Samiroonjha
Known
- Messages
- 208
- Reaction score
- 541
- Points
- 93
Some eras pass from the pages of calendars, yet they never depart from the book of the heart. The old rural life of Lasbela was one such era, whose fragrance can still be felt today in the acacia trees, unpaved paths, field embankments, and the quiet atmosphere of ancient villages.
Today, when life is entangled in electricity bills, gas bills, water bills, school fees, market expenses, and the rat race of employment, one sometimes wonders: how did our elders actually live? They did not possess cash wealth as we do today, but perhaps they owned something that has become rare now—their own land and their self-sufficiency.
There was a time when most rural families in Lasbela owned land—some had two acres, some five, some ten, and some up to a hundred acres. Whether the land was small or large, it was not merely a property for the household; it was the main support of life.
When sorghum swayed in the fields, joy descended upon the village homes. In some places, rice crops matured; in others, golden ears of wheat whispered with the wind. A crop was not merely a commodity to be sold in the market; it was the fire in the kitchen stove, the nourishment for the children, and the family's shelter for the entire year.
Milk was home-grown, butter was homemade, vegetables were from the garden, and meat was their own.
When the need arose, a goat raised at home was slaughtered, or a chicken from the courtyard was prepared. Buttermilk was churned from milk, butter was extracted, and simple yet delicious meals were cooked on the stove.
Even with the market nearby, life was never dependent on it.
There was no burden of electricity bills, no gas bills, no monthly water charges. The need for paper money was limited because life’s basic necessities were fulfilled by the land, livestock, and household resources.
By today’s standards, this might seem like a very simple life, but within that simplicity lay a profound peace of mind. A person was the master of his own land, the means of his livelihood were in his own hands, and he did not have to knock on anyone else's door for every small need.
Weddings, too, were a beautiful chapter of this self-sufficient life.
The harvest was gathered; some produce was kept for the household and the rest was sold to the city merchant. Essential wedding supplies were brought from the city. An ox and a few goats were slaughtered, large cauldrons were set over open fires, smoke billowed from stoves, and the entire village sat at the dining spread as one big family.
It was never just one household's wedding; the entire village celebrated.
Woven cots came from one home, utensils from another; someone would manage the cooking cauldrons, another would tend to the guests, and someone else would make space for those arriving from afar. Joy multiplied when it was shared.
This was the society where relationships were forged not only by blood, but also by mutual need and genuine love.
In those days, many people of Lasbela did not head to cities in search of work. To them, employment was not a separate entity; their land was their employment.
Whoever owned land had no reason to knock on doors for a job in the city. He was the master of his fields, the master of his livestock, and the master of his own labor.
Therefore, calling the life of that era merely "poverty" would hardly be accurate.
This was not poverty; it was self-sufficiency.
This was not deprivation; it was sovereignty over one's soil.
This was not mere simplicity; it was a quiet form of wealth.
Then, time slowly turned its page.
Families grew, and lands continued to be divided. A grandfather owned twenty acres; when split among five sons, it became four acres each. Then those sons had children, and the land was divided further. By the time it reached ten heirs, not even a single full acre remained for anyone.
The land that once sustained an entire family shrank into tiny plots, fragmented piece by piece.
On the other hand, modern needs began to grow.
Children's education, healthcare, clothing, travel, household expenses—now cash was required for everything. Thus, the village youth, whose grandfather had once lived a self-sufficient life on his own land, began leaving for the cities in search of employment.
This migration was not just a change of homes; it was a migration of an entire way of life.
Then the children of the village started attending school. Moving from dirt tracks, they reached colleges. Some saw universities; some studied medicine, some law, some agriculture, some education, and some chose banking as their domain.
Children who once played in the fields are now seated in the offices of major cities. Some are doctors, some professors, teachers, bankers, businessmen, while others have made a name for themselves in construction.
Today, the children of those very villages in Lasbela—once surrounded only by fields, livestock, and dirt paths—have stepped onto the world's new horizons.
This transformation, too, is a beautiful chapter in the story of Lasbela.
But alongside this progress, a question settles in the heart:
We divided the land, but did we also fragment and lose the self-sufficiency tied to it?
Today, if you visit a village, an old acacia tree still stands here and there; an old otaq (guest lounge) appears silent; an elder holds the soil of the field in his hand. When the breeze blows, it feels as if the ancient rustle of crops still lingers in the air.
That era is no more.
Neither those vast lands remain, nor that communal life, nor that simplicity of needs.
Yet, one thing from that era remains a precious lesson for us today: our bond with our land.
Because land yields not only crops; it gives a person the courage to stand on their own two feet.
The soil of Lasbela gave generations not just wheat, sorghum, rice, and vegetables; it bestowed self-respect, hard work, patience, and faith in their own resources.
Perhaps that is why a landowner in Lasbela, holding a handful of earth today, does not view it merely as dirt. To him, this soil embodies the labor of his forefathers, the fragrance of his childhood, the memory of his village, and the hope of generations to come.
Times have changed, life has changed, and ways of earning a living have changed.
But the land of Lasbela remains the same.
