connection that felt as old as the earth itself.

But as time passed, my grandfather’s strength waned, and he could no longer carry out the work as he once had. So, the family made the difficult decision to sell the bull. On the day it was to leave, my grandfather cried, and so did I. The farewell felt like the end of an era, a quiet sorrow that lingered in the air as the bull was led away.

With the advent of mechanized plows and small farming machines, the landscape began to change. Machines gradually replaced the animals, and I witnessed the rise of the mechanical man—one who, with the turn of a key, controlled the very soil. The rhythm of the land shifted, and soon, after the bull’s departure, agriculture itself seemed to fade into the background of our lives.

Within just a few years, my grandfather passed away, leaving behind a deep sense of loss. But in those days, we shared a bond not just with each other, but with nature itself, a relationship now marked by memory and longing.

Mechanics, in its essence, offers a way of seeing the world—a mechanical lens through which we understand life, feeling, color, shape, and reality. It is a method that emphasizes intellect and reflects our evolving relationship with nature. Yet, in this shift, there lies a subtle ache, a yearning for the simplicity and warmth of the life we once knew.