Roasting Village

The village was thrown deep into the jungle. The brown sun-burnt hill stood like a fort shielding the village from strong winds. Round huts were made of thatched grass and dry stems, flocks quenching for thirst hungry herds craved for grass on the barren land that stretched for miles. Streams, lakes bore the mud of brown soil sweltering winds blew carrying away dry grass and sun-baked leaves. Children with bare bodies jumped into the ancient well to chill swam with running nose; women walked far carrying pails overhead drenched in hot sweat. The leafless trees of dry branches stood like skeletons helpless as if stretching arms to the sky pleading the skies to shower mercy drops to transform their landscape to waterscape. The black river bed was baked hard as a brick and split into deep cracks by the furnace heat of the cursing sun. The peasants had to abandon their stricken fields, palm leaf thatching fell in clumps. The village looked helpless into the cloudless sky. The sun burnt the patched land like blows on battle axe upon a brazen shield, the surface of the river was stirred by the struggles of dying fish and movements of few surviving frogs, bloom of algae spread exposing the banks of black mud. The bed of mighty river became a dust-bone cattle died thirsty, birds fluttered out of the village, trees charred up, flowers dried pale. The sky cursed the village for cutting down its friends (Trees).