And perhaps it quietly whispers to the sons and daughters of the soil:
"Do not view me merely as property,
I am the memory of your past,
the need of your present,
and the hope of your future."
Today, when life is entangled in electricity bills, gas bills, water bills, school fees, market expenses, and the rat race of employment, one sometimes wonders: how did our elders actually live? They did not possess cash wealth as we do today, but perhaps they owned something that has become rare now—their own land and their self-sufficiency.
There was a time when most rural families in Lasbela owned land—some had two acres, some five, some ten, and some up to a hundred acres. Whether the land was small or large, it was not merely a property for the household; it was the main support of life.
When sorghum swayed in the fields, joy descended upon the village homes. In some places, rice crops matured; in others, golden ears of wheat whispered with the wind. A crop was not merely a commodity to be sold in the market; it was the fire in the kitchen stove, the nourishment for the children, and the family's shelter for the entire year.
Milk was home-grown, butter was homemade, vegetables were from the garden, and meat was their own.
When the need arose, a goat raised at home was slaughtered, or a chicken from the courtyard was prepared. Buttermilk was churned from milk, butter was extracted, and simple yet delicious meals were cooked on the stove.
Even with the market nearby, life was never dependent on it.
There was no burden of electricity bills, no gas bills, no monthly water charges. The need for paper money was limited because life’s basic necessities were fulfilled by the land, livestock, and household resources.
By today’s standards, this might seem like a very simple life, but within that simplicity lay a profound peace of mind. A person was the master of his own land, the means of his livelihood were in his own hands, and he did not have to knock on anyone else's door for every small need.
Weddings, too, were a beautiful chapter of this self-sufficient life.
The harvest was gathered; some produce was kept for the household and the rest was sold to the city merchant. Essential wedding supplies were brought from the city. An ox and a few goats were slaughtered, large cauldrons were set over open fires, smoke billowed from stoves, and the entire village sat at the dining spread as one big family.
It was never just one household's wedding; the entire village celebrated.
Woven cots came from one home, utensils from another; someone would manage the cooking cauldrons, another would tend to the guests, and someone else would make space for those arriving from afar. Joy multiplied when it was shared.
This was the society where relationships were forged not only by blood, but also by mutual need and genuine love.
In those days, many people of Lasbela did not head to cities in search of work. To them, employment was not a separate entity; their land was their employment.
Whoever owned land had no reason to knock on doors for a job in the city. He was the master of his fields, the master of his livestock, and the master of his own labor.
Therefore, calling the life of that era merely "poverty" would hardly be accurate.
This was not poverty; it was self-sufficiency.
This was not deprivation; it was sovereignty over one's soil.
This was not mere simplicity; it was a quiet form of wealth.
Then, time slowly turned its page.
Families grew, and lands continued to be divided. A grandfather owned twenty acres; when split among five sons, it became four acres each. Then those sons had children, and the land was divided further. By the time it reached ten heirs, not even a single full acre remained for anyone.
The land that once sustained an entire family shrank into tiny plots, fragmented piece by piece.
On the other hand, modern needs began to grow.
Children's education, healthcare, clothing, travel, household expenses—now cash was required for everything. Thus, the village youth, whose grandfather had once lived a self-sufficient life on his own land, began leaving for the cities in search of employment.
This migration was not just a change of homes; it was a migration of an entire way of life.
Then the children of the village started attending school. Moving from dirt tracks, they reached colleges. Some saw universities; some studied medicine, some law, some agriculture, some education, and some chose banking as their domain.
Children who once played in the fields are now seated in the offices of major cities. Some are doctors, some professors, teachers, bankers, businessmen, while others have made a name for themselves in construction.
Today, the children of those very villages in Lasbela—once surrounded only by fields, livestock, and dirt paths—have stepped onto the world's new horizons.
This transformation, too, is a beautiful chapter in the story of Lasbela.
But alongside this progress, a question settles in the heart:
We divided the land, but did we also fragment and lose the self-sufficiency tied to it?
Today, if you visit a village, an old acacia tree still stands here and there; an old otaq (guest lounge) appears silent; an elder holds the soil of the field in his hand. When the breeze blows, it feels as if the ancient rustle of crops still lingers in the air.
That era is no more.
Neither those vast lands remain, nor that communal life, nor that simplicity of needs.
Yet, one thing from that era remains a precious lesson for us today: our bond with our land.
Because land yields not only crops; it gives a person the courage to stand on their own two feet.
The soil of Lasbela gave generations not just wheat, sorghum, rice, and vegetables; it bestowed self-respect, hard work, patience, and faith in their own resources.
Perhaps that is why a landowner in Lasbela, holding a handful of earth today, does not view it merely as dirt. To him, this soil embodies the labor of his forefathers, the fragrance of his childhood, the memory of his village, and the hope of generations to come.
Times have changed, life has changed, and ways of earning a living have changed.
But the land of Lasbela remains the same.
And perhaps it quietly whispers to the sons and daughters of the soil:
"Do not view me merely as property,
I am the memory of your past,
the need of your present,
and the hope of your future